Non-Breeder: Paper Doll
I wrote a book instead of having a baby.
by Colette LaBouff Atkinson
July 5, 2007
Cut back to my thirties. The relatives would ask, "So, where's the baby?" Yes, that bluntly; they're Italian. I'd tell them I was busy working and trying to write. They'd tilt their heads sideways as if I'd said I played dominos all day. But I respected the reactions from women in my family. They'd done everything, worked and raised children, and why couldn't I just dig in? As I write this, I know there are women out there — hip cocked with a glorious infant resting on it — who manage to do it all: to be partners and work and be creative. But not all of us can have it all.
In a moment at the pool with a friend who has two kids, I felt that the window of possibility was shutting too soon, but then a breeze blew and water splashed me and I realized I was worrying about someone else's possibility, not my own.
I was happy being a stepmother. The oldest one came to live near us for a few years, and it was great to have him drop by anytime. Both boys spent the summer out west three years ago and the house was crowded with men. One night, the younger one begged me to make his favorite pasta. "I'm tired," I said. "Please," he whined. "I'm worn out," I pleaded. Together, the boys — at twenty and twenty-eight — cried big, pretend tears. They wailed until I gave in, and I loved every minute of that: being able to do something ridiculously small to please them and then being able to go in my room and not worry, as I know their mother does, about how they're really doing. It's not that I don't worry; it's that I can't ever worry inA friend gave me a card that read: Congratulations! It's a book! exactly that way she does.
Flash-forward to my forty-first year. My ex and I worked out shared custody of our two dogs. He'd gone to Mexico and I'd stayed in the area. I kept writing, playing ball with the dogs for a break. Then, the unthinkable happened; the manuscript I worked on was finished. This happens all the time for writers, I know, and in the larger scheme, it's no big deal. In other ways, though, it's crucial. It's what's called in the film world a San Fernando ending — the happy ending edited in to replace the heavier version — to the early finish of my childbearing years. A friend understood the significance; the card he gave me read, Congratulations! It's a book!
In two weeks, I'll move to a new home. I intend to make it a place where plenty of writing gets done, where I can walk up the street for cheap Mexican food or procrastinate an hour at the microbrewery if I'm truly stuck. The bungalow is west-facing and two blocks from the ocean where a path opens onto the shore, rocky and calm, and where I can walk for miles. Surfers wait there, just like I do, for the next big thing to happen.
©2007 Colette LaBouff Atkinson and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Colette LaBouff Atkinson recently finished a prose poem manuscript, MEAN. Her work has appeared in Los Angeles Times Magazine, Seneca Review, Santa Monica Review, POOL and elsewhere. She lives in southern California. |
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