There's a misshapen yellow ashtray or candy dish-like piece of dried clay with the paint cracking off that sits in my parents' house. It probably holds a bent safety pin and three or four blackened pennies. A faded matchbook. Maybe a plastic dreidel. It's been sitting there for years. Decades, in fact. I have a vague memory of making this thing, of an intense focus on squeezing the clay to create a scalloped shape; striving, with my congenital dedication to perfection, to space out the indentations evenly. I don't know why I remember this episode, I'm not very "crafty." And even the idea of making an ashtray is an anachronism, so disconnected from my current pro-environment/anti-smoking mandate.
In this post-Kondocizing Era, that stained and spattered piece of pottery should long ago have been discarded. A dust-collecting chunk of junk, barely remembered. A Mother's or Father's Day gift? A birthday present? A camp souvenir - proof that my parents were getting their money's worth? I can't remember. And yet, that detritus of my childhood holds its stories tightly, year after year, on a shelf in my childhood abode. I wonder what my parents think when their eyes fall on it. Do they remember my eager presentation of my DIY accent piece? My hopeful attempt to manifest love-in-a-dish? Maybe not this one, but I don't doubt that somewhere, my parents cherish some special memory of something I produced or wrote.
I've never worn a macaroni necklace, or hung a crayon-scribbled love note on my refrigerator. Never had a cut-out of a snowflake, or a lanyard bracelet or a telephone wire ring lovingly and proudly presented to me, along with Eggos or Pop Tarts in bed on my birthday. It's not that I'm cold, or selfish, or too focused on my career. It just didn't work. I can't tell you why, because in the end, I just don't know. Does it matter?
Instead of babies - and the trinkets they litter their parents' homes and offices with - I have Advocacy Day. Every year, I head down to Washington, D.C. to weave my way through the throngs of people crowding the marble hallways of the Capitol Hill office buildings, to educate and alert Congress about what they can do to help people like me build their families. And each year, I am proud to say, the number of people participating in Advocacy Day grows and grows. And as I have gotten older, I've watched the number is our group get bigger and their ages get younger. No longer do the click-clack of my heels on those marble floors echo alone. Now, my New York-style stilettos are joined by ballet shoes, sandals, kitten heels, chunky-heeled pumps, maybe even a pair or two of Tevas (the horror!). It used to be that there were a lot of tears on Capitol Hill as orange-ribboned women told their stories. But this is a new generation of infertility warriors. They're strong, they're confident, they know their rights. And they are not shy. I used to encourage this group of neophyte lobbyists to find their voices. Now, I counsel this organized army of advocates to modulate them, to use them strategically. I watch their faces during the training. I see the wisdom in their eyes, hear the gnashing of their teeth, sense their straining to tell their stories to validate the need for change.
I'll never get over the loss of not having babies of my own, of never being awakened with trite tchotchkes formed by amateur artists shoved in my face. I'll never have to stress over when the right time is to clean that stuff out, and then, of course, decide that I can make room for a beloved knick knack for one more year. But I hold the smiles of the RESOLVE volunteers - and their enthusiasm - close to my heart. It helps.
