A $5,000 Christmas Stocking

Posted on December 21, 2023 by Belle of the Library

The year Jake and I got married, we spent approximately $400 on Christmas decorations. At 32, Jake had been a bachelor his entire adult life. His duplex barely had furniture, let alone holiday decor. I, however, made a deliberate effort to enjoy my single girl apartment to the fullest every year, by gleefully putting up the hot pink, six foot Christmas tree I got from Borders when they went out of business. When we married, Jake and I… compromised I suppose, though the process didn’t seem quite so simple at the time. Ultimately, I sold my glorious pink tree on Facebook Marketplace, Jake accepted an agreed upon amount of glitter, and we invested in classic decorations to be used year after year. I bought fabric, sewed a matching tree skirt and his/her stockings, had our names embroidered on the latter, and we celebrated our first Christmas as husband and wife.

The next Christmas was our first in our own home and the only thing we were missing was stocking holders, a purchase I approached with the same long-term intentions as the previous year’s decor. Though Jake would eventually realize my tendency to buy holiday items months in advance was not just out of excitement, but an understanding of availability, in 2018, we were not yet there. So it happened that, as late as December, I hadn’t bought stocking holders for our new mantle. Since Hobby Lobby stops receiving Christmas inventory in October, I couldn’t find a matching set there. Angry at Jake for making me wait so long, I dragged him from city to city, visiting Target after Target, to collect six identical holders. Surprisingly, he humored me, though he couldn’t understand why I needed so many. Though we’d previously talked about having three children, maybe four based on gender, I was holding out for the latter. I’d always wanted two boys and two girls. If I was fortunate enough to get my way, it seemed disproportionately important to me at the time, that we not have to repurchase our stocking holders. If I didn’t get four or we changed our minds, I figured we could always use the extras for the pets.

After two cycles of back-to-back pandemic IVF, Jake and I found out in 2020 that we were having twins. Our difficulty getting pregnant meant that these might be our only children, despite having frozen embryos. Still, when I bought the fabric for their stockings, realizing the dye lot was slightly off from ours, I not only purchased enough for four, but cut the patterns in advance. Just over a year later, I got the news that I’d need one more stocking, having naturally conceived our miracle baby. So it was, last Christmas, I saw five out of my six stocking holders filled above my fireplace. In both the world of infertility and the general public, I had the perfect family with my two girls and one boy… but I still had one more stocking holder.

I thought I’d change my mind, y’all. Everyone said I would. After one child, I’d only want two. After two, I’d be done. After three, I’d realize we were already outnumbered and couldn’t even fathom another. I waited for the feeling that four was an idealistic dream, that my family was indeed whole. It never came. In March, when my Thomas was barely four months old, I broached the topic with Jake, unsure how he felt about the issue. We’d already scheduled an embryo transfer the day I found out I was pregnant. That embryo was a child we had planned to have and raise. Under those circumstances, a fourth was unlikely, if only for financial reasons, but Thomas’s conception didn’t cost us a dime. If we’d once agreed to consider four solely based on gender, how could we give up an embryo that we’d originally planned to have as part of our family? I did try to avoid emotional blackmail while discussing the topic, but as I held my tiny son, I burst into tears at the thought of never meeting the child I might have held had things been different, at the thought of things having been different and not having my Thomas. After a month or so of consideration, Jake agreed. He wasn’t far from the age we’d agreed we’d no longer intentionally get pregnant, so it was now or never. We would proceed with a frozen embryo transfer, or FET, over the summer and find a way to pay for it later. I quietly told myself that if it failed, I would drain my retirement using my remaining embryos until I had my fourth; the max number of children we’d ever planned for or thought we could handle, two more than we were ever recommended to attempt after the complications during the birth of our girls. Only then would I donate my frozen embryos to another heartbroken, yet hopeful couple, who desperately wanted a family.

I shared pieces of my FET story as the process unfolded. It was far more difficult than I ever expected. In fact, had it indeed failed, I’m not so sure I could have gone through it all again. The birth control hormones alone had me completely off-kilter. The estrogen pills made me utterly insane… and possessed my little Scarlett with at least six demons the day she got ahold of one. Poison control assured us she would be fine as her head rotated 360 degrees. The progesterone shots weren’t only painful, but made me unbearably sick and caused nerve damage I still feel today. I went through it all, with three under three at home, who had no understanding of Mama’s sudden short temper or erratic tears. I gambled $5,000 on one modest income for a family of five… all for a 50/50 chance of success… and it worked.

Today, few can say that they got the family of their dreams, as they compromise for their partner, who wants fewer children… for their career, because childcare costs are too high… for a poor economy, because they fear they can’t afford it… and of course, due to infertility, because they’re lucky to have children at all. With that in mind, I am so truly fortunate to be able to say that, although we never tested our embryos and couldn’t have known gender, we’ll be getting the two girls and two boys of which I’ve always dreamt. In April, Violet and Scarlett will be thrilled to greet another baby brother, two months before they turn three. Thomas will have his buddy, his teammate, his partner in crime only 16 months his junior. I’ll have been pregnant every year since 2020 to have four under three for a total cost of $35,00 before labor and delivery fees. I already know it will all have been worth it, though, because I’ve already filled those stocking holders with my fourth and final Christmas stocking… which cost me just $5,000.

My Baby Boy is One

Posted on December 6, 2023 by Belle of the Library

On February 13, 2020, Jake came home from his consultation with a urologist with bad news. In the exact words of a medical doctor, when asked point blank if he could get me pregnant, my husband was told “Miracles happen.” Now, y’all, I might get most of my knowledge of MD’s from random episodes of House and Scrubs, but it’s my understanding that they don’t heavily advocate for miracles.

There was a lot of technical data and explanation involved, of course, but the condensed version was that Jake and I were unlikely to conceive naturally… ever. At 32 and 35, this meant IVF was our only option, unless we wanted to take on the gamble that is adoption in the U.S. We did not.

Exactly one year from that fateful day, after back-to-back rounds of pandemic IVF, Jake and I spent Valentine’s Day weekend iced in, painting one of our spare bedrooms pink. As far as we were concerned, that urologist was right. Miracles do happen. Through the work of God and science, we brought home twin baby girls in June of 2021. Though we’d planned for more children, medical complications suggested it would be unwise, so we spent the next several months trying to come to terms with the possibility that our family might already be whole. Comparatively, we were lucky. Healthy twins are the dream of couples suffering infertility. Still, we hoped for good news from the cardiologist as we tentatively planned to move forward with a frozen embryo transfer. Indeed, we got our “cautious green light”/”yellow light”… exactly four days after finding out that we were already pregnant.

It was on May 5th, 2022 that I begrudgingly took another pregnancy test during the girls’ naptime, knowing the fertility clinic would make me take one the next week regardless. I sat on the toilet lid, Googling uterine cancer and early menopause as possible explanations for a late period, only to glance at the $1 test before trashing it… and receive the news that an entirely unique miracle had happened. I’d spent over a year rolling my eyes at anecdotes about the daughter of a cousin’s neighbor who got pregnant naturally after years of infertility. Now I was that obnoxious anecdote. Two rounds of IVF, $30,000, and an extremely rare postnatal heart condition aside, I was pregnant… and despite all my stress and worry, it would all go smoothly.

After declaring the silver lining of infertility to be the ability to avoid holiday birthdays, December 6th, 2022 saw the scheduled birth of my utterly perfect Thomas. It was night and day compared to the horror that brought the girls into the world. Jake and I woke that morning, dropped the girls off with Gigi and Papa and checked into the hospital. Folks, a scheduled C-section gone right is like having a tooth pulled. I was ushered into a room, given prep instructions, and wheeled into an operating room. An epidural numbed me up and after some anxious moments, I heard the little cry that sounded exactly like the quacking of a duck. My son had arrived and I was not so near death as to barely notice. Jake was asked if he wanted to cut the cord, a privilege he did not have as his wife nearly bled out during the birth of his daughters.

Nurse: “Daddy, would you like to cut the cord?”
Jake: “What? No, that’s okay. You can do it.”
Me: “Yes! He wants to cut the cord. Just cut the damn cord, Jake.”

The nurses handed me my beautiful baby and I held him all the way back to the room, staring into his eyes the whole time. Funnily enough, I’d worried endlessly that I’d struggle to connect with a boy. I’d so desperately wanted a girl, that after a year and a half with two of them, I feared I wouldn’t really know what to do with their brother. I needn’t have even considered it. After years of scoffing at the entire concept of love at first sight, I’d finally discovered it in a 6lb 3oz baby boy.

Though the hospital stay certainly left something to be desired, we were sent home after only three days. The girls stayed with Gigi and Papa for another night, while we enjoyed our first and only night with just one baby. I’ll tell you, having one newborn feels like playing with a Tomagachi in comparison to twins. I got a good night’s sleep while Jake stayed up with Thomas. Then they both slept a good while during the day, while I snuggled my baby. Our girls came home the next evening and it was seemingly love at first sight for them, too, as they both immediately reached to grab their brother’s head. There was never any real jealousy, just adoration. They bring him toys to keep him entertained. They hug and shush him when he cries. Violet would give him every bottle if she could. Scarlett loves to make him belly laugh. They both strip and jump in whenever they realize it’s Bubby’s bath time. In our precious son, Jake has his future gaming, hunting, and fishing buddy. I have my mama’s boy, because despite “Dada” being easier to say, Thomas’s first and only word thus far has been “Mama.” He lights up whenever I enter a room and the feeling is mutual. He is cherished by all.

The first year with Thomas has been full of snuggles, giggles, and the most adorably ineffective tantrums, during which he looks like a cuter version of the Chucky doll. He is just like his dad, even keeled and easily amused. I won’t say Thomas has completed our family, but I will say he’s filled a hole I didn’t even realize had been forming from the day I learned I wouldn’t be able to have a child naturally. I can’t believe I’ve been so fortunate to have the elusive miracle baby after IVF. I wasn’t sure I’d ever have another child at all after the birth of my twins. Today, I have a virtual clone of Jake and it took no drugs, shots, or invasive procedures to bring him into the world. I was able to experience pregnancy and even childbirth, to some degree, just as they were meant. I have the son I could once only theoretically imagine wanting. After one year… even after one minute with him, I could not, nor do I want to, imagine life without my Thomas.

“You’ll see when you have kids” – a Message to the Patronized Future Parents

Posted on August 18, 2023 by Belle of the Library

“You’ll see when you have kids.” Is there any more hated sentence for those without children who want them? What a way to strip any positivity or hope from the vocation of parenthood. You’re not allowed to have ideas or goals, without presenting some form of threat or judgement toward those who’ve failed or simply have other priorities. Out of pure arrogance and defensiveness, parents paint you as idealistic and naïve, regardless of your reasoning when you try to make literally any plan or prediction about your own eventual parenting. I guess, in a way, that never really changes. You’ll see when you have kids.

I won’t say I was right about everything I planned as a future parent. We didn’t really use two bassinets. None of my kids took pacifiers. We certainly haven’t managed early potty training. Most notably, I’ve done a complete 180 in regards to being a stay-at-home mom. Once the determined career woman, I spend my days chasing toddlers, changing diapers, incessantly sweeping, and cleverly convincing my twin two-year-olds that an “adventure” consists of a Panera run and a trip to Sam’s Club. It’s right for us, but it’s certainly a far cry from the image I had of daycare pickups in my #bosslady attire. So, despite my hesitancy to vocalize any strong declarations of my future parenting goals, I’m still here, eating a little bit of crow… but it’s a lot less than everyone claimed. In fact, in a lot of ways, I was right. Such as…

Schedules

One of the number one ways I surprised myself as a new mom was by not obsessively researching parenting strategies in preparation. I perused some lists of what to buy/what not to buy, watched some instructional swaddling videos on YouTube, and read some articles on sleep training and other parenting tips, but I didn’t actually read any books on the subject. As with childbirth, I felt there was little I could anticipate until the moment actually arrived. However, the one tidbit I did take to heart was the importance of keeping a schedule.

While I came across a fair amount of advice discouraging new moms from stressing about schedules, every single article or video I found that was specifically directed at multiples moms clarified this to be a vital component of twin parenting. The gist seemed to be, if you’re having a singleton, go with the flow, sleep when the baby sleeps, let the chores pile up, and it’ll be fine. If you’re having twins or more, though, you need to figure out how to schedule your bathroom breaks. No matter how I stressed this qualifier, anyone who heard my plans to stick to a schedule laughed. “You’ll see when you’re a parent.” Well, I’m typing this during naptime on a fairly typical day that goes a little something like this:

6:30 – solo walk before everyone gets up
7:30 – get the kids up and feed everyone breakfast
8:00 – put the girls in their play yard for independent play time, while I do chores
9:00 – family walk when it’s not too hot/play time when it’s over 80 degrees
10:15 – pick up toys and have a snack
10:30 – naptime
12:00 – lunch time followed by any necessary errands or play time
2:45 – pick up toys and have a snack
3:00 – naptime
5:00 – Jake gets home and naptime ends
6:30 – dinner time
6:45 – bath time every other night
7:30 – bed time

So yes, if a schedule is important to you… if you feel it will make your life easier, not harder… go for it. It’s entirely doable and everyone who says otherwise can go kick rocks.

Cleaning and Organization

My mother was a borderline hoarder. On any given day, my childhood home was covered in clutter and trash. It was unsanitary, stressful, and embarrassing. As an adult, I find peace in having a clean and organized home, to the extent that I can’t relax among mess. Not only was I convinced that I would be a better mom with a clean and organized home, I refused to raise my children any other way. When I was pregnant with the girls, I was intent on creating a sustainable system of organization. I had a place in the kitchen for the bottles, the pacifiers, the bibs, and the baby dishes. I put drawer dividers in the dresser and rolled their tiny clothes in pairs, instead of folding them, so it was easy to find the matching outfits for each baby. I used my Cricut to create cute labels for storage baskets I put in alphabetical order to store diapers, socks, and swaddles. When I showed pictures to my aunts, they openly laughed. “Yeah, that’ll last!” Well, it’s been more than two years and not only are my systems going strong, I’ve created entirely new ones in addition. They make my life easier, Jake’s life easier, and even my girls’ lives easier, when they know where everything is and where everything goes.

Screentime

Every parent has their thing, that one thing that’s really important to them. Perhaps they didn’t bring it up before they had kids, because they wanted to avoid the condescending remarks, but it’s always been at the back of their minds. This is the thing they think of in absolutes like never, always, only. For me, it was screentime.

When I was a kid, I watched TV constantly. I could tell you what would be on my TV every half hour of the day when I was home. If I was doing homework, reading, working on some craft, the TV was my constant companion. Turning it off was unfathomable. It was deeply unhealthy. Not until age 22 did I finally realize how much time and energy I was wasting on television that I didn’t even enjoy. That was the year I turned off the TV, only powering it back up when I had something specific to watch. I read, did homework, worked out. It was life changing. I vowed that my children would never be that addicted to screentime. They wouldn’t watch any television before age two and even then, it would be in small doses. They would play outside, do puzzles, pretend, anything but stare at a screen… and I was right.

My girls are two now and occasionally enjoy an episode of Bluey or Rugrats, but only a few times a week. I’ve played music on Pandora since they were born, but no shows. After they hit 18 months, every so often, I would play a few Disney sing-alongs on YouTube, but both girls mostly ignored the screen. In general, I’ve stuck to my guns on this issue. My kids don’t watch much TV. When I do put something on, they quickly lose interest in favor of other forms of play. Because I have twins who can entertain each other, I have literally never given either of them my phone for even a moment. In fact, they know better than to even touch it, because phones now cost a thousand dollars. They don’t have tablets and when they do, I’ll limit their usage to learning apps on rare occasion. They’ll never have a TV in their room. Some people don’t worry much about screentime. That’s fair. You can’t care about all the things. I care about this one, though, and I have not wavered.

Food

Today’s parents have some intense opinions about what their kids eat, how much, when, where, and any and all feelings involved. I’m sure this is because Millennials grew up in a diet heavy culture, but damn they seem to take it just as far in the opposite direction. Personally, I’ve never felt that strongly about when my children have their first taste of sugar, whether or not they eat processed foods, or if they have McDonald’s bought by someone else. On the contrary, Jake and I have decided that our approach to avoiding food issues will be to refuse to let mealtimes become a huge source of drama. We had a few ideas of how to accomplish that.

Growing up, my parents talked incessantly about their weight and dieting… usually on the way to get fast food. I was three the first time I worried I was fat. I will not let that happen to my children, so long before Jake and I started planning for a family, we agreed that we wouldn’t eat out often with kids. When we shared this with family, we were informed that it was just too hard to cook and eat at home nightly. Picking up fast food just saved time. We would see when we had kids. Well, we’re three kids deep and the only time we eat out is when I find a coupon during naptime. This is, in part, because getting fast food is not only expensive, but it is decidedly not easier to sit in a drive-through for twenty minutes during the dinner rush, only to go home and eat cold, overpriced, fried food. So we don’t… and life is simpler. Our kids don’t think beef is soaked in French fry grease. They won’t grow accustomed to choosing every item in every meal. They won’t think it’s normal to spend $25 on dinner every night.

In addition to our insistence that we wouldn’t eat out on a regular basis, there was one more mealtime trend we abhorred that seemed quite popular among parents. We simply would not beg our children to eat. This isn’t just painfully tedious to witness when our family members do it. We’re also very fortunate to live in one of the wealthiest countries in the world, to have good, relatively healthy food to eat during every meal and snack time. Forget “starving kids in China.” We surely have starving kids living within a few miles of us. There’s not a lot I can do about that at present, but I can attempt to raise children who are grateful for their own many blessings. It was with this sentiment that Jake and I vowed we wouldn’t cajole “just one more bite” out of our kids. We would give them food that tastes good and nourishes their bodies and they could eat it or not. I don’t actually think we shared this aspiration with anyone else, simply because we didn’t want to hear about how wrong we would ultimately be as we bribed our children to eat broccoli. Maybe one day our children will become so very picky that we have no choice, but right now our meal motto is indeed “eat it or don’t.” Bonus: Our kids also only eat at the table and don’t necessarily expect bites of everything they ever see us eat.

Privacy

Once upon a time, I confidently declared that I would bathe alone, dress alone, and poop alone. I am a bodily private person. I don’t particularly like to discuss bodily issues with anyone, be they Jake or my doctor. In fact, this was one of the worst parts of my traumatizing hospital stay when the girls were born. It was utterly dehumanizing to have someone give me sponge baths, mess with my catheter, and repeatedly ask about my bowel movements. I even hated that Jake had to help me shower, when I finally got to labor and delivery.

Privacy is just all-important to me. Before children, when I saw funny little Instagram videos and memes about how mothers lose all bodily autonomy, I was adamant that that would not be the case for me. Not only did I find this vital to my own mental health and well-being, I found it confusing to tell children that they deserve privacy, but Mom doesn’t. Why do we constantly insist that no one gets to see or touch a child’s bathing suit parts, but they can play trucks on Mama’s knees while she poops? It just seems contradictory to give children a message about respecting their space and body, while allowing them to disrespect our own. Sure, some women don’t care. Excellent. They can enjoy a nice Group Poop. I’m not one of them, though. We have doors. We have baby gates. We use them. I am a mom who bathes alone, dresses alone, and poops alone. Jake does the same.

Bedtime and Sleeping Arrangements

I think one of my most accepted inevitabilities of parenting, the one thing I just knew Jake and I wouldn’t be able to avoid, was bedtime and sleeping drama. When we found out we were pregnant with twins, a part of me just gave up any hope of sleeping for the next five years. Still, I did try. This was the one subject I thoroughly researched. I studied different sleep training philosophies, read articles on how they impacted children, and even bought a book specifically dedicated to getting twins to sleep. I didn’t read beyond the first few chapters, but I bought it… secondhand. The trouble was, regardless of how much research I did, the methods and advice all seemed quite similar. I knew I couldn’t intervene every time a baby cried or I’d never get any sleep myself, but I also knew I couldn’t just let my babies cry for hours.

Honestly, sleep arrangements were where the twin schedule came in so handy. My girls were always on such a strict schedule, that sleep happened somewhat organically. If a baby cried, we gave it a few minutes, soothed her for a bit, put her back down and left. Rinse and repeat. Setting a naptime routine when I quit my job was actually more difficult than creating a nighttime one. By three months, our girls slept through the night, occasionally waking briefly in the early morning hours… and they have always done so in their own beds. That’s right. One of the biggest No Nevers for Jake was children sleeping in our bed. I had something of a wait-and-see attitude on this one, but where I was resolved to remain organized, Jake was determined to maintain a childfree bed. So far, we have and while I’m willing to say we’ll see how that holds, I think this might be another area where we benefit from having twins. Our girls are never actually alone. When they’re old enough to crawl out of their own beds, it’s more than likely they’ll simply crawl into each other’s. I have no problem with that. So, for now at least, we get plenty of chance to sleep… among other things.

So there you have it, new and eventual parents. Feel empowered. Go forth and make your plans. If they’re important enough to you, you can see them through. You’ll see when you have kids.

I still don’t like kids.

Posted on December 27, 2022 by Belle of the Library

Two weeks ago, we brought home our baby boy…

… and he is perfect.

After conceiving twin girls through back-to-back pandemic rounds of IVF and nearly dying in childbirth, I wasn’t exactly ready to get pregnant again this past spring. Although Jake and I had already begun the early stages of transferring a frozen embryo over the summer, I was still on the fence, myself. I’ve always wanted four children and still found that to be the case, even with twins under a year. I wanted my girls to have more siblings. I wanted Jake to have a son. I wanted a son. I wanted more noise, more chaos, more fun, bigger holidays, crazier family vacations… what I’ve never had with the brother I see once a year on Christmas. I also wanted to be alive to enjoy all of these things, so I was still erratically swinging between the insistence that the girls were enough and the idea that I was potentially up for two more pregnancies, assuming the next went smoothly.

It was on May 5th, the day before Jake and I celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary, that I was officially no longer able to file another pregnancy under Future Belle’s Problem. I had been waiting for day one of my cycle to begin the FET process and assumed that it hadn’t come, because I wasn’t even a year post-partum. Begrudgingly, I took a pregnancy test, annoyed at having to waste the dollar, but knowing the clinic would insist. Following a few minutes of Googling early menopause and uterine cancer symptoms as possibilities for my missing period, I glanced at the test before tossing it, only to see that it was, indeed, positive. After Jake was told, verbatim, that “miracles happen” when he asked the urologist if he could get me pregnant, after spending 2020 imagining a future without children, after thirty thousand dollars worth of baby girls, I was… pregnant.

In so many ways, I am that annoying anecdote your coworker shares about her friend, whose niece got pregnant despite all odds… the woman who had severe complications the first time around, only for it all to go smoothly the second… the mother of three under two who’d contemplated a forced childfree existence just two years earlier. With all of it behind me, I can honestly say that, despite a few tearful outbursts about how I didn’t want to die, I had an easy pregnancy and a complication-free birth by scheduled C-section at 37 weeks to the day.

I now have three babies under 18 months and I love it. I love watching the girls forget they’re mid-tantrum when they start giggling as they spin in circles of protestation. I love watching them wrestle like little bear cubs until someone cries. I love seeing Scarlet run to the front door arms extended, at the sound of Jake’s keys turning. I love Violet’s contradictory stubbornness and clingy Mama’s girl status. Now, my Thomas is here and he is a dream. After months of insisting the newborn phase is boring, I adore the snuggles. Having started with twins, I’m taking full advantage of the opportunity to dote on just one, cherishing everything from feedings to sponge baths. I rarely sleep more than four hours at a time, am weeks from being able to have sex and months from even discussing an embryo transfer, still have visible bruising around my incision, and I’m already trying to talk Jake into our fourth and final.

Just the other day, Jake announced that raising kids with me was the best thing that’s ever happened to him and the feeling is utterly mutual. Watching my husband go from the rough and tumble toddler girl dad he’s become to the sweet and gentle (for him) father of a newborn boy is absolutely precious. After years of declaring mid-spat that he’s an unfeeling robot, there’s nothing quite so dear as watching my cowboy husband hold his tiny son in his callused hands and talk sweetly to him.

I spent a lifetime anticipating being the career woman and the working mom, went to college for seven years including graduate school, threw myself into my career as a librarian for another ten. I never planned to stay home with my children, scoffed at the very idea, and it’s the best decision I’ve ever made. While I fully intend to reenter the professional world one day, simply put, I just love being a mom… and I still don’t like kids.

Growing up in the South, I was raised to understand that women like children. Little girls love dolls. Teenaged girls eagerly jump at the chance to babysit. Baby fever becomes rampant in a woman’s early twenties. Any gal who doesn’t want to die alone had better start having kids by 25. Those are some Southern facts, right there, so imagine my confusion when I realized none of them applied to me.

Having lived on ten acres until age 11, I didn’t really grow up around other kids at all, let alone little ones. I had a couple of younger cousins, who I babysat once or twice, but I largely considered them nuisances who got us older kids in trouble. I never spent time with young children with any regularity. My first job was at a car lot, not a daycare. In fact, when I did get a job at a daycare in college, I made it two days before quitting. An education major in my undergrad, I still considered specializing in early childhood/elementary and even arranged to shadow my second grade teacher. That was the day, y’all. Despite my religious Southern upbringing, a childhood surrounded by suburban girls who wanted to be teachers and stay-at-home moms, a degree program that pedestalized anyone who worked with kids… the day I spent time in a well-managed second grade classroom was the day I realized that I just don’t like children.

Over the following years, I honed my affinity for teenagers, having initially assumed I only favored them due to their closer proximity in age. During grad school, I substitute taught nearly every day of the week, preferring high school, but happy to take middle school jobs when they were all that was available. More often than not, however, if elementary openings were all I could find, I’d take the opportunity for a rare day off, unless I desperately needed the money. As time passed and I moved further from my own teenage years, I loved working with teens just as much… and dreaded spending any time with children at all.

It wasn’t that I hated kids… at least not well-behaved ones. I just didn’t find them especially interesting. They couldn’t share compelling opinions or stories. Their senses of humor were undeveloped and generally revolved around the obnoxious and immature, but rarely clever. They were often oversensitive and whiney. Regardless, their parents considered them absolutely brilliant and wholly infallible. I frequently worked with children as a librarian and nearly every single reader’s advisory question posed by a parent, came with the insistence that their child’s reading level was two to three higher than their grade. I can count on one hand how many times that was actually true. When they misbehaved, in ways that were entirely developmentally appropriate, their parents wouldn’t hear it, whether they were screaming and running in the library or bullying others in programs. Teenagers, however, warranted scorn and contempt if any attention at all. When the societal blind spot for an age group I didn’t particularly enjoy was coupled with the overall disdain for the one I did, I struggled to even imagine myself as a mother in the distant future. Clearly, I didn’t feel the way everyone else felt about children. Maybe they weren’t for me after all.

A few months before Jake proposed, I became increasingly concerned. I knew Jake wanted kids and, in theory, so did I. I just… really didn’t like ’em.

With genuine distress, I shared as much with a coworker in her 50s, who had two young adult children and two still in Catholic school. If anyone could shed some light on my situation, it was a woman living exactly the life I thought I wanted.

Me: “I don’t think I like children.”
Coworker: “Of course you don’t. It’s the end of Summer Reading.”
Me: “What if I don’t at all? Jake wants kids. I thought I wanted them. I’m not sure I like them, though.”
Coworker: “I don’t especially like other people’s children, either. I like mine, but I never really cared much for their friends. You’ll be fine.”

I didn’t know that was allowed!

In the nearly five years that followed this moment of enlightenment, I met a few others who shared this thought process. A friend at the Northside Library had little to no patience for… well, most humans, but she loved being a mother. At the same branch, a friend living with her parents had more of a sisterly relationship with her young son, yet doted on him all the same. A coworker at the Cherokee library had a surprise baby just before 40, after having accepted a childfree existence. A veteran who named Sarah Connor her hero, she’d never really considered herself maternal… until her son arrived. She still had little feeling toward children in a random sample, but adored being a mother. I’ll admit, it still isn’t a common sentiment among suburban and rural Southern women, but evidently it happens… such as in my case.

Apparently my robot husband and I are quite the pair, because I find myself in the company of Other People’s Children far more frequently these days and I feel little on a personal level… neither disdain nor joy. As with other random folks, I passively wish them health and wellness and go about my day. I do my best not to judge other parents, while still generally finding most small children grating. Yet, somehow, I seem to have endless patience for my own. Objectively speaking, I’ve no illusions about my offspring somehow being superior to others’… except that they’re mine, so they’re naturally cuter, smarter, funnier, and less disgusting by my incredibly biased assessment.

I, of course, still smile encouragingly and affectionately at little ones during storytime, just as I’d expect others to do with mine. I’d never intentionally hurt a child’s feelings and that’s all I really ask of others. I love my nieces and nephews out of necessity, whether I feel much connection to them at this age or not. I do try, but it still doesn’t come naturally to me to snuggle someone else’s baby, tickle their toddler, or get down in the floor and play with their kids. As utterly smitten as I am with my own babies, as I attempt to cajole Jake into our #fourthandfinal while still being on lift restrictions, Other People’s Children… they still don’t really do it for me. I still don’t like kids.

I want this. I’m thankful for this.

Posted on November 24, 2022 by Belle of the Library

Twelve years ago, the day after Thanksgiving, I kicked my abusive ex out once and for all, starting my life over. Seven years ago, Jake proposed to me, four days before Thanksgiving. Two years ago, after spending $30,000 funded primarily through a lucky Bitcoin investment, we found out our second IVF cycle was successful. Just before Christmas, we found out we were having twins. Now, our miracle baby boy is arriving in just 12 days… if things go as planned with our scheduled C-section.

I love the holidays, y’all. There’s just something about this time of year that makes life feel cozier and more comfortable. The colder weather gives me an entirely acceptable excuse to play the hermit. When I do go out, the world is one of cute winter wardrobes, costumes, colorful leaves, twinkling lights, cheerful music, delicious food, and massive amounts of glitter that even my southern husband finds begrudgingly acceptable. This is my time of year… yet somehow, I’m just now realizing how many great things have happened to me during the holidays, the latest of which will be my baby boy.

I feel so many simultaneous emotions about this baby. Foremost is gratitude that Jake and I get to have a son, in addition to our two beautiful daughters. We’re not a #girldad or #boymom. We get to be both. This baby will be the first grandson of six kids and only the third great grandson of fifteen on Jake’s side. Where I cried when I thought the twins were boys, after our struggles to get pregnant, Jake was thrilled with any healthy children. Now he’s the most amazing dad to our girls, especially considering his cliché cowboy status. I am so happy to give him a boy, not just because he deserves a son, but because the world needs more men like Jake. I’m grateful we got pregnant like normal people, as opposed to in a clinic with thousands of dollars worth of injections. I’m relieved that I won’t have to count down the days until I return to work. I’m thankful that Jake has been able to arrange to stay home through the entirety of my six to eight week C-section recovery.

Beyond gratitude, I admittedly feel fear that things will go as or even more poorly than they did when the girls were born. Never one for birth plans, I had zero expectations for the arrival of my twins and it still went so much worse than I could’ve imagined while still taking home healthy babies.

No one looks that pretty after four days in the ICU, by the way.

I won’t rehash my birth story in detail, but suddenly diagnosed with severe pneumonia and heart complications at 35 weeks, I underwent an emergency C-section and began the most terrifying week of my life. Almost immediately after the death of my estranged mother at 60, I dealt with the very real possibility that I might not see my own girls grow up, or that I might be chronically ill their entire lives. Rushed to the ICU, I first saw my twins at three days old and that was only because I woke up in a drug-induced hysteria screaming that they’d taken my babies. When I was finally released to labor and delivery, I was still receiving intravenous antibiotics and too sick to stand. It wasn’t until day seven that I was able to leave, though the girls had been discharged two days earlier. Say what you will about American healthcare and the $9,000 bill we received, but those doctors did save my life. As grateful as I am for my miracle baby, I admit that I’m petrified everything will go wrong again, perhaps with a far worse ending.

I have more standard concerns as well… that my existing babies will feel replaced and have trouble coping, that I’m having this baby during an unprecedented RSV season, that another child will be another expense during difficult economic times, and as always, that I won’t be the mother I so desperately desire. I’m also hopeful and excited. I’m hopeful that I’ll have a standard delivery with no drama, having scheduled my C-section for 37 weeks to the day. I’m hopeful that I’ll get an uneventful post-partum season, holed up for the winter with Jake by my side to help transition the girls into their new roles as big sisters. I’m hopeful that things will be better this time. I’m excited to meet my son and introduce him to the girls. I’m excited to not be pregnant, at this point. I’m excited to start dieting and exercising. I’m excited for a quiet baby’s first Christmas. You know what I’m not?

I’m not dreading any part of the coming months.

I’m not sorry that my children are going to be so close in age.

I’m not worried about having three under two or three in diapers.

I’m not in need of snarky well-wishes from people in the grocery store.

I’m not looking for sympathy or pity.

I’m not interested in hateful predictions about how I’ll feel when my children are teenagers.

Quite frankly, after my dysfunctional upbringing, my… trying early twenties, my struggle with infertility, I’m not interested in any negativity toward my family planning. I’m also not clear on why anyone thinks it’s okay to chime in on the subject, with assumptions that this child will be my last, simply for having a penis.

What exactly is the greater tragedy, that I might intentionally have more children or that I don’t care to share those plans with a nosey stranger at the grocery store? Why exactly does someone think they can apologize to me for the existence of my precious daughters, who are doing nothing more than playing peek-a-boo in the shopping cart? How exactly does someone come to the conclusion that this is an appropriate thing to say to a very pregnant mother with her hands full?

I know, I know. People are just looking for something to say. Well, they can say something a lot less presumptive and a lot less ugly, because I’m not interested in keeping the peace with strangers who think saying negative things about my children (who can hear perfectly well, I might add) constitutes proper small talk. I grew up in a volatile home with parents who loved me, but weren’t that great at it. I desperately wanted this life that I have, shopping cart peek-a-boo and all. I hoped my hands would one day be full and my bank account empty. I prayed for this stress. I wept for these blessings, because I want this. I’m thankful for this.

So perhaps, this Thanksgiving, people can pull their heads out of their asses and be thankful for the families and lives they have, as well.

The Minivan Stigma

Posted on November 22, 2022 by Belle of the Library

It’s been a big year, y’all. Jake and I celebrated five years of marriage, continued the adventure of raising our IVF-conceived twin girls, and began planning an embryo transfer in hopes of growing our family. We even met with our fertility doctor and scheduled the procedure… only to find out it wasn’t needed. Day one of the cycle that would have kicked off our frozen transfer never came and we celebrated our little ladies’ first birthday just before announcing our miracle baby due in December. We spent the summer arguing over boy names, transforming our larger extra bedroom into the girls’ new room, and preparing to have three children under 18 months.

An incessant reader of news, it was some time in early June that I stumbled across an article declaring that while the used car market had improved, it would most certainly worsen in the fall. Jake had briefly mentioned upgrading the Kia Sorento we had bought when we found out we were having twins, but I’d brushed him off, insisting the SUV would suffice, as long as we could fit all three car seats in the middle row. The Sorento was paid for, comfortable, said to seat seven, and had relatively few miles on it. Buying another new car less than 18 months later seemed superfluous and needlessly stressful. Regardless, I decided to make sure that we could indeed fit three across the middle row, since the back would be virtually inaccessible with car seats in front of it, only to realize…

When Jake and I bought the Sorento, we’d intended it as a ten-year car, assuming a seven seater would actually, you know… seat seven. It really hadn’t occurred to either of us that we’d be in the market for a minivan when we began planning for baby number three. After the fiasco that was buying our Kia Soul in 2019, struggling to find just the right SUV in 2020, paying it off early with Jake’s lucky Bitcoin earnings, I truly did not want a new car… any new car, regardless of type.

Ever responsive toward and utterly dependent on research, however, I immediately accepted that not only was the market in the best shape we could hope for, but that it wouldn’t get any easier or less stressful to shop for a minivan later in my pregnancy. So, I texted Jake about our predicament and began searching for the best model within our price limit.

Folks, buying a minivan was exactly the nightmare I had feared, perhaps worse. Not only was I shopping for a completely different, more expensive, unfamiliar class of vehicle, in a competitive market, I was wading through a newfound swamp of Mom Snobbery. Review after review, I simply could not escape the elitism behind some of the brand names and their elevated prices. Models that seemed to offer exactly the same number of features, safety ratings, and comfort levels were tens of thousands of dollars higher. While many objective articles described the Dodge Caravan as a budget model with a rougher ride and lower mileage, listing the Chrysler Pacifica Hybrid as a top option for the fuel conscious, I never did figure out what made the Odyssey and Sienna such premium vehicles when all specs remained the same. After reading some of the reviews himself, Jake still points out every Honda Odyssey he sees, with mock awe.

Ultimately, we ended up with a black, 2019, Chrysler Pacifica Limited 35th Anniversary. It isn’t fully loaded, but does include some nice bells and whistles that are new to us, such as leather heated seats, a heated steering wheel, and remote start. Though finding it was a month-long headache, once it was ours, we were excited… and confused that when we shared the news, everyone seemed to expect us to feel defeated at having purchased a minivan. Even after highlighting the benefits of more leg room, dual climate control, flat-folding seats, and remote doors, everyone seemed to be waiting for our response to some kind of minivan stigma.

Before Jake and I had children, I actually do recall insisting that I’d never own a minivan. For purely practical reasons, I didn’t want to spend substantially more money to drive a much more cumbersome vehicle with worse gas mileage. As far as I understood, an SUV would accommodate just as many people, at a lower price. I just didn’t see the point. I certainly had no distaste for what it would say about me or my stage of life. Upon further reflection, in fact, at one time, I’d dreamt of having and eventually becoming a Minivan Mom.

Growing up in the 90s, minivans were at the height of their popularity and said something to me even then. They were a symbol of all the things I wanted as a child, gradually progressing from the frivolous to the completely justifiable.

Parents who owned minivans lived in three bedroom ranch homes in suburban neighborhoods with ice cream trucks and friends just down the street. We lived in a trailer on ten acres, with few children nearby.
Minivan moms either stayed home, worked part-time, or were teachers, so their kids didn’t have to attend daycare. The dads were home every night and weekend and in good spirits. My mother was a nurse, my father a lineman for the electric company, both exhausted after working long hours, nights, weekends, and call shifts.
Minivan families lived in clean houses and the children wore cute clothes and practiced basic hygiene. Even when we moved to a traditional house, it was a borderline hoarder home, only cleaned when we hosted holiday celebrations. In time, my parents became too wrapped up in their crumbling marriage to pay much attention to grooming and fashion and it showed.
Minivan families ate at the kitchen table, played board games together, and the kids were never allowed to watch anything beyond a PG rating. When I was nine or ten, my parents started spending evenings arguing in the garage, leaving us to call Gramma to bring fast food and entertain ourselves however we may.
Minivan parents took family vacations and had loving, supportive, intact marriages. My dad stopped coming along on trips when I was eight and left a month after my mom’s brain surgery when I was 10. Not long after, my brother moved in with him and I stayed with my increasingly violent mother, while my father tried to recapture his youth.

Growing up, our trailer was just down the street from a foster home, where the parents were known to be abusive to their children, so I fully understood that other kids had it worse than I did. Objectively speaking, I didn’t have a miserable childhood, and see no reason to rewrite history to better or worsen it. Still, I perpetually envied what I deemed my normal classmates, who seemed to come from happy, functional homes, lead by parents with appropriate rules and boundaries. They were good at sports, from ballet and cheer to soccer and basketball. They were never blacklisted from sleepovers, because their moms explained the purpose of edible underwear to their friends when they were nine or let them watch Leprechaun when they were ten. They were slender and sweet, wore their hair in high ponytails with big bows, and the boys thought they were cute. Their parents budgeted for the bills first, so the electricity and water never got cut off. Their moms taught them to apply makeup and talk to boys they liked… and somehow, it seemed they all drove minivans.

You also don’t walk around the block for an hour to repeatedly pass by the boy you like, when he’s outside playing basketball.

As I got older, the minivan association morphed from a symbol of the ideal childhood to that of an ideal adulthood. My southern suburbia was particularly known for its Nicholas Sparks-esque young marriages, right down to the dysfunction and drama, minus the geese.

While I was far from the only 23-year-old divorcee in Shetland, there existed many more young marriages, between high school and college sweethearts. I’d like to assume at least a few were and are still happy. Though I’m no longer active on social media, I’ll never forget the time in my life when I thumbed through the profiles of my old classmates with envy. All those years, they told me my middle and high school bullies would amount to nothing and the Mean Girls were posting photos of grand Southern weddings to oilfield men, who paid for the degrees they’d never use after having babies immediately upon graduation. They bought cookie cutter McMansions in gated communities, carried Coach purses, outfitted their baby boys in Air Jordans, and drove minivans... all while I struggled to keep my head above water, massively overweight, living off of financial aid in a seedy motel after another eviction, while my ex swore he had paid the rent with money from the job he swore he actually worked. Spoiler alert: he didn’t.

My senior year of college saw a miscarriage, my first year of grad school a divorce, while I worked two jobs substitute teaching and cleaning rec equipment at the local community center… and things started to get better. I moved into a comfortable apartment, where my ex could no longer sneak in and steal things to sell. I met the young men I was so close to in my early twenties, along with Niki, who plays DnD with Jake and I to this very day. I started working for the library system, while continuing to substitute teach and earn my graduate degree. Life was better… safer. I cultivated hobbies, lost a lot of weight, learned to dress and apply makeup. I dated on and off, as I recovered from the trauma of my first and only relationship and tried to decipher whether or not I wanted another. I worked on my credit and learned to manage my money. I grew into someone I liked, someone I wanted to be… but I still felt so far behind the classmates who’d graduated alongside me just six or seven years earlier. They were only in their early to mid-twenties, but they’d finished school, were presumably happily married, bought homes, had babies… and many of them drove minivans.

Ten years later, I of course realize how valuable those single girl years were for me. While the ages of 18-23 exist in something of a fog of memory I rarely allow to clear, 23-27 were the years those should have been. I learned to take care of and depend on myself, mentally, physically, and financially. After a near lifetime of feeling less than, I started to value and respect myself, acknowledge that the only one who had any right to decide I wasn’t worthy of more was me. I could be smart, successful, cute, funny. I could be a happily single respected academic who was really great at crafts, a worldly traveler and career woman who relocated every five years… or I could earn the minivan life I’d so envied at different times. It wasn’t about proving myself… okay, it wasn’t just about proving myself, but choosing the path I wanted, regardless of who my parents were, how I’d grown up, who I was in high school, the mistakes I’d made as a young adult. I finally realized that none of that actually mattered when it came to shaping my future. I had a right to any life for which I was willing to put in the work. I could leave the past in the past.

I’d never put much thought into what a minivan said to or about me today. It was just the obvious choice until people seemed to expect negative feelings on the subject. To them, buying a minivan meant becoming their parents with their socks and sandals, little league coaching jobs, mom jeans, and pumpkin spice. When I thought about it, it meant surpassing mine. It meant finally having the life I know my mother always wanted and was never quite able to grasp, the life my dad looks back on and wishes he’d valued more. Just as I could have been the academic, the career woman, being a Minivan Mom is an accomplishment worthy of celebration for me. Perhaps others look on and see the pretention and falsehood of middle class suburban white folks. That’s fine and I take no offense, because I wasn’t always in that class.

Twenty-five years ago, I was the the smelly kid with social and behavioral issues. Twenty years ago, I was the fat nerdy girl in overalls and a turtleneck. Fifteen years ago, I was mourning the house fire my ex started, killing all of my pets. Fourteen years ago, I was evicted in the middle of an ice storm, staying with in-laws I didn’t like until we could get into the aforementioned motel. Thirteen years ago, I was conflicted over how to feel about the miscarriage of a child that would have tied me to a sociopath forever. Twelve years ago, I was filing for divorce during my first year of grad school, wondering if I’d ever have the life I’d wanted… if that was even still the life I wanted.

After ten years in a successful career, I spend my days making grocery runs, attending library storytimes, and having dance parties with the baby girls who will never be neglected into outsider status, knowing that one day I’ll be the career mom once again. I’m happily married to a man who’s never known what it feels like to be ostracized, yet handles me with care when I feel left out. I host bi-weekly game nights with good friends and feel included with my in-laws and Jake’s high school buddies when we visit. I fit in and I’m happy. I’ve transcended. These are the best days of my life so far and unrelated or not… I drive a minivan.

Seven Birthdays

Posted on October 18, 2022 by Belle of the Library

We only had 3’s, no 8’s.

Years ago, I was entering my mid-late 20s in the South and had spent the time since my divorce trying to figure out if I wanted the things I thought I’d wanted, or if everyone had just told me I wanted them. Growing up in the early 2000’s suburban/rural town of Shetland, marrying one’s high school or college sweetheart wasn’t just the dream, but the expectation. Shetland’s welcome sign declared it A City With a Vision, but the Kasey Musgraves quote “If you ain’t got two kids by 21, you’re probably gonna die alone,” would have been more fitting. Indeed, by the time I found myself reclaiming my maiden name on my undergraduate diploma, I was one of a dozen young divorcees from the class of 2006, most of whom did have two children. While I’d initially felt behind at 23, thumbing through all of those Facebook posts of engagement rings, wedding photos, new homes, and ultrasound pictures, I eventually came to the realization that I had it all to do over again. I could choose something different… if that’s what I actually wanted.

It was at 26, while substitute teaching an elementary school class that I realized exactly the life I desired. I didn’t like young children and only took such assignments if I was desperate for money, like when the school year was ending and I was staring down a summer with only my half-time librarian position to pay the bills. It was an easy enough day, overseeing a music class and watching Frozen on repeat, broken up by an end-of-the-year assembly in the early afternoon. “Assembly” probably wasn’t the proper term. It was more like a show, where Ronald McDonald performed childlike slapstick comedy to a crowd of children roaring with laughter, as I cynically rolled my eyes.

After ten or fifteen minutes of silly props and noises, however, I noticed that it wasn’t just the children who were laughing themselves sick. The parents in attendance were in similar hysterics at seeing their little ones so innocently amused. I looked around the gym full of kids, still lacking the affection expected by Southern women, yet suddenly more aware than ever of the enjoyment they brought their parents. That’s when it hit me that I wanted this… not because of some animalistic biological drive or archaic gender standard reinforced by life in the South, but because I wanted it for myself. I’d spent years considering more adventurous paths less traveled only to finally realize that I wanted exactly the mundane life expected of me… and that was okay. I would, however, need to get serious about dating. It was then that I began to pray, every night, for God to bring me a good, hardworking, even-tempered man, who would make a great husband and wonderful father… and most importantly to open my eyes and allow me to recognize such a man despite the fog of unreasonable expectations and my own self-sabotage.

My first date with Jake started with a pep talk, as I reminded myself that the worst that could happen was another funny story… only to sigh because I was getting awfully tired of funny stories. It had been a year since that day in my elementary school gym. As much as I had enjoyed the single stage of life, I was ready to move on to the next adventure. I was ready to fall in love and be on my way to the marriage and family I’d failed so miserably to secure previously. I didn’t want a romcom Meet Cute or soapy drama. I wanted someone to come home to, curl up with on the couch while I read and he did his own thing, a presence to feel in the middle of the night. I wanted to laugh, argue, grieve, and plan a life with someone. Odds were, my first date with the fluid engineer I met on Plenty of Fish would be forgettable at best, but perhaps… just maybe… it would be my last first date…

… and so it was.

It was on my first birthday with Jake that I realized he didn’t really do birthdays. When I responded with fitting horror, he explained that such occasions were for children and no one in his family really celebrated them after the age of twelve. Even so, on our three month anniversary, Jake made the trip to Shetland and joined me in a two day birthday celebration, meeting my parents for the first time and humoring all of my ridiculous 28-year-old whims. A month or so later, he indulged me once again, as I insisted we celebrate his birthday, not with all the hoopla and whimsy of mine, but by doing something he specifically wanted to do, which turned out to be Topgolf, pizza, and a movie.

Over the years, I’ve gotten no less demanding with my own birthday, insisting on celebrating the struggles and triumphs of the previous year and the excitement to come in the next. There have been numerous ice cream cakes, trips to the zoo, and even a new puppy. There was the Post-IVF Failure Quarantine Birthday of 2020, where we watched Belle Movies all day and ate takeout. There was the first birthday with our baby girls and just last month, our first family lake trip. Surprisingly enough, Jake has begun to look forward to his own birthdays over the years, as well. Friends have visited from Texas. We’ve eaten poorly made boxed carrot cake, sat through Lord of the Rings movie marathons, baked stuffed pizzas, and even unveiled a pricey gun safe in the hopes we’d need it soon, with small children running around.

Regardless, I’ve no doubt that Jake would let his birthdays slip by with little to no acknowledgement, were it not to humor me. With his quiet, stoic affection, though, he brainstorms ways to make the day special for himself, because he knows doing so is important to me. Whereas I see my own birthdays as a celebration of the adventures past and the welcoming of those to come, Jake’s are a celebration of the answering of those many fervently, even desperately, made prayers. This weekend, as Jake bathed our girls, after I sorted and folded laundry, I looked around and really acknowledged my life as it is, the life this man has helped me create.

Friday night, Jake and I hosted our bi-weekly game night, where we ate ourselves sick and laughed ourselves silly with friends in honor of his birthday. We spent Saturday getting lunch with our beautiful, hard-won babies, before hitting the local pumpkin patch, where we took pictures and all four played and laughed in a trough full of corn. We came home tired and dirty, with dried corn in our shoes, as the girls vacillated between fussing and giggling, having missed most of their naps for family fun. None of it had been a farce, staged for appearances in person or on social media. It was true contentment and joy, ending at the home we own, as a happy family unit. The house was clean and comfortable. There was plenty of food in the pantry and the bills were paid. I fed the girls and cleaned the kitchen, while Jake made soup to freeze for our new baby’s arrival. We discussed what movie we would watch and what kind of pizza we would order for our own private birthday celebration.

Compared to where I once was, my life is utter financially strained, middle-class bliss. There have been many times when I thought I would never have this. I prayed every night for half the man Jake is and God delivered. My husband is good, hardworking, funny, smart, ambitious, and an absolutely fabulous father. He’s a prideful, stubborn, know-it-all, who rarely shows any serious emotion, seldom apologizes, and drives me absolutely crazy. He’s also built a new career from the bottom, taken on every home improvement project I’ve dreamt up, financially supported us even through two rounds of IVF, and slept in an ICU chair for four days when I almost died delivering our girls. He’s gotten up in the middle of the night to clear the drains during a storm, chopped wood in freezing weather, and scraped my windshield without my asking. He’s changed countless diapers, soothed epic tantrums, and come home for lunch every day to help feed and play with his girls. He’s made it possible for me to stay home when I couldn’t handle leaving them. He’s comforted my every rational and irrational fear. Simply put, Jake is everything I ever prayed for and more.

We celebrated our first birthdays together when I turned 28, looking back on my single life; and when Jake turned 31, looking forward to new possibilities. My husband still isn’t one to anticipate his birthday with as much excitement as I do my own, but I find myself looking forward to it with increasing giddiness each passing year. I might have my very own holiday every September 9th, but every October 14th, I get to celebrate my best friend, whether that means cake and DnD or pizza and another viewing of the movie Warcraft. I get the chance to give my husband a day that’s all about him, where I can express my gratitude for the man that he is and the life he’s built with me. Jake wasn’t my way out, exactly, but he was the ultimate destination for a gal who wanted nothing more than a blissfully exhausting family life.

My mother once told me that she never minded getting older, until she no longer had anyone to do it with her. This past month, Jake and I celebrated our seventh set of birthdays together and with our girls: 35 and 38. I don’t mind those numbers even a little bit, as long as we get to celebrate the rest as a family, too.

Five Reasons I Skipped Your Christmas Party

Posted on December 28, 2021 by Belle of the Library

When I was a little kid, Christmas seemed to last for weeks. Every year, my brother and I celebrated with my paternal grandma and all of my aunts, uncles, and cousins, then again with my maternal Gramma, my mom, and dad, then again on Christmas morning with just the four of us, then again with my dad’s extended family (aunts, uncles, cousins, and so on) and finally, we had Christmas with my paternal grandfather, since my dad’s parents were divorced.

As a child, I was closest to my Gramma, but my only cousins were on my dad’s side. Playing with them was the number one appeal of his family’s Christmas parties. We had a blast, dressing up in our parents’ old prom clothes, piling everyone into a plastic wagon and running down the hallway as fast as we could, trying to quiet the cries of the youngest when they inevitably got hurt. I loved these moments almost more than my Gramma’s over-the-top Christmas gifts. Those celebrations with all of my cousins are some of the holiday memories I cherish the most… but that was over twenty-five years ago.

Things have changed, y’all. I’m married to a man who has his own family and now we have two baby girls. It’s our turn to make memories with our children and I don’t intend to do so while spreading ourselves so impossibly thin over a half dozen family celebrations. More importantly it’s our girls’ turn to make magical Christmas memories. That’s a lot more difficult to do if we’re always leaving parties early to make other parties and mom and dad are stressed out and fighting on the way. I want us all to enjoy the holidays, so as much fun as I had with my weeks of Christmas as a child, a couple of these gatherings just don’t make the cut anymore. So, how do I decide which ones to nix?

I don’t want to talk about my body.

Growing up, I was the fat kid… and with my family, that apparently means that my body is up for discussion for the rest of my life. Having lost around 100 pounds in my early twenties, I’ve kept to a relatively healthy weight since and it is still my family’s favorite subject. Like many people, I put on ten pounds of Pandemic Pudge last year, but uniquely me, I also had twins this year. I cannot stress enough how little I want to talk about my weight six months post-partum with twins. I have spent the entirety of 2021 listening to dehumanizing remarks about my body. I am baffled at how there are so many people who still think this is okay and how I happen to be related to all of them. While the occasional vague compliment is appreciated, I was asked point blank if I had lost all of my baby weight at my girls’ baptism celebration, three months post-partum.

I cannot think of any social interaction I would enjoy less on Christmas day, than one focused on my weight. In fact, as Jake and I pulled out of the neighborhood on the way to our first family party, he asked me what was wrong, noticing I’d gone quiet. I immediately burst into tears, “There are just so many people who are going to be so happy that I’m fat again!” So, when it came time to decide which gatherings to skip, it was the ones that would make me feel the worst about my own body at this sensitive time of life.

I don’t want to discuss Covid-19.

Nearly two years into this pandemic, it seems everyone has been radicalized to one extreme or the other and my family is a microcosm of this effect. At the beginning of the pandemic, I actually missed social media for a brief moment, having been isolated to my own home. That feeling was fleeting, however, when a few family members relayed the drama surrounding the discussions of Covid-19, vaccines, and various mandates that were taking place on Facebook. I’ve been exposed to so many different viewpoints, from one extreme to the other and I’ve come to a simple conclusion: you’re all fucking crazy.

Even the family members who insist they want none of this drama do so by finishing with their own dramatic and polarizing opinions. Well, my mother died of heart problems after a battle with Covid-19 put her on a ventilator for a week, before the vaccine was readily available. I was then diagnosed with heart complications during pregnancy and told by my cardiologist that the vaccine might have played a part. We all have our own complicated feelings to sort through in regards to the pandemic, so how about we all just shut the fuck up about it for one day of the year?!? I chose to attend the Christmas parties where this was likeliest to happen.

I don’t want to spend Christmas with people I don’t particularly like.

As kids, my cousins and I were able to bond over the shared experience of being children at the same time and that was enough. We played with the same toys and watched the same shows and shared the same childlike sense of humor. As adults, I’m willing to admit that we have virtually nothing in common.

I’m neither far left, nor far right, and am uninterested in any discussion of either that’s fueled by feelings over research. Politics are off the table. I cannot fathom the appeal of reality TV, preferring to spend my binges on teenage melodramas, while occasionally branching out toward high fantasy and dated fandoms. Bonding over our favorite shows is a no go. My girls are only six months old, so I’m hesitant to make broad declarations about my future parenting, but I can guarantee that the antagonistic style employed by much of my family is not for me. This means we can’t even really connect as parents. I have little to no desire to gossip about the people who aren’t present, which is their self-proclaimed basis for entire social events, while I have more than one DnD group where we pretend to be sorcerers and paladins. I’m definitely not interested in being a part of anyone’s round robin of apologies after they’ve had too much to drink… again.

It’s not that I don’t love my family. I do. I just don’t particularly like them, en masse. Whereas one-on-one, we might be able to find some common ground, my status as The Weird Smart Cousin is never more apparent than when facing the collective. That’s when my aunts battle it out in Dirty Santa for the ugliest purse/home decor/stemless wine glasses. That’s when my cousin makes a racist/homophobic joke that will surprise my redneck, cowboy, cattle rancher of a husband. That’s when everyone gets drunk and makes fart/sex/rape jokes. It takes a lot of energy to be just the right amount of excluded, so as to not come across as fake or preachy with my family.

Objectively speaking, I get that many people would think my extended family is a blast. I can appreciate that as an outsider aware of social trends. We just don’t really click and that’s fine. They’re not wrong (racism and homophobia excepted) and I’m not wrong. It took me years to come to terms with that, but I have. Truly, our only common ground is shared history and that’s become nearly as distant as our bloodlines. So, I chose to spend my holiday where I felt like I might more easily connect with some of the guests, because some relationships just aren’t worth the effort they take.

If I don’t have the bandwidth for seven Christmas parties, my baby girls really don’t.

Oh, family. It can be so wonderful to spend time in their company, while simultaneously taking so much work. I loathe the terms “introvert” and “extrovert” almost as much as “ambivert.” People aren’t that simple, nor are their needs, and the definition of “ambivert” is to be both an introvert and an extrovert, which literally just makes you human. That being said, I’ve realized in the last few years that while I love the holiday season, the gatherings themselves stress me out. Knowing how little I fit in with my own family, how socially inept both of my parents could be, makes me hyperaware of social interactions. I spend the majority of holiday gatherings worrying that I’ve said the wrong thing, that my parenting is being judged, that someone overheard me snap at the child who just ran past the infant on the floor. It takes a lot of work to talk to that many people, accept that many hugs, watch that many people pass my babies back and forth.

It is, of course, my hope that my girls will never feel this uncomfortable around family when they’re older, but right now they’re babies. They spend the majority of their time at home with mama, broken up by the occasional visit to Great Gramma’s and snuggling with our DnD pals. One day, maybe they’ll look forward to their numerous Christmases as much as I did as a child, but right now, it’s a lot of work for them to be talked to by that many people, accept that many hugs, and be passed between that many humans. It’s a break in a very predictable routine, a lot of stimulation, and a lot of germs, so we chose to skip the largest of the gatherings. After nearly a week, they’re still worn out and one of them is actually sick. When they get older, even with fortified immune systems, those gatherings will still be made up of a lot of names and faces my girls don’t remember, because I barely do. I’d rather spend our energy and time at smaller, more intimate get-togethers.

We’re setting a precedent.

This year, my baby girls’ first Christmas, was the start of many new traditions. We chose our tree and decorated it as a family, hung the stockings I made myself, opened a door on the new advent calendar every evening, read Christmas books, sang Christmas songs, watched Christmas movies, opened gifts fitting the “something you want, something you need, something to wear, something to read” theme, wore our Christmas jammy jams and listened to daddy read The Night Before Christmas on Christmas Eve.

We also set a precedent for future Christmases, stating quite plainly, that we will not sacrifice the enjoyment of our holiday for perfect attendance at everyone else’s. My girls will not be forced to end their play with their cousins so we can rush off to visit more distant relatives. I will not bake seven different dishes for seven different parties. We will not buy gifts for people we barely know, just because I once shared a great grandparent with them. I will not listen to hateful remarks about my body or heated political arguments for one day of the year. Boundaries are best set firmly and early on and I refuse to make the holiday season something to dread… so I skipped your Christmas party.

Belle of 2030

Posted on January 17, 2020 by Belle of the Library

Happy new year! We’re officially past the verbal awkwardness we’ve experienced since the 90s, with our inability to clearly indicate the current decade. It’s “the 20s” now and it’s only a matter of time before my library teens start telling me that with just a dash of snark, reminiscent of Cher Horowitz and Zach Morris.

If you’re a longtime follower, you know how much I love New Year’s and that’s only amplified in a milestone year, such as 2020. This isn’t just a continuation of the… the teens (see what I mean?!?!). It’s a new chapter of my life! Perhaps it’s because I was born so close to a decade marker, at the tail end of 87, but celebrating 2020 feels almost as big as celebrating my thirtieth birthday.

You see, as 2019 came to a close, I read of lot of news articles and Reddit posts emphasizing reflection on where you were 10 years ago and while I think that is so important, to help us grow as people, I don’t want to think about where I was at the start of 2010, because I’m pretty sure I was literally cutting myself or couldn’t get out of bed.

Debilitating depression is so much cuter in GIF form.

Y’all twenty-two-year-old Belle was not doing well. She needed a hug… and a divorce decree… and a job… and to lose 100 pounds.. and therapy. While every other year, I enjoy reflecting on the past, 2020 is a time to look to the future, to plan… and I love to plan, not just for the next year, but the next ten. So, instead of writing a pep talk to 2010 Belle, that she can’t read, I’m going to write to 2030 Belle, who likely can, because this blog is already seven years old. She won’t have to ask herself where she was at the end of 2019/beginning of 2020 or what she wanted for her life, because it’s all here.

Belle of 2030,

It’s 2020 and I hope that you’re as in love with Jake in 2030 as I am now. He’s infuriating and stubborn and bossy. He always makes me watch dude shows and ignores me at rodeos and thinks $20 spent on whiskey is somehow wiser than $20 spent on Kindle books. He also takes me exactly as I am, whether it’s crying hysterically because an animal died in a book, binge-watching teen shows, ranting at a pitch only dogs can hear, giggling while trying to sexually role play Carl Jung, or single-mindedly obsessing over some new craft/book series/ blogger/self-improvement project. He is my favorite person in the whole world and I never thought marriage could be so wonderful. I hope you still feel that way. I hope both of you still laugh uncontrollably during foreplay, ruining the moment entirely. I hope you still cook together and clean together. I hope you still drive with the radio off and talk. I hope you’re nice to each other and communicate better. I hope you’re still best friends, after twelve and a half years of marriage.

I’m trying to get pregnant right now. Though it’s only been a few months, I pray you’re a mom in 2030… that you have healthy children and you don’t take the years for granted. Naturally, I have ideas on a perfect family size and how I’ll parent, but however many you have, I pray you can afford to send them to Catholic school, that you emphasize family and time together over things, that you practice what you preach as best you can, that you and Jake parent as a team, not as opponents. I pray you’ve broken some cycles and that you’re proud of yourself.

Gramma is probably gone in 2030. I can’t imagine how the world will crumble when she goes, because she’s been the foundation of my entire life, the house that built me. I tell her about the fights Jake and I have and get frustrated with her when she takes his side… which is always. I’m excited for the day I get to tell her she’s getting more great-grandchildren and I’m pressuring her to move into assisted living nearby with the emotional bribery of being able to see them more. I don’t call her as much as I should and I’m sure you’ll hate me for that, when you’d give anything to do so. Sometimes I call her and she hangs up on me, because her football team lost and I can’t talk to her for a couple of days. I hope you remember her laugh. She was the original light in your world and I pray she got the chance to hold your children, to know another namesake.

I’m building good friendships, with people who make me a better person: a harder worker, a better friend, neighbor, coworker, a better Christian, a better wife. I’m avoiding relationships that center around gossip and vitriol and learning to balance standing up for my beliefs with kindness and tolerance. I pray you still appreciate the differences in people, their worldviews and backgrounds and the way they think, that you don’t isolate yourself in an echo chamber of like minds, as tempting as it may be in tense social and political times. I hope you’ve grown closer to family and formed lasting bonds with your steps and in-laws, with Jake’s family. I hope your children are close to them. I hope you see your brother Bo more… or ever.

I’m a teen librarian now and I love my job. I’ve just started playing role-play games with my teens and public and home school kids alike are thrilled by the low-tech, low-cost fun. As happy as I am, I sometimes consider going into teaching, particularly at a private school, when my student loans are forgiven, so I can have more family time. However it may work out, I hope you’re still championing teenagers, giving them a safe place, an adult on their side. I hope you’re making a difference in the world. I didn’t care how naive that sounded at 22 and I don’t care now.

It’s 2020 and I obsess about my weight just as much as I did 10 years ago, though I’m 100 pounds lighter. You probably look at pictures and wish you were this size again… but I hope not. I hope you’re kinder to yourself than I am, that your inner-dialogue is less hateful. Jake and I cook healthy meals nearly every night and if I can convince him, we go on walks together. I hope you still do both. God willing, you have children, but I pray you still make time to read, to crochet and sew, to write. We paid off my private student loans last year and I’m depending on my Public Service Loan Forgiveness going through in 2024. We’re doing well financially and I hope you spend your money well, that you have little debt, that the house is ten years closer to being paid off, that you and Jake don’t have that stress in your lives.

If 2010 is anything to go by, you’re a completely different person now and I hope it’s for the better. I pray you’re happy, that some of these things, if not all, are true for you. I hope you’re still keeping this blog, so 2040 Belle can read your thoughts, because this is the closest you’re ever going to get to time travel.

Holiday Social Contracts: Landmines for the Socially Awkward

Posted on December 17, 2019 by Belle of the Library

Every New Year’s Eve

Jake: “What do you wanna watch?”
Me: “We could watch Rudolph’s Shiny New Year.”
Jake: “I thought we were done with Christmas movies.”
Me: “That’s not a Christmas movie. It’s a New Years movie… and in seven months, we can watch Rudolph and Frosty’s Christmas in July.”

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Spoiler alert: He hated it.

Y’all, I love the holidays. I don’t mean that the way normal people do, either. I mean aggressively so. I love the decorations, the music, the holiday movies and episodes of my favorite TV shows. I watch and sing along to The Worst Witch and Hocus Pocus on repeat, starting in late September. I love the garishly themed jewelry and t-shirts and hats that are suddenly acceptable on October first, but I pull them out a week early, regardless.

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One of the major concessions of my marriage involved selling my six foot tall hot pink Christmas tree and decor that looked like it was stolen from the set of Babes in Toyland. No one will ever convince me that red and green M&M’s, Reese’s Bells, and Christmas Crunch cereal don’t taste better. I don’t care even a little bit that I look like a kindergarten teacher in my brightly colored Christmas dresses. I love the holidays so much, that I have to fight getting depressed halfway through, because they’re almost over.

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I will, however, admit that there is one aspect of the holiday season I loathe entirely…

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… and that is the minefield of social contracts.

In my field, anyone who doesn’t consider themselves to be entirely crippled by their own introversion, is labeled an extrovert. This somewhat skewed view means that many of my coworkers consider me to be quite the social butterfly, due to my comfort level socializing with all eleven of them. They’re not entirely wrong, either. I quite enjoy my job. I spend each day with the same handful of people, whose personal stories and worldviews and interests I’ve come to know and respect. I have numerous casual interactions with customers that rarely go deeper than a reader’s advisory discussion on the abusive relationship dynamics present in Nicholas Sparks’ novels. I see the same teenagers at each program, where we discuss who would win in a battle, Doctor Who or The Hulk. Overall, as someone who always scores on the cusp of extroversion and/or introversion, I get exactly the right amount of stimulation in my position… usually.

When I first started at the Cherokee Library, I was completely overwhelmed, socially. I didn’t know my coworkers’ backgrounds, religious views, entertainment interests, political affiliations, or tastes in music. Every night, I went home and turned over literally every interaction in my mind, wondering if I’d said the right thing, left the correct impression, presented myself accurately. I did the same thing after my four day YALSA conference with unfamiliar coworkers and again after my recent game night with some new friends. While I love the comfortable surroundings and regular patrons of my every day social experience, it’s only because I’m in my element. New people and surroundings leave me emotionally spent. In short… extrovert my ass.

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So, while I love, love, love the holidays, I think I’ve realized these last few years, is that what I truly enjoy is the build up. I love sitting at home, reciting every word to Hocus Pocus, with the cat. I love watching Thanksgiving episodes of How I Met Your Mother, on my tablet, while Jake plays video games. I love listening to Christmas carols on Pandora, while making peanut brittle in my kitchen. I love showing pictures of my Christmas decorations to my coworkers, and oohing and ahhing over photos of their pets in reindeer antlers. I love driving through Christmas lights with my husband and choosing a real tree together. What I really love is sprinkling the everyday, homebody familiar, with bright colors and lights and glitter and festivity. The grand finale, though? That stresses me out, primarily due to the aforementioned endless mandatory social contracts, such as…
Bringing a Dish

On December 22nd of my first Christmas season with Jake, I burst into tears when my three-ingredient peanut butter cookies tasted exactly like three-ingredient peanut butter cookies, and angrily tossed them in the trash.

Jake: “They’re fine. Why don’t you just make another batch and cook them less?”
Me: “Because they aren’t good and all the women in your family will be judging me on what I bring. If I take those after taking Oreo balls to Thanksgiving, they’ll all think I can’t cook.”
Jake: “What was wrong with the Oreo balls?”
Me: “They were a no-bake dessert. They’ll think I’m a just a Pinterest cook and they’ll all hate me, because I can’t make cookies!”

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Of course, in the end, there were plenty of desserts, too many in fact, which I knew would be the case, but social norms required I bring something.
Being in Someone Else’s Home

Why do I have to offer to help my mother-in-law in the kitchen, when we both know there’s nothing for me to do and little space in which for me to do it? Why does she have to stop what she’s doing to pretend I’m useful and let me spoon butter she’s already melted onto biscuits she’s already made or let me cut the onion, when she’s just going to dice it smaller?

Why is there only bar soap in the bathroom? How many people have used this hand towel? How obvious is it that I dried my hands on the bottoms of my jeans? Will I look rude/weird if I get out my antibacterializer?

If I don’t eat these “appetizers”, am I going to hurt someone’s feelings? Can you call a bar full of cheese an appetizer? Literally, there’s queso, next to a plate full of cream cheese with cranberry sauce, two cheese balls, and a plate of sliced cheese. If I eat this, I won’t poop until Christmas.

Where do I sit? I like the chair that doesn’t require me to sit next to anyone else, but is there some unspoken familial claim to this chair? Am I in Uncle Buck’s Chair? Okay, I’ll sit on the couch by the arm and Jake can sit next to me. Why doesn’t he ever sit down? He’s been pacing for the last 30 minutes. I’m like 80% sure he’s forgotten I’m here. Wait. Is anyone else sitting down? Should I be standing? But… I don’t want to lose my couch corner.

When should I get up to get food? I don’t want to rush the table, but I don’t want to eat after everyone’s had their hands in each dish, during cold and flu season. I want to try everything, but I don’t want to seem gluttonous. I should have gotten a larger plate. There is no way these people don’t think I have an eating disorder.

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Gift Giving

Zetus lapetus, y’all, I do not get gift giving. I’m 32 years old. I make over $50,000 a year, in one of the cheapest states in the country. If I want something, I can buy it. If I can’t, no one else can, either. So what is the damn point of gift giving? Why do I have to spend $20 to buy a gift for someone that they might like, just so they can spend $20 to buy a gift for me that I, quite frankly, probably won’t like, and pretend that we’ve done some sort of charitable service, when both of us had $20 to spare in the first place? A couple of greedy, materialistic, bitches trading twenties is in no way, symbolic of the gifts the wise men brought to baby Jesus. If anything, we should just all donate that $20 to give Christmas to a family down on their luck or buy toys for children with incarcerated parents or purchase a goat for a family in a third world country or literally any better cause.

If I want to do those things, though, it has to be in addition to trading twenties, which just makes the holidays more costly and stressful. I can understand close family trading gifts, knowing the recipients will enjoy them, but why, oh why do the women in my family draw names for each other’s children and trade advice on what to buy them, when they could just all spend money on their own children, whose interests and wants they already know?!?!

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Don’t even get me started on Dirty Santa, where I’m supposed to spend $40 on a gift for no one, so I can stress myself out by over-analyzing the social etiquette of stealing home decor from my mother-in-law or leave in frustration when I contribute a gift I kind of like and open a bowl of decorative wicker balls and a diabetic cookbook. If I refuse to play, I’m anti-social and if I bring a gift I’d truly enjoy, I’m the weird one who brought the Spock Bluetooth speaker to Christmas. If we must all leave with gifts, why can’t we each spend $40 on something for ourselves and open them in a big circle with genuine delight? I don’t understand.
Talking to Children

I’m a woman and a librarian, so it’s just assumed that I like children. I don’t. I don’t like babies. They’re fragile and always leaking and it’s inevitable that they’ll start screaming and I won’t be able to find the mother. I don’t like little kids. I don’t have the patience or the sense of humor for them. Why are you still telling me this story that I think is about Spongebob? Why did you choose me to tell? Am I sending off pro-child vibes, because I work very hard to maintain subtle anti-child vibes. Why are you making that face? Was I not supposed to ask that? Ugh, don’t cry and get me in trouble.

Give me tweens and teens any day, but the holidays inevitably mean someone will leave me alone with a small child and I will make them cry or tell them something I shouldn’t or call them “it.” Someone will ask when I’m having children and I’ll either sputter through an awkward, but appropriate, answer or make a wildly inappropriate joke about how Jake keeps putting it in the wrong hole. The build up to the holidays does not necessarily mean associating with children, but the holidays themselves are crawling with them. Yes, yes, Jake and I are planning on having our own children soon, but that’s different, because it has to be or no one would procreate. I’ll figure out children when I must. If I taught myself to crochet from a YouTube video, I can teach myself to parent.
Talking to Adults

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I love my family. I do… but we do not get each other. I don’t mean that in some sort of coming of age drama way, either. We’re just very different people; or rather, they’re all the same people and I’m very different. My aunts, uncles, and cousins love body humor, the occasional racist joke, maybe something about killing a cat and I just don’t get it.

Me: ::whispering in church:: “What do you want to do for dinner?”
Jake: “I have a big thing of sausage we need to use.”
Me: ::giggling uncontrollably::
Jake: “In church? Really?”

Jake jokes that I’m randomly an 8th grade boy sometimes, likely because I spend so much time with 8th grade boys, but the humor is all relatively innocent and is very rarely gross or cruel. I don’t understand why poop is funny and I understand even less why comparing our former president to a monkey is funny. I was genuinely disgusted by the Christmas ornament my cousin included in our Dirty Santa game last year, featuring Santa doing Mrs. Claus from behind. My humor is very dry and my family rarely even gets that I’m joking. When it’s not, it’s usually comprised of dorky and innocent puns, which they also don’t appreciate.

These people frequently tell me that they can’t have a conversation with me, because I’m too smart… which they think is a compliment. Conversationally, I’m just extremely intellectually curious. I like to theorize about the average age of parents who shake their babies, the effect of commonplace Photoshop on the children we’re “fixing” when they become adults, how technology is contributing to pornography addiction in teens and apparently, none of this is Christmas talk. I have one or two cousins who seemingly enjoy these discussions, but we’re not the norm. Even my fashion sense is completely off base. They’re Miranda Lambert to my Zooey Deschanel. They wear National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation t-shirts, while I rant yearly about how much I hate that movie, in my giant hand-crocheted Christmas tree hat and my Meowy Christmas cat shirt. None of us is wrong. We just don’t really fit… and also, they’re wrong and that movie is stupid.

Jake’s family has been nothing but kind to me, but I am only beginning to understand how to talk to them. Last December 23rd, at his big family Christmas, Jake suggested, on his own, that we eat in the garage, as I was so visibly overwhelmed, because it was just so much people and we have nothing in common. I don’t have kids. I don’t understand the rodeo world. I’ve never castrated a bull and don’t run cattle. I don’t want to look at the dead mountain lion in my brother-in-law’s truck. I am so not playing in the family Thanksgiving basketball game, because that sounds like literal Hell. I will get yelled at and have an asthma attack and/or break a bone. Just last Thanksgiving, Jake’s cousin told a story about the girl on his daughter’s softball team, who he refers to as Shock Collar, because she won’t pay attention. All I could think, is that I was the Shock Collar of my softball team and maybe her parents should put her in piano lessons. Jake, of course, fits in everywhere.

Me: “I wish I fit in with your family as well as you fit in with my family… actually I wish I fit in with my family and much as you fit in with my family.”

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Elf on the Shelf and Santa Claus

I have always hated Elf on the Shelf. At best, it was a brilliant marketing ploy, by its creator, who has sold over 11 million book and doll sets, which doesn’t even account for the new line of accessories.* For most people, however, it’s a slightly creepy self-imposed chore of a tradition, which many parents regret ever starting. I knew, when it became popular, that I wouldn’t be purchasing an Elf for my own children. I’m even more certain of that fact 15 years later, as I watch my family and friends scramble around to perform for their children nightly, for the duration of a season that’s supposed to already be plenty magical by nature. Speaking of which…

I used to be one of the masses, the people who thought parents who didn’t play Santa were ridiculous and depriving their children of the magic of Christmas, but as time has gone by, I don’t really understand why we do this. If you’re a religious person, as I am, then why do you need to add magic to the season with a cartoon character? Yes, yes, Saint Nicholas was a real saint, but that means very little unless you’re Catholic. Also, the modern depiction of Santa Claus no more resembles Saint Nicholas than Disney’s Pocahontas does the historical twelve-year-old. We’re not honoring a Saint, anymore… and quite frankly, Protestants never were, because they don’t acknowledge sainthood. We’re revering a caricature, who often overshadows the true Christian value of the season, ironically through the very un-Christ-like means of greed and materialism. If you’re specifically nonreligious, shouldn’t you be opposed to such fairy tales? Isn’t that one of the primary principles of Atheism, that one shouldn’t have faith in what cannot be seen or proven? Doesn’t the modern Santa Claus directly defy both of these belief systems? Isn’t this entirely appropriate conversation for Thanksgiving dinner?!?! Can I please just go home and only talk to my husband and my pets now?!?!

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Sources
https://www.today.com/series/holidays-made-easy/elf-shelf-turns-10-secret-history-santa-s-little-scout-t62531

Belle of the Library

… the musings of an overly organized thirty-something, married, southern librarian turned stay-at-home-mom with too many opinions, too much ambition, just enough kids, and a stubborn, mouthy, redheaded country boy to accompany her through life.

Tag Archives: family

A $5,000 Christmas Stocking

My Baby Boy is One

“You’ll see when you have kids” – a Message to the Patronized Future Parents

I still don’t like kids.

I want this. I’m thankful for this.

The Minivan Stigma

Seven Birthdays

Five Reasons I Skipped Your Christmas Party

Belle of 2030

Holiday Social Contracts: Landmines for the Socially Awkward

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