A friend of ours recently described Ava as gregarious. It’s accurate. She gets it from her mother, who has a well-documented habit of never being the one to end a conversation.
I tend to be more reserved, so Leah and I make good bookends in that way. Leah constantly makes apologies for my brusque behavior in social situations, and I quietly cringe at the personal details of our life that she blithely spills to every Tom, Dick, and Harry on the street.
Like the fact that we’re “trying” for another child (It’s a bit like “trying” to eat an ice cream cone or ride a roller coaster). It’s the kind of information that burdens a person once they know it. It’s a big piece of information, and one can reasonably be expected to mention the ongoing effort upon subsequent meetings; “Pregnant yet?” Or, “You’d mentioned you were trying for another baby; how’s it coming?”
I don’t believe that’s information that anyone needs to know, and not because it’s a potential imposition on them, but because it’s intimate. It’s like telling someone you sleep with a zuchinni. Does anyone really want to know that information about you? I can understand a friend wanting to share in your joy about a new child, but slogging through the details of the effort to make that new child seems…voyeuristic (says the blog writer).
But there’s no changing Leah. People who are complete strangers to me will continue to walk the streets of this fair city and discuss among themselves the goings on in my bedroom, stopping now and then to speculate, no doubt, on just what’s taking so long. It must be just what it’s like to be Paris Hilton. Or, in my case, David Beckham (ahem).