[Dean's World] Celia Farber: Single Mothers by What?

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Posted by Celia Farber:
Single Mothers by What? 
http://www.deanesmay.com/posts/1201326800.shtml


   I admit I only water-spidered across the heated debate, linked here,
   about "single mothers by choice." It didn't take long to catch the
   vibe, (or correct me if I'm wrong:) An anger tinged with paranoia
   expressed primarily by men who fear they are being phased out of the
   marketplace of biology, by women who have "chosen" to raise children
   conceived by artificial insemination, for political, crypto-demonic
   reasons, like not believing men are "necessary."

   I looked down and remembered melancholically that I am one and I have
   some evidence I wish to share.

   I have been listening to, crying with, laughing with, commiserating
   with, rejoicing with, and suffering with women all my life. I was
   raised in an all female household, (mother, sister) due to a complex
   custody battle I couldn't explain if you paid me a rooster for every
   word.

   Single mothers by "choice," is code for 20 years of weak men who
   couldn't bring themselves to give her a baby, and then protect them
   both. What is gone in the male is as we are all well aware, the animal
   instinct. I take, at this point, the appalling Norman Mailer position
   that a man should be trying to impregnate a woman every time he gets
   near or on her. Everything else is a waste of her time. You don't have
   to like me. I'm talking about actual women who have cried in my arms.
   "I didn't want to have that abortion. He wanted it." "I thought he
   loved me." "I waited too long." "He said he loves me but he doesn't
   want kids." "He got himself sterilized." "He doesn't think
   civilization will survive and doesn't believe in bringing children to
   the world." "He's not sure what he wants." "He won't ejaculate." "He
   wants me to get an HIV test." "He hasn't called." "He sent a text that
   said he wasn't sure he wants to talk." "He's not ready." "He's
   confused." "He might not be over his ex girlfriend." "He said I am not
   his girlfriend, yet." "I don't know where he is. I'm starting to get
   worried." "I think he might be dead." etc.

   And time wore on, the years passed. We turned forty. I was blessed
   with a son, at age 28, by an unplanned pregnancy, and I became the
   world's biggest advocate for having a child, any child, under almost
   any circumstances, because everything else is worth very little in the
   end. And everybody roaringly agreed...but there was something missing.

   The man.

   Trapped in a maze of birth control, emotional torpor, resentment,
   ambivalence, fear, depression...The poor guy can't even make a phone
   call, never mind father a child. I think it was better back in the
   days when men just dropped straight down on women like hawks over
   prey. When a beautiful woman friend wants to bore me with the details
   of her non-calling, non-hunting, low testosterone suitor, I want to
   say: "Let's just agree that he is a Chinese Water Puzzle and we will
   never understand him."

   But here I sound glib; I am not. My heart breaks, for all of us. Time
   passes and fertility wanes.

   "...And the mono-syllable of the clock," as Tennessee Williams wrote,
   "is loss, loss, loss, unless you devote yourself to its opposition."

   Let me tell you about Nina. I met her in Cuba, some years back, on a
   strange trip we were on, and we became instant friends. Every single
   thing that happened made us roar with laughter; We found ourselves on
   one of many propaganda trips, this time to a delapidated sugar factory
   on the outskirts of Havana. Nina was stunning and hilarious, and
   unlike me, a super-high earning alpha female in the corporate world.
   In our lengthy discursive talks about men, love, hopes, etc, Nina
   described a man I will call Josh. He couldn't decide, couldn't call,
   couldn't cope with anything. To cheer us up, I started us on a (I now
   realize very depraved) mega-crush on the omni-present Che Guevara.

   My father was with us and watched with bemused patience as we debased
   ourselves buying Che paraphernelia: T shirts, mugs, calendars,
   scarves..

   On that hot, still, unending day stuck out at that dripping sugar
   factory, he blithely said: "I interviewed Che."

   "You what?" we squealed.

   I know this isn't funny. I know the man was a totally depraved killer.
   But I didn't quite know that then, somehow.

   "What was he like?" we gasped.

   My father chose his words carefully, and didn't elect to shatter our
   misbegotten affections: "Well spoken. Intelligent. Resolute."

   Nina and I both said in unison: "Resolute."

   Then we carried the word with us for the rest of the trip. Imagine if
   men were resolute. Like Che.

   Boy were we stupid. I'm being honest though.

   Back home, Nina confronted the confused man, Josh, who she wanted to
   have a family with and I think he put her on hold and then simply
   never picked up. Then there was another one just like him and another
   one just like him.

   A few more years passed. We fell out of touch, speaking only
   occasionaly, but picking up right where we'd left off, eyes right on
   the ball. Nina really wanted a baby. What was she supposed to do?

   One day out of the blue, when we hadn't spoken in perhaps a year, Nina
   called, and in her sparkling voice said: "Celia guess what. I'm six
   months pregnant."

   I hollered with joy and when I finally quieted down she explained that
   she got pregnant through a sperm bank.

   "Wow," I said.

   "I just got over my woe is me, victim trip, and decided to do this. I
   wanted a child. It didn't work out with anybody but I still wanted a
   child."

   Then came one of the very rare moments when I am proud of something I
   did or said. It was actually something I had said in the distant past,
   and forgotten.

   "You were the inspiration for this," Nina said.

   "I was?"

   "Yes. You don't remember what you said?"

   "No."

   "I asked you, as a mother, if you thought it would be too hard for me
   to do this alone, to raise a child alone."

   "And what did I say?"

   "You said, 'yes Nina, it will be very hard. But not nearly as hard as
   never having a child, if you want one.' That was when I decided to do
   it."

   "Wow."

   At Nina's baby shower, there was another woman also nine months'
   pregnant, by sperm bank. And after Nina's baby was born, she told me
   the only birth story I've ever heard that sounded like a riotous good
   time. Her mother, sisters, best friends all piled in right after her
   daughter, Ella, was born, and they tore the place up with an all night
   party, actually celebrating this baby. Nina said that there were
   champagne bottles rolling around that they had to hide from the
   nursing staff, like a bad frat party. Sounds like Ella got the right
   message on day one: Here we are. Life is life. It goes on. It has to.
   Somehow or other we get here, and it doesn't have to be on a shining
   path of the perfect Mother and Father. The whole game is to get here.
   Get born into laughter, broken champagne bottles, broken rules, love.

   And every holiday I get a new picture of the two of them, looking
   really happy.