The 7th Level of Hell - Part I

From time-to-time I’ve had long periods of silence on this blog. It’s not that I’ve been too busy or too lazy to post, but sometimes I just get tired of hearing myself whining and complaining about how awful all this baby business is. Then someone will post a comment, encouraging me to keep writing, and I realize that, even if only one other person out there ever relates to my posts, or is able to laugh because they see themselves in a story, or gets just a tidbit of information that is helpful, then it’s worth it. And so, I tell the tale of the 7th level of hell, otherwise known as the day at my in-laws’.

Let me just say first, that I love my in-laws and I’m not bemoaning the spending of time with them, merely the situations that arose. You may recall from my last post I was dreading the visit because it would be the first time I would be seeing my stepdaughter since finding out she is pregnant and I wasn’t sure how I was going to react.

It wasn’t good.

Shortly after arriving and showing off the tiny “pooch” that my mother-in-law said looked as if she’d just eaten too much spaghetti, my stepdaughter pulled out a pocket Doppler--a portable version of the kind used to listen to the baby’s heartbeat. I listened and heard the heartbeat, oohed at ultrasound pictures, and joked about the 12-week old peanut looking exactly like his grandfather (my husband). I say his grandfather because all the family voo-doo has been used and the consensus is that she’s having a boy.

Then my husband’s niece arrived. She is seven months pregnant. The men (my husband and father-in-law) beat a hasty retreat to the garden to smoke cigars. I stayed indoors with the women and moved to the second level as hell as I was treated to a show of pregnant bellies and a performance of tiny heartbeats courtesy of the portable Doppler.

I tried (and largely succeeded) to not feel resentful; they are both exited about their pregnancies, and if it were me, I would be too. However, over the past couple of years I’ve made a point of keeping away from pregnant women. I’ve politely excused myself from baby showers and mailed gifts instead, and I’ve deftly avoided pre-maternal discussions around pregnant women. It only highlights my own situation, and what could I contribute to those conversations anyway? Nothing.

So, I sat and bit my tongue. I wanted to say that I didn’t think it was a good idea to have too many unnecessary ultrasounds, such as the 4D ones they are planning to have multiple times. I read somewhere that it might not be good for the baby. I’ve also been told that having a small amount of caffeine will cause less harm to the baby than a mother stressed out because she can’t get her daily fix. But what do I know? I ought to be the experienced older woman for these women, but I’m not, so I sat and kept my mouth shut.

The third level of hell came quickly when the subject of names came up. Because she is sure she is having a boy, my stepdaughter refused to disclose her choice of boy’s names, which I supported. As they hadn’t yet settled on a girl’s name and didn’t think they’d need it anyway, she revealed her current top two names.

Sophia and Victoria.

This is when I entered the fourth level of hell. Sophia is my grandmother’s name and Victoria is Jose’s. They were the two names we had chosen for our little girl—names that we’ll never get to use. I wanted to yell, “No! You can’t use those names,” but I wasn’t prepared to get into a discussion about why not, and anyway, I have no legal claim over them. As Victoria is Jose’s grandmother’s name, it means it is my stepdaughter’s great-grandmother’s name, and she has every right to use it. I did blurt out that Sophia was my grandmother’s name, but after that, I shut up again.

I think I did a very good job of holding it together and I really didn’t want to spoil the joy for my stepdaughter. Eventually, though, I had to get out of there, so announced I would make dinner and escaped to the grocery store. It wasn’t until I got outside that I realized I hadn’t taken a complete breath for the last two hours.

A couple of days have passed now and my personal pity party is over and all the demons have gone home, so I’m not going to dwell on this. I think you probably get the picture, though. Still, it was nothing compared to the hell I faced on my return from the store, with the arrival of the grandfather of my sister-in-law’s godchildren—the two children she is hoping Jose and I will adopt.

But, alas, dear readers, you will have to tune in to the next exciting episode for this treat.