Difficult Questions

This is my response to this week's prompt.  I have a couple other sketches that deal with Mother/ Child things.  I'm thinking of putting them together and stealing Paul Simon's song title "Mother and Child Reunion".  Thoughts, ideas, rotten tomatoes?  Bring it all. 

See you all on Thursday, 

Tiffany

Someone asked my mother about her children.  She told what each of us in turn was doing:  the oldest, a doctor; busy with a new practice and five young children.  Her second son, an architect; he heads up a branch of the company office, has three children, and his wife just started a charter school.  Her oldest daughter, a teacher works in education running a private tutoring center; she is married to a professional cyclist—like Lance Armstrong, yes;  no, he hasn’t raced the Tour de France.  

“Oh.  What about the younger children?”

Well, Jeff is married and has two kids—a boy and a girl; he just moved back to the city and works as an office manager for a prominent local company.  Jenny is in Sacramento now with her husband who works as an auditor for the State of California; she works from home for a logistics company based out of Florida—she was able to get the company to agree to this arrangement when they decided to move to the west coast.  Anthony just finished his Master’s Degree; he and his wife have two kids, and he is busy managing a brand new hotel in the southern part of the state.  The youngest, Amy, is in college, still trying to figure things out; she just transferred to a different University—farther away from home—and it’s quiet not having her at home so often.

“Sure.  Well, so, your daughters?  They don’t have children yet?”

No.

“Why not?”

Well…I…they…they just don’t.  We haven’t really talked about it. 

We haven’t talked about a lot of things.  My mom started to cry.  She should know this.  Why don’t we have children?  Is it because of her?  Was she a bad mother?  She didn’t mean to be.  It wasn’t easy having seven children so young.  She knows she asked a lot of us.  Never in her wildest dreams did she think her requests would turn on her in this way; if she had known, maybe she would have tried to do things differently.  But how, she’s not sure.  Money was tight.  There was always so much to do.  So much laundry.  Not enough food, or time.  Not enough of her to go around.  Is this why?  

Do you really want to know?  Are you sure?  You may not like the answer:  I just don’t have it—the desire, the need, the craving.  Babies don’t interest me.  Motherhood doesn’t hold for me an inkling of curiosity.  It’s not you.  It’s just the way I am.  Some people feel a strong maternal pull and know they will never be a complete person without that.  I don’t.  It’s that simple.  I’m fine with just me.  But more importantly, who is this woman who thinks she has a right to ask you such a personal question?   I don’t like that she did this to you, Mom.  Next time, lie.  Tell her I’ve been trying for years, but I’m hopelessly infertile.