this is what happens when I read a troll's comments on my boyfriend's facebook feed

Oh, how some love to mansplain about birth control. And oh how I cannot resist researching articles and studies to shut them down. This time around, I’ve read that having children correlates to a lower risk of cancers, including breast cancer. Well, I’d like to reduce my risk of cancer, so…

You heard ‘em Dan, let’s make this happen! So we get pregnant…wait, it doesn’t necessarily happen on that first try, does it? We could be trying for months, even years. We could go in for awkward discussions with our doctors, embarrassing tests, and painful procedures to create this child. And all that costs money. Will it be covered by insurance? Maybe, but most likely not. See, it’s not just “Hey, let’s do this!” A planned pregnancy can also be an emotionally and mentally draining process that threatens relationships and financial security. And honestly, do you really think I’d have a child just to lower my chances of breast cancer? Just because it’s the next thing to do in life? When there are so many kids out there hoping to be adopted?

Say we successfully create a baby. It’ll be an adorable science whiz with mad verbal skills, to be sure. But it’ll take up to 40 weeks to arrive. In the meantime? How will I deal with morning sickness? What if I miscarry? Prenatal vitamins and checkups aren’t full-proof…there are some scary complications out there for pregnant women: gestational diabetes, preeclampsia, being put on bedrest, constant nausea (worse than morning sickness…my sister had that). And just what is Dan going through during all this crap? Why can’t he buy the right ice cream?! It’s not that hard to read a fricking label! Seriously, hormone levels will be changing; I could become a monster in Dan’s eyes. I really have to wonder…is it worth all that?

Then there’s all the clothes, toys, decorations, furniture, a newly painted bedroom. Wait, where will this bedroom be? Dan moves all over the place, job-site to job-site, and I live in the middle of nowhere. Who will pay for this bedroom? Do we really have to have a cutesy little baby shower, honestly…

And I’m not going to post my sonograms to facebook. Hey, look what’s inside my uterus! I don’t really share with you guys all that often but take a look inside my BODY. No disrespect to those who enjoy posting those pics or enjoy seeing them.

All right, the day arrives! Whoops, it’s not on the proper due date because those aren’t hard and fast rules, you know. Baby could be like me and join the party a month early, or he/she could be like my niece and refuse to come out. That means inducing with hormones in the hospital, or a C-section. I’ve heard about those…my sisters recall being laid out on a table crucifixion-style, awake but numb. That is the stuff of nightmares, I tell you! I’ll be thinking the entire time…that doctor is cutting into my abdomen…I can’t feel it but I know it’s happening. Thank God there’s a drape there and I can’t see it! What if something is wrong, what if the baby isn’t breathing, what if the baby has a congenital problem that didn't show up on any tests? On top of being gut-wrenching, all this costs money. The hospital stay, the tests, the medications, the scans, the surgery, procedures for any of those nightmare problems. Is it all covered by my insurance? Probably not 100 percent.

Quick, Dan! Break your leg so we meet our deductible sooner. Oh wait, that might help financially, but then my partner is laid up with a broken leg. Perfect.

So pretend we’ve got a place to live, pretend we can pay the obscene hospital bills, and pretend we’re all healthy. That’s when the real work begins. We’ll be feeding, changing, nurturing, teaching, disciplining…and I say “we” assuming that, through it all, Dan and I can keep it together. There will be childcare to pay for; wait, have we both advanced in our careers? Oh God, what if we’re trying to do all this with our current jobs? What if one of us gets laid off? This is not just the product of anxiety; it happens to real people…real, hard-working, deserving Americans. What if we need government assistance? How will we cope with the shame? What if people find out? All of that distracts from the real work of being a loving family. It takes a heavy toll on all those traditional values so many politicians gab about.

We’ve got a lot of work to do, but we get through it. We endure kindergarten screening, maybe even open-enrollment, or a lottery for school choice. We go to teacher conferences and naturally, our child is a boss. Because, really, what else would you expect? Eighteen years later, and crap! Did we start a college fund? Did we sign you up for band and sports and volunteering to prove to all those admissions boards that you are special, that you deserve a spot at that university, and that you earned that scholarship or grant? Will we need to choose between our retirement accounts and your education? Hell, will we even have retirement accounts? At the rate it’s going now, just how ridiculous will tuition be in the future? Will you, the child of a scientist and an art historian, choose a technical vocation, and not have to put up with society devaluing you? Will you, our child, feel encouraged to get an MFA or a PhD, or will the STEM rhetoric pass from good idea to all-out prejudice by then?

Through all this, have we provided a good home for you? Has Dan been able to work in one place, and not all over the place, to spend more time with you? Come to think of it, have I been able to balance home and work, to spend more time with you? Have we decided to give you a sibling? Do we have the right cars or trucks? Are we cool? Are we fair? Soon, it’ll be time to deal with bullies, peer-pressure, boyfriends, girlfriends, alcohol and other drugs. There will be the right brand of shoes, iPhones, and can’t you just wear these jeans instead of the expensive ones? They look great on you, so who cares? You won’t care in ten years, trust me. Will you have friends? Will you hate high school like I did? Will you struggle to connect with people, like I did?

Do you know where you come from? Do you see your aunts, uncles, cousins, grandpa and grandma often enough? Are you well-rounded, like we want you to be? Have you seen more of the world than I have? Is the world even safe for you? Seriously, eighteen years from now is typically the time frame most Hollywood productions choose for their post-nuclear dystopia, isn’t it? What about climate change? Are the science-deniers still clogging up the conversation? What about inflation, what sort of economy am I sending you into?

But then again, you could see the next great leap in scientific discovery. You could witness, or even be the impetus behind the next great historical event! You could follow in my footsteps and live in New York, unless it’s under water, or you could follow your father’s footsteps and traipse around Utah on a geological expedition. Unless the Yellowstone supervolcano erupts, then we’ll have to find someplace else for you to explore.

I just don’t know what will happen. But, although so much of it is down to chance, or down to national policy in some cases, at least right now I can choose when I’m ready for you. We can choose, because that’s what responsible adults do. I’ll have you when I want you. When we want you. When we’re in a better situation to provide all of this for you.

We are the ones who decide, not some congressman, not even the president. Not some stranger or some family friend gushing “Now it’s your turn! When are you going to start a family?” This is why I use contraceptives. This is why I defend other women’s rights to choose. This, all of this, is what goes through my head in a huge, 5-second flash right before I ask, “Doctor, would you help me pick the right contraceptive?” It is not easily boiled down to “So you want us to subsidize your sex life?” Or, “Why should I pay for you to be a slut?” In fact, because I use the pill, you don’t have to subsidize my house, my grocery-shopping, or my child’s healthcare. And studies show I get a similar reduction of cancer risk, too. It's a big win-win.

Now, I am lucky. I have never gone without health coverage. I haven’t had to pay full price for expensive implants because that’s all that works. I have never relied on a community clinic or Planned Parenthood for screenings, prescriptions, or procedures. I also want those organizations to be around for others, women and men, so that they can stop and think about all of the above. So they can say “not yet.” And yes, even so they can say “not this time.” Because the choice to take birth control pills, to use an emergency contraceptive, or to have an abortion, is a choice that is made by a woman with the help of her partner, her family, her doctor, her clergyman if she has one and wants to include them.

To be pro-choice is not to be pro-abortion. It is pro-women, pro-men, pro-family, pro-human. There is so much involved in creating a life that is out of my control, that I do not believe I am somehow meddling with God’s plan for me by choosing when. He’ll still have plenty to work with; you read all that above.

Here’s a questionnaire to sum up:

1. Do you have a uterus?
2. Have you had a child?
3. Have you lost a child?
4. Do you have an MD?
5. Do you have a PhD in a relevant field, such as psychology?
6. Do you have a wife, girlfriend, sister, daughter, or friend who has come to you for help and advice concerning reproduction?
7. Are you a member of the clergy who has been approached by a woman for help and advice?

If you answered yes to any of these, you are in the class of people needed to discuss reproductive rights in a sane, civil manner. In my case, there are two, count ‘em, two men only who have a say. Ok, three if my future doctor is male. If you answered no to all of these, I encourage you to listen to a member of that class for their expert testimony and their experiences before you choose where you stand.

Multi-generational

I should be ashamed...according to some. I am a Boomerang Child.

I take a little solace in the reports of a Pew study from earlier this year that describe the 29% of young adults ages 25-34 years old that have moved back into the nest. A whopping 78% of my boomerang brethren reported being happy with their new living arrangements, although nearly that same amount say they can't afford to live the life they want. Statistical vindication for me, I suppose.

However, I found that Pew Research Center report through an editorial in my local newspaper that gave neither solace nor vindication. There's this Tom Purcell guy that lamented how unabashed we boomerang kids are. Now I'm not sure when exactly Purcell was a twenty-something, but I'm guessing early 80s. He goes on describing his career path, hopping from job to job and bad investment to bad investment before finally making the move. And he highlighted the stigma of "able-bodied fellows in their 20s, adults by any measure" who move back in with Mom and Dad.

When asked about it, he lied. This guy actually told people it was his parents who made the bad investments and lost their shirts! And if anyone knew the truth, he avoided them. Maybe that's why I can't quite hate him too much...wow, I feel the exact same way. Every time a church lady asked what I've been doing, I panicked. When my dad went into detail about my situation with a family friend, I freaked out. I don't want anyone to know. If you're reading this, and I haven't talked to you in forever, now you know why. The cat is out of the bag.

About once a week I wonder what might have been if I had soldiered on and gotten a job as a shop girl in New York, instead of Zanesville. Less frequently, I think about what I would have missed if I had not moved back. I don't exactly lie about it; I prefer to spin it as taking care of Dad and the house. I haven't really thought until just now what would have been different if Mom were still around. I might not have moved back in that case.

Despite the might-have-beens, there are reasons not to be embarrassed. Like many boomerang children, I am not a freeloader playing videogames in Dad's basement. I'm not constantly cleaning like Cinderella, either, but I consider that being human. We contribute, in rent or chores or electric bills, and, in most cases, it benefits the parents, too. I don't think my dad has had to buy toilet paper for three years now.

Anyway, what's the big deal? I can only attribute it to white American culture, this stigma, this obligatory sense of shame. It's the minorities, the immigrants, who are known for cramming multiple generations into one household. And that cramming has been a sign of poverty and desperation that better Americans either scoff at or ignore.

That's a load of bunk, though. It isn't some immigrant trend invading our shores. Back in 1940, 27.7% of adults ages 25-34 lived in multi-generational homes, according to Census data. With the current trend, builders are designing and marketing homes specifically for multiple generations to share. To be fair, part of that trend includes the reverse: parents moving in with adult children (for real, though, not just a lie to hide Purcell's shame). They do it just as we do it...when we have to.

My point is, who cares if I'm embarrassed or not? When resources are scarce, you band together to share what little you have. When your giant mess-up of a gamble blows up in your face, and you have no hope of being a fabulous Manhattanite, you move back to Ohio. Screw you, Purcell!

Honestly, though, what was once financial necessity (and, yes, with a dash of giving up in the face of adversity mixed in there, too) has almost become preferential choice. I choose to stay here...because of my teaching position, because I can put more money toward other bills, and because I've heard about others having quite a tough time finding housing of their own around here. And as a friend told me, living alone has its advantages and disadvantages.

I recall wanting my own apartment in NYC. So badly. Again, friends pointed out the obvious cons: safety, for one. There are advantages to sharing a dwelling: dividing up chores, splitting rent, sharing food, conversation (with someone other than the cat), and so on and so forth. Yet roommates are for those who have not yet "made it." College students and the like. Roommates that are parents, well...that's just crazy talk. There is the expectation that the shared living situation is temporary. A stepping stone to the American Dream of owning one's own house. Well, for me, more like renting my own small apartment.

But do I have to live alone to be on my own? Is living alone really that important to be considered successful, to be considered an adult? Does my living arrangement truly knock me back a decade in society's measure of maturity?

Why do we think in such linear terms? Trajectory, that's my enemy. High School--->College--->Job--->Family.  That is the expected and accepted path. A straight line with no detours. That is exactly what I have deviated from, by choice and otherwise. That is why some look at me with...pity? Disappointment? Fear of becoming just like me? I hopped off the well-beaten path. Though with today's trends, I'd argue there are a bunch of newly blazed trails out there. It's natural for someone who is stuck in their ways to look on this new phenomenon and tsk. I'm seeing way too much of the linear and the literal though. In this issue and in others. 

Perhaps that is why I am so unhappy so often. I don't look at the state of the world and tell myself, "That's the way it's always been." I ask, "Why does it have to be this way?" And of course, there's no answer.