I must admit, I gulped that Kool-Aid early on in life–All Latinas ooze fertility. I aIso had bonus credentials thanks to a Mexican mother and Greek father who bred like rabbits. So I was stunned, when my Ob/Gyn yanked me out of my ‘Latina’s are prolific’ world. At first I still believed it was all a mistake. Not me. They’ll see. Before long someone would come, all smiles, perfumed apologies, and lead me back to my world. Where I rightly belonged. Just ask my grandmothers, who promised me I was merely a late bloomer. We’d laugh about this one day, my mother reassured me. We’d have the last laugh.
Chapter II – Spring 1993
“A year after my third miscarriage, my Ob/Gyn, acupuncturist, homeopath, along with my soothsayer of a neighbor concurred my ovaries had indeed gone into early retirement. The shiftless thirty-nine-year-old eggs slacking around the sacs were out of warranty. Blanks. For long periods of time I’d immerse myself in writing and work, but Mother’s Day brunches and Hallmark cards always lurked around the corner.
One day I got fed up and declared no more. I’d had it. No more nudges or downcast looks for me at tortuous baby showers, baptisms, and birthday parties, where inevitably someone asked if I had children.
Give me motherhood or give me the right to be a complete pain in the ass about these two empty arms. I’m one of eleven children, for God’s sake. I grew up in a town where I was related to half of the population on both sides of the border. I was entitled to raising my own after helping raise eight brothers and sisters. I was an Aries. I rammed through obstacles. I bulldozed challenges. I got what I wanted….”