Enough Already

Apparently, green peas are the
traditional choice. But this way
we are ready for New Years.

My doctor came strolling into the hospital room--as I lie in bed feeding our newborn daughter--and shook my husband's hand in congratulations.

"So," he said as he took a seat in the room's rocking chair.  "Let's talk birth control."

I let out a snort as my husband looked at him in disbelief.

"Oh," he said smiling as he swatted a hand. "I don't mean for use today, obviously."

"Well," I said inhaling greatly as I looked at our baby. "This is our last one."

"Enough already, huh?" My doctor turned to my husband. "Okay, so are we making this permanent?"

"Yes," my husband replied. "Anyone you recommend to do the procedure?"

The doctor took out a small note pad and quickly wrote down a few names and numbers. He told us most vasectomies book out about six months in advance, so it was in our best interest to call as soon as possible. Not only that, but after the procedure was done, it would take a while for it to become effective.

"About 30 ejaculates before the vasectomy actually takes," the doctor said.

"Ok, so like a month," I stated.

He raised his eyebrows and looked at Jim.

"Oh!" My face began to feel hot. "I thought you meant days! Thirty days!" I stammered. "Trust me, that would not be a month."

He let out a chuckle.

"I mean, it's not like it would be much longer than a month," I clarified. "Well, it just depends on our work schedules. And the kids. Or if it's sweeps week. You know how it goes when you're tired--"

"Meg, just stop," Jim interrupted, holding up his hand.

The doctor pulled out his pad again and wrote a prescription for birth control pills and handed it to me.

"Might also use condoms," he suggested. "You know," he clucked his tongue, "belt and suspenders."

A few days upon returning home from the hospital with our beautiful new baby, Jim decided to call the urologist's office in light of the doctor's advice. Assuming it would take months to get an appointment, we were shocked to discover the urologist could see Jim the very next day.

I felt foolish and guilty showing up for a vasectomy consultation with a three day old baby. As if our next stop was the maternity ward to drop her off with a note pinned to her onesie: Yeah, this just isn't for us. Thanks anyway!

But when we got to the waiting room I was surprised to see it was designed for children. Legos, toy cars and building blocks were strewn about. And children were everywhere. Climbing on furniture, ripping up magazines and pounding on the aquarium glass. If a man were wavering about whether or not to get a vasectomy, a urologist's waiting room would surely convince him.

I found it oddly enjoyable watching a room full of men squeamish and red faced waiting for their names to be called by the nurse. After two pregnancies, in which Jim sat with me in the waiting room watching woman after woman waddle in to endure a cervical check, or a pap smear, or a transvaginal ultrasound, it was validating to see man after man hold his crotch protectively as he walked down the hall with the nurse.

My husband went back for the consultation by himself. I waited in the lobby holding our darling infant child. Within minutes he was back. He reported that the doctor was no nonsense (fine with Jim) and not much of a talker (even better). He had given Jim a stack of pamphlets, a prescription for Valium and an appointment card for Thursday.

"This Thursday!?" I asked.

"Yeah." He shrugged. "He said most men want to do it around this time because there's a lot of sports on TV to watch during recovery."

"But you don't watch sports," I pointed out.

"True. But there's a Doctor Who marathon on."

"Thursday is too soon, Jim. I just had a baby!"

Jim consulted with the nurse to get the appointment changed for two months later. He came back and handed me the appointment card and for the first time, looking down at the card with the date written in ink, I began to have doubts.

I never really had a vision in my head of what my family would look like. I never gave much thought to what kind of person my husband would be, though I had hoped for someone nice and smart. And I never gave much thought to how many children I would have, or what gender they would be. Just hoped for some who were nice and smart. 

Jim, on the other hand, had all this in his head. Early in our courtship, while walking our dogs in the park, Jim--who is never shy about saying what he wants, especially on a third date--declared to me: "I would like to have two children. Girls, if possible."

In the moment I let out something that resembled nervous laughter, and slapped him on the arm playfully. But driving back to my apartment later that day, I realized it wasn't just a casual statement. Jim rarely makes any. It was a proposal. For a life he wanted to have with me.

And I realized I wanted it too.

So it took me by surprise that after our second daughter was born--the daughter who perfectly completed the family we always wanted--I began to question our plans. As if getting what you want makes you greedy.

The desire to have three children, it has occurred to me, is a societal pressure. I'm not suggesting that three children isn't a great--perhaps even perfect--number of children. Many couples start their families with this number in mind. But I think many couples who have two children are constantly asked when they will have the third. Yet those with three children are rarely asked about number four. For some reason, three is the number of children most all people assume you and your partner will, maybe even should, have.

It's no wonder that three is the magic number in people's mind: it's the American sitcom formula. Take a couple, put them in a house with a staircase and give them three children. Family Ties, Diff'rent Strokes, Charles in Charge, Full House, Family Matters, Roseanne, Growing Pains (before they needed a ratings boost), Home Improvement, The Simpsons, Boy Meets World (until they ran out of plot lines), 8 Simple Rules, According to Jim, Everybody Loves Raymond, Family Guy, Modern Family, The Middle, Trophy Wife, and the incredible gem that is Bob's Burgers, all center around the antics of two long-suffering parents and their three children. It's better fodder for comedy because all personality stereotypes (see The Myers family) can be explored.

I'm not saying that television shapes how we lead our lives, but that goddamn Rachel haircut was everywhere. So there's something to be said about the way the mind receives messages on family (and hair) and how we, even unintentionally, demand our life imitate art.

And the fact that I'm the last of three children is not lost on me. My parents certainly could have stopped at two. They nearly did. Only after my brother was seven did they decide to strive for an American sitcom.

I, for one, applaud their choice.

But Jim and I had always agreed we wanted two children. And only two children. For a million reasons we had been over and over and over. And for us, in our lives and with our goals, it is the best decision. So I never imagined a decision that was already made would be so difficult to carry out.

So, in the gray rainy fog yesterday morning, Jim and I slowly drove to the urologist's office. I knew deep down this was the right choice. A decision we made back when we were sane, rested, less emotional and not under the influence of a sweet, smiley newborn's alluring power. A decision we carefully considered from all angles. A decision made together.

And I was ready.

But as we drove through the rain, I wondered if Jim was having doubts. He sat so quietly beside me in the car that I wondered if, perhaps, he was finally allowing the emotion of the situation to take over all his logical plans.

We silently walked hand in hand into the building, checked in and took a seat in the waiting room.

"Meg..." Jim finally spoke.

"Yes?"

"I'm having some concerns."

"Oh Jim! It's ok! I'm struggling too. But I think what you said is right. We can do more for two than we can for three, and you are older than me and that's something to truly consider, and our career ambitions, and our desire to travel, and the fact that four fit easily in a booth and in a car, and we can afford to take them on a plane and they have each other and we aren't outnumbered and you've always wanted two girls and they are perfect--just the best kids--and this last pregnancy was so hard on my body, and all the stress of paying for childcare, and who would be able to watch three kids for any length of time when we've just had too much of them, and I don't even think I could come up with another baby name if I tried, and the house we just bought only has three bedrooms, even though I know we could technically convert the basement into a master but then we'd be two floors away from the kids and I'm just not sure that's the best idea---"

"No," he interrupted. "I'm having concerns that the Valium I took hasn't kicked in."

Before I could respond, the nurse called his name, he looked down sheepishly and slowly stood. As he went down the long narrow hallway, he glanced over his shoulder at me with a reassuring look that what he was about to do--and what it would mean--was the right decision.

Within twenty minutes, he came walking back into the waiting room, his tall, slender body slightly hunched over.

"Well?" I asked.

"You'll be pleased to know," he said, giving a weak smile, "I had to put my feet in stirrups through the whole procedure."

I suppose there was never really all that much doubt in my mind about stopping at two children. I guess it's more about the difficulty of ending this phase of our life. I'll never experience another pregnancy. I'll never decorate another nursery. I'll never give birth again. And while it is difficult to let go of those aspects of our life, I'm more excited by what's to come.

Just still a little surprised how quickly we went from that day in the park with our dogs, to now.

And that's the thing about it. The hardest part wasn't saying "enough already."

The hardest part is we have reached enough.

Already.

The Loch Ness Monster

Only known image of Nessie
Photo credit: M. Morgan, 2004
Loch Ness, Inverness, Scotland

During my semester abroad in college, three of my friends and I signed up for a week long adventure tour around Scotland. This mostly involved hiking around the Scottish countryside and visiting castles and distilleries with 20 strangers from around the world. The last stop on our tour was to visit Loch Ness to hopefully catch a glimpse of the massive, magical monster in which I secretly believed.

As our rickety tour bus lumbered over the hills and valleys, toward the water, our tour guide Ruthie--a short brunette with a Scottish brogue--began telling us a story of the first time she visited Loch Ness.

She and her two best friends grew up hearing about the loch's mystical powers, powers provided by the beautiful and elusive Monster, in whom the natives aggressively believe. The lore suggests that pursuing the Loch Ness Monster is, in and of itself, a measure of true bravery. And so, it is believed that to show your certainty in the Monster, and your valiant efforts to find her, you should run naked into the loch. Don't think about how deep the water is (one of the deepest lakes in the world) or how cold the water is (such deep waters can't get warm in the misty Scotland climate). Just run. Dive deep down into the endless, frigid waters, and when you come out, you come out cloaked with good fortune as a reward for your courage and faith. 

Then you toast your new luck with a swig of Scotland's finest drink. 

She laughed fondly as she told of how she and her friends emerged from the loch, naked and shivering, and spent the evening warming by a fire while they sipped whiskey and watched the waves carry all their bad luck out to sea. She couldn't explain how, exactly, but that night changed her life. When the dawn came and the whiskey hangover subsided, she knew she would never be the same. 

She seemed lost in her memories as we were pulling up to the water's edge. She turned off the ignition, reached under her seat, pulled out an unopened bottle of Scotch, and glanced back at everyone on the bus.

Without looking at each other, without even uttering a word, my friends and I, in beautiful synchronization, kicked off our shoes and began unbuttoning our shirts. We were stumbling off the bus as we unzipped our pants. We hopped around on the rocks trying to pull the socks from our feet. And on that cold, foggy Scotland day--like some beautiful, slow motion scene in a gripping movie about a dog finding its way home--we all started running toward the water.

When my feet first hit the water, an icy chill went through my entire body in a painful jolt. Though I felt frozen, my body kept moving over the slippery, smooth pebbles that cover the loch's floor. I kept running. I ran until I was up to my neck in icy water.

And then I dove.

Once I completely submerged my entire body in the wintery water, I popped up immediately, a little surprised to be alive. I quickly and effortlessly swam back to shore. And there was Ruthie, jumping and screaming with delight as she waved her siren bottle of Scotch in the air. She ran to us, enveloping us all in a joyful embrace. We were all leaping in the air and triumphantly high fiving while Ruthie cracked open the bottle. As we gathered up our clothes that had made a trail from the bus to the shore, we looked up to notice, for the first time, that the rest of the tour group was still on the bus, faces pressed against the windows, mouths agape.

In that moment, all I wanted to do was make my college years last forever.

A few weeks ago, I received a job offer to become a faculty member at a major university. While this is great news and I couldn't be more excited by the opportunity, this job offer was the end result of an extremely long hunt.

More than two years ago, while in the midst of my dissertation research, there was speculation around campus that a faculty position might be opening up in my field of research. At the time, it was just a rumor. Mere myth. For months I tried to find out more information. I'd casually ask people in the break room. I'd eavesdrop on conversations in the bathroom. I'd stand with my ear suctioned to a cup pressed up to the dean's door.

To me, the rumored position--and all the details about it that I liberally filled in myself--seemed wonderful. While I've never subscribed to the notion of a "dream job" it certainly fit many criteria for the kind of job I'd want. This mythical opportunity could allow me the challenging career I've long desired, coupled with the flexibility I would need with two young children. And it's no secret that opportunities for newly minted PhDs is a very grim fairy-tale.

Over the course of two years, my life accidentally became a prolonged quest for this folkloric possibility. Despite having no factual evidence that this job would ever exist, or if I'd even be considered for it, I carried on ambitiously as though it did and I would be. 

It wasn't as if I wasted time with my life while I waited. I birthed and cared for a child while I finished my doctorate degree. Then I birthed another child. I worked as an adjunct teacher and as a researcher on various grant-funded projects for the university. I did a fair amount of consultation work. I had the dogs groomed. But I found myself refusing to settle into a permanent position. 

At first, I felt courageous. Believing in the existence of something without reason or evidence. But in the meantime, I let many other opportunities pass me by. I even turned down an incredibly gracious job offer, one that would have really benefited my family financially, for the absurd pursuit of what was basically folklore. 

Waiting was not only making me crazy, it was making me selfish. 

After a year or more of fantasizing, the rumor of the position became factual. A national search was to be held to find a candidate for the position. And a search can take up to a year as candidates from across the country are vetted and considered. So I applied and prepared myself for another extended wait.

Another year went by.

All the waiting created in me a certain level of self-doubt. And depression. Well intentioned friends kept asking if I had heard anything, and my explanation for still waiting made me feel irrational, manic even. But eventually, when I was about to give up, the waiting turned into progress. And the progress turned into an interview. And the interview turned into an offer. And the offer turned into a job. 

And as I prepare to start my new role as an Assistant Professor, with an unhealthy level of excitement, I can't help but wonder what I'm sure the Scottish have always secretly wondered: can the monster ever be as magical as it has been imagined?

That afternoon in Scotland--after we emerged from the water, and caught our breath, and got dressed--we stumbled, fuzzy from whiskey, over to a silver Airstream we saw parked close to shore. A sign outside read: Loch Ness Monsters For Sale £1.00. I pounded hard on the metal door. A man, young and attractive but disheveled and crazed, swung open the door as if he himself had also been drinking. 

"I want to buy a Loch Ness Monster," I declared.

"Okay," he said, unimpressed with the four of us. "Come on in."

We climbed into his trailer to see an unmade bed with plaid flannel sheets, a hot plate and a table cluttered with clay, googly eyes and hundreds of Loch Ness Monster figurines. I picked out one that was holding a little clay book and wearing a tiny pair of wire spectacles. It did, and still does, make me laugh to think of Nessie as bookish. 

"So you live here?" I asked. 

"Yep," he said, running his hand through his dirty hair. "I make and sell these to raise money for my research."

"Oh?" I said, intrigued there was a purpose to the kitschiness. "What do you research?" 

"The Loch Ness Monster," he said earnestly. "I'm trying to find her."

My friend snorted. "At a buck a piece, it's gonna take you forever." 

"That may be true," he said, yawning as he scratched his beard. "But I'm crazy enough to wait.