Childless on Facebook

In my not so humble opinion, being childless on Facebook is on par with:

 Or:

Or, even:

That feeling of being out of place is one of the biggest reasons I delayed setting up a Facebook account, much less posting to it, for a very (very) long time.   Once I finally appeared on Facebook, several "friends" called me a late adopter as if I would have been far more proper or polite to have started my Facebook journey earlier in life.   Alas, I was (and likely still am) unaware of The Rules.   Hence my late coming to the grand social media stage.   

One of the reasons I delayed entering the life-changing world of Facebook is the stunningly high percentage of posts that involve children.   My children. My grandchildren.  My nieces.  My nephews.   And, so on and so forth.  Having none of the above to show for my sorry life, I delayed entry into Facebook, not because a woman of my age could not withstand the social stigma of not being like one of the others, but for the lingering pain of being childless not-by-choice.   

As a side-note, someone should identify a clever acronym to describe those of us female types wandering around the globe longing for children and unable to have them, in biological format or otherwise. Then, such women (including me) could purchase T-shirts with said acronym emblazoned upon them and more effectively make light or fun of one of life's greatest disappointments.  

Back to the matter of Facebook.  I decided to get over my Facebook phobia one quarter in the life of teaching.  I attempted to bargain with students in my advanced technical writing class.  On the first day of class, I said "If you put your heart into learning to write this quarter, I will get over my issues with Facebook and jump into the mainstream, not only setting up a Facebook account, but finding a way to participate productively in this fascinating social media."  Thereafter, I pleaded with my students to befriend me upon Facebook, so I would not find myself with few friends and no place to post.  In response, only one of 75 students friended me.  But, I digress.   

As I attempted to fit into my Facebook shoes, I thought that if nothing else, seeing a plethora of cute children and happy moms would surely desensitize me to my own loss, deficit, and heartbreak.  It's not that I have anything against happy moms or would wish anything but happy parenthood for their lives, but the feeling of a knife into my gut every time I see a pregnant woman, a happy new mom, a whole family.... just never seems to go away.  I wanted to grow past the heartbreak.  I wanted to learn the art of quickly ripping the knife out of my gut, throwing it away, and taking another step forward in life, all wounds aside.  

And during my first three months of being active on Facebook, I perused many a photo of children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, godchildren, and munchkins of all shapes and sizes.   I read posts, I "liked" photos, I responded to some comments, I tried.   And the desensitization program worked to some extent, as now the feeling I have when I am initially reminded of my childlessness is akin to only a steak knife in my gut rather than a full blown butcher's knife.   

Until one day.  I was perusing the page of an acquaintance, an ex-coworker, whom Facebook had named friend without my permission.   I liked my coworker and missed him in the workplace, but friendship was still a word I reserved for few, not many.   

As I scanned posts, taking seriously my new endeavor to modernize my interactions and relationships, I came across the coworkers's latest thought mixed in with a dozen or so photographs of his new baby:

"You are only as good as the pictures of your kids that you post on Facebook"

Ugh!  Back to the butcher knife experience.   

I can definitely see how Facebook can make some feel like less.   Thank goodness I am now at the age where that feeling is increasingly short lived and inclined to be ridiculed (by me) rather than taken seriously.  

Even Nowhere is Somewhere

While traveling across the country, we often find ourselves "in the middle of nowhere."   What makes nowhere different from somewhere seems to have something to do with (a) the absence of gas stations; (b) rest areas where the nearest bush or shrub serves as the community restroom; (c) a lack of any measurable annual precipitation... or some combination thereof.    These criteria add up to an abundance of "nowheres" in the middle of the western states, especially Nevada, Idaho, and parts of Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas.   Most may be content to pinpoint these barren landscapes as nothing more than 'somewhere out west' but a closer look shows abundant differences among: 

Nevada:

Arizona:

and Texas:

The interesting thing about driving through nowhere is that, as long as there is plenty of gas in the car, a few water bottles in the cup holders, and no urgent cry from bladder or other bodily function, the middle of nowhere easily transforms into a beautiful somewhere:

By its very nature, nowhere is absent of the crowds, the pollution, the struggle, and the chaos of the city.  Some may think such places abhorrent for their lack of theater, arts, entertainment, or other traditional city fare.   I like to think that the arts, the entertainment, the music... are still all there, but mostly on a geological rather than human timescale.  And, while driving miles and miles along these deserted roadways, my mind may slow to the pace of geological timescales, allowing me to be more than content to experience all the drama of nature... slow, vast, and breathtaking... at its natural pace.

The judgement of somewhere as nowhere reminds me, on this Christmas day, of the moment when Jesus Christ chose to turn to the well,  to reach out to a woman who most thought of as no one.  Yet, Jesus spent time at the well with the woman, extending a hand, listening, guiding, and teaching, as if she were someone of the same value as the most powerful king or the richest merchant in the land.

These are just more reminders to me to push my judgements aside and remember that:
Even nowhere is indeed somewhere, and
Every no one is very much a someone.  

Merry Christmas!

Road Kill

Something about the desert prompts animals to run across the road... a lot.  I have to wonder what is so fascinating on the other side that drives them to this risky behavior that results in one million vertebrates run over on the roads every day in the United States (yes -- I wonder too who counted them all and how they came up with this statistic, but I digress).   A large percentage of these poor critters must lie victim along desert roadways:

Today, my soft heart and I endeavored to avoid contributing to this statistic.  As we travelled along long, lonely, gasoline-free stretches of U.S. Highway 93 today, I tried my best to keep from running over one of the many critters sticking its nose out from the sagebrush to gaze at the passing minivan:

Alas, hundreds of miles passed and no strange sounds emerged from the underside of the vehicle.   No abrupt spray of red splashed along our mint green paint job.  No sickening crush of bones could be heard from the Michelin man below.  But, as I began to relax, paying less attention to the shoulder and margins of the highway and more attention to simply staying awake, the unthinkable happened....

Drum roll please....
Tragic music begins....

Thwomp went the right front bumper, and in a single moment, my no-kill day became a road-kill day:

R.I.P.  my tumbleweed friend.
Rest in Pieces.

Deluge

Merriam-Webster says:
Deluge -- "A large amount of rain that suddenly falls in an area."

Others say:
Deluge -- "A poor circumstance in which to pack a vehicle for cross-country travel, especially in the dark of the night."

or:
Deluge -- "A psychological stimulus known to significantly diminish regret associated with departing all locations in Washington State lying west of the Cascade Mountains."

or:
Deluge -- "A highway phenomena known to drastically increase the probability that an animal-laden minivan will hydroplane into the median of any randomly chosen roadway."

or:
Deluge -- "A rather annoying way to start a cross-country road trip."