Limelight

Doug and I had met in college. We were best buddies before romance ever entered the picture. I could knock beers back as well as any of the ego inflated, IQ defficient ball players he hung around with. They were our entertainment, really. Like fireworks. All you had to do was light 'em up and retreat to a safe vantage point. With graduation closing in, I realized I couldn't bear parting with Doug. He felt the same. We were married six months after graduation.

It took a few years to put our degrees to good use. It took another few to build a nest egg, buy a house, do some traveling. We were content with life. Then, suddenly, it didn't feel like enough. There was something missing. So we decided to have a baby. Only it hasn't been that simple. When you've been trying to procreate for 3 years, with no success, everything starts to crumble. I started wondering if I was barren, which made me feel like a failure. Doug wondered if he was shooting blanks. Sex wasn't hot and messy and fun, anymore. It was a means to an end, with a shitload of pressure attached. We finally decided to see a gynecologist for procreative advice.

There I was, in every woman's all-time favorite place and position. I squinted as the spotlight flooded my vagina; it was time for the show to begin. There's always an awkwardness we women try to talk through and I was no different. "So, Dr Mangum, why did you decide to go into gynecology?" He placed lube on the speculum. "Lots of openings". Doug snorted, I rolled my eyes. Exam in full swing, he turned to Doug, "Why can't ghosts have babies?" Doug is clearly enjoying this visit more than I am. "No idea, sir." "Hollow weenies. But don't worry, you're next. We're going to do a semen analysis. Have you jack off in a cup so we can see just how lazy those tadpoles are." Smile gone, color drained, Doug looks like he's a ghost. He looks at me for a long moment, then we both bust up, laughing hysterically, like we haven't since we've allowed this pressure to weigh us down. We walked out of that office and never went back. We stopped trying to have a baby and started enjoying each other again. And, guess what? We had one anyway.

mom force fed

clichés

down my throat

so I could throw up

fabricated lies of a perfect family

and after awhile, I craved these

stale and trivial phrases,

I would get cavities from every

vapid expression, the sweetness

of each word wedged into

my gums until blood

weeped and dripped

down my lips, staining the tint.

dad force fed

movie memorabilia

down my throat

so I could throw up

artificial memories of my family

and after awhile, I lost track

of what happened on screen,

and what happened in real life,

each fraudulent recollection

tracing from one eyelid to the next, running away with my sight,

leaving me blind to the truth.