Lucky

Only two students showed up for class again last night. I'm trying not to take it personally. It is the holiday season, after all, and people are understandably busy. And the low turnout justified my lack of lesson planning.

The three of us had a lovely conversation, however. We moved deftly from discussing the English learner website I had forwarded to them, to hearing about Van's latest strategy for taming her acne breakouts, then on to a free-spirited comparison of movie styles we like. Along the way, Regina and I learned that Van has been sort-of seeing a young Vietnamese man via Skype, though she is reluctant to label their interactions as dating. We two married ladies offered our advice and wisdom on communicating with reticent men, as well as the truth behind the axiom that opposites attract. Van remained ambiguous about the possibility of a satisfying long-term relationship, especially with a Vietnamese man, because of the tradition of the daughter-in-law becoming more or less a slave to her mother-in-law.

That set off a whole discussion about in-laws. I tried to remain diplomatic and pragmatic. I have issues with my own mother-in-law, of course, but I also understand how lucky I am overall in the in-laws department.  My mother-in-law's garden-variety crazy causes no more than the occasional frustrating misunderstanding, and we have no reason to battle over parenting styles. I could have it so much worse.

There was much laughter among us ladies in the little conference room of Project Learn last night. It was the first class that really felt like friends catching up, rather than a teacher giving a lesson.

Regardless, I am grateful to have a break from this Thursday night obligation. In fact, I'm grateful to have a break from all of my obligations for the next few weeks. How many adults get that? 

Once again, I realize how lucky I am.

Being a student for the past eight years, I have become accustomed to the rhythm of the scholastic calendar. I measure a year by semesters, rather than months or seasons. All I have to do is remember which class I was in and which books I was reading or writing about to tell you exactly how my life was for a particular spring or fall since 2005. As for summers, they are catalogued as undergrad (sub-categories: physics, statistics, literature classes, semester abroad), post-graduation (celebratory trip to France), and graduate years (one basking blissfully at a friend's pool, two writing or re-writing thesis work). Spring break and winter break serve as meaningful punctuation, the proverbial semi-colons of my scholastic career.

This year, I am reflecting on what it means to have a terminal degree (is it really the end?), counting up my many blessings (thank you, dear husband), and focusing on being grateful for my wonderful life.

So what if only two people showed up for class last night? That's two smart, interesting ladies who chose to spend their evening talking with me. I am one lucky duck.

Sharon's Choice

I've always known that I didn't want to have children. My mom remembers hearing me say unequivocally, when I was about ten, that I didn't want children. Remaining childless has been a conscious choice in many ways, but it has also been merely staying true to myself.

This doesn't mean I hate children. Granted, if given the choice to socialize with children, adults, or a mix of both, I'll take option B every time. But I don't hate children. They can be quite entertaining and surprising sometimes.

I simply do not ever wish to be completely responsible for someone else's existence in the exigent way that parenthood requires.

When I was first married, people often asked me when I was going to start having children, in that sure way people use when the have already assumed an answer.  My responses ranged from enigmatic (we're not really planning) to hostile (what if I can't? what then??!!).

One of the few positives about being a woman over 40 is that few people inquire anymore about our plans to start a family. Though I do occasionally get the grimaced-faced, pseudo-concerned "do you ever regret not having kids?"

Burying my interlocutor in a laundry list of our travels, hobbies, and accomplishments usually wipes the creases from their faux-furrowed brow.

However, let me say this: I have nothing but the highest esteem and respect for people who willingly (or not) undertake parenthood and then dedicate themselves to the job. Many of my friends and most of my family members are exceptional parents with kind, generous, intelligent kids.

Regina, the newest addition to our ESOL class, has a daughter who is across the country for her first year of college. I asked if her daughter had been home for the Thanksgiving holiday.

"No," she said. "But she will be for Christmas, for the break."

"How long will she be home?" I asked.

"She will spend two weeks with us," Regina replied. "And then she will go to Korea. To see her boyfriend."

Van and I, the only two other people attending class this week, looked at each other and raised our eyebrows. Van's toothy grin widened.

"Wow," Van said. "You're really nice mom. You let her go away for two weeks with her boyfriend? Without you?"

All three of us laughed. I knew we were a little too loud for the room we were in, with its half walls that opened to the high ceiling of the main library's ground floor, allowing our laughter to rain down on the motley men silently cruising the web on computers just outside our door. But I didn't care. Our conversation had taken such a surprising and interesting turn. Once again, after having to force myself to come to our class, I was happy I had.

Regina sobered first.

"She will stay with my mother," she said, touching her hand to her chest.

"Ah," I said. "With grandma."

Regina nodded.

"Is grandma…" I hesitated, searching for the right word. "Permissive?"

Van and I exchanged a mischievous and knowing look.

Regina's brow remained smooth as she quite matter-of-factly replied, "Yes, quite permissive."

"Wow." This time the astonishment was mine. "That's a lot of trust there," I said.

"Yes," Regina replied.

Our conversation then migrated through whether Van would like to have children (her answer, in typical Van pragmatism: "maybe, if it's not too late"), and on to more specifics about whether or not the pain of childbirth is "worth it" (Regina's quietly certain answer: "Yes." Neither of us had any way to argue.)

If only two people were supposed to show up for my class last night, I am very happy the two were Van and Regina. Van and I got to chat casually for a while about stories and books we read as adolescents before Regina came in. She is much more expressive and dynamic in one-on-one conversation than in a group. I do worry a little, however, about her lack of interest in her own life. And Regina is a great addition to our group, with her lilting laugh and cultured manner. I look forward to learning more about her as we move into the New Year.

We ended class a little early, partly because the conversational momentum of only three people is finite, and partly because my husband was waiting for me and we had dinner plans. The end came naturally, though, at a lull in our talking, and we all seemed to know it before I called it.

Later, after dinner and drinks and more conversation and laughter, in the quiet of a sleeping house, I examined once more my status as a childless woman. I don't really like that term, with its inherent negativity (less than what, exactly?). The only alternative I've heard, though, is so clumsy and alliterative in a painfully self-aware way as to be embarrassing: childless by choice. As if I felt the need to explicitly separate myself from those poor unfortunate women who had always wanted children, perhaps desperately so, but whose biology conspired against them. Why do we have these ridiculous monikers, anyway? Why do we constantly feel the need to define ourselves to others? Are we doing it for the sake of the others, or for ourselves?

Regardless, I'm done with it. The defining ad nauseum, that is. The other positive I've discovered about being over 40 is a waning desire to be popular or liked by people I don't know. Those who know me get it; those who don't will either figure it out or leave. Sharonless by choice, I call them. And above all, I respect their choice.