I think I may realize now why it seems that I have a hard time connecting to the group of people who are intended to be my "community" in this crazy whirl wind journey across this glorious country of ours. Well, one of the reasons. I'll own my own weirdness but that's not my problem, that clearly is the problem of other people.
We don't have children. Let me rephrase. We do not have the inclination to produce children. We have nothing against children, we love and cherish those family members who's interests are more about bugs and mud puddles than bills and mortgages. Actually, we strongly identify with that group, even at a distance. Mud puddles have pan-Canadian appeal.
This choice has, however, left us on the outside of a conversation that seems to continue, across Canada.
"We haven't found a decent sitter yet, they all have boobs or discovered boobs over the summer."
"The hockey program here is so competitive but we just know that with extra ice time our 2 year old will finally make the starting line up this season."
"Do you have a family doctor yet? We need to find one for little Chlamydia, she has extra special inhaler needs and we're hoping she's gluten intolerant."
I'm pretty sure I must have misheard that last one, I'm sure no one wants Chlamydia to be gluten intolerant.
Honestly, I do my best to be a genuine and sympathetic listener but there never seems to be any reciprocity. I can frown and nod encouragingly as the trials and tribulations of moving a family of more than two from province to province are laid bare to me at every Welcome Barbecue. It's hard. I understand.
Then comes my turn.
I don't get commiseration when I share my worries about finding a decent hair stylist or good sushi. I feel as though my concerns about the proximity of good bike trails to a reasonable diner or café go unheard. No one touches my shoulder with a gentle hand and nods when I speak of the difficulty connecting with the underground poetry movement. My lamentations for a decent flat white coffee fall on cynical ears.
Husband and I are pretty good at moving, we've mastered the art of getting to new places. That's skill number one. Skill number two is more complicated. It's just as difficult for a family of two to be in a new place. Perhaps even more difficult, as we do not share the commonest denominator, to whit: family members who don't shed. As such, we don't share circumstance, daily rhythms, interests, free time, budget, or seemingly a language.
I do need to point out that several very dear friends have come from this group of bechildrened bodies, friends without whom my life would be far less rich. These folks have recognized that we have much in common despite our reproductive differences, and also the tact not to tell me that "moving with just the two of you must be so easy, you don't have a family."
In my quiet moments I almost feel a certain melancholy in this regard, not for choosing the life I have, which is filled with love and laughter and sweetness, but for the distance this seems to create between myself and all my new Neighbour Ladies.
It almost makes me want to put down my latte and forget about my plans to spend all afternoon in the antique market and art gallery at the Forks.
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