Eyes shining, smile moulded into permanence, he tells of the birth of yet another son. The grandfathers, the other fathers, the other men, they nod and smile and pat him on the back like he was a liberating soldier to a long-sieged city. He speaks of the bravery of his wife, the awe in his other children, his own calm handling of this newest arrival. Everything a man could want has fallen into his hands easily, though he speaks of it now as if he snatched it from the flaming jaws of a dragon.
I smile dishonestly yet again, but congratulations stick in my throat as I look for any reason to leave. These reminders of what I do not have and cannot be come more frequently these days. Dwelling on the fact is a road to bitterness, so I do my best to force the disappointment down and drown it out with a busy life.
I generally barricade the door with forced indifference. Friends and coworkers announce pregnancy, birth, and proudly tell stories about the latest phase their offspring are going through. Social convention dictates I smile and congratulate and nod sympathetically like all the other men. I do it mechanically and try to move either myself or the conversation on. Occasionally, regrettably, I become the focus of these discussions, with questions about when or if I will have children of my own. About why I don't already have a few. As if it were a simple choice, yes or no. I equivocate, maybe, we'll see, perhaps after (insert event here)...
Three and a half years of trying, surgery, praying, timing, and supplements. If it were a choice, we'd need a school bus by now. We've tried to force the issue and adopt. We are still thankful to have not experienced miscarriage, but when our adoption agency closed down suddenly last year, part way through our file, it felt about like that. We're nearly back on track now. Still haven't sent in the stack of paperwork for the new agency sitting ready on the desk. Once bitten, twice shy, and all that. Soon.
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