This American Life of Complaints

When I'm driving, I usually listen to NPR. I love the intelligent reporting (it doesn't matter what you look like on the radio, so brilliant newscasters aren't cast aside to make room for skinnier, younger, blonder and perkier replacements) and am a sucker for Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me! and This American Life. NPR also gives me hope: listeners have soared in recent years - all without Fox sensationalism (FOX ALERT!! Obama missed church one weekend in 2002!! FOX ALERT!!), or It Bleeds It Leads or faux "investigations" aimed at luring the lurid (Our hidden cameras follow the crew of Girls Gone Wild - are underage girls being victimized? Warning: For mature viewers only).

But in the past few weeks, there have been several NPR programs featuring new books having to do with child-rearing (one about whether it's better to be a young or "older" parent and another about returning to work after a decade of stay-at-home-parenting) and I find myself becoming really, really annoyed listening to all the parental complaining.

It's boring.
You never get to sleep.
They suck the life out of you.
Having a child changes your life forever.
I just want an adult to talk to.
We haven't had sex since the kids were born.

And on. And on. And on.

These people sound so selfish and self-centered: they are complaining about what I so desperately want and can't have. Yes, I understand that being a parent is the hardest job anyone will ever have, and that it's misery to get 31 minutes of sleep a night and spend all your waking hours changing diapers, cooing, holding, feeding, changing, etc.

On the other hand, complaining about it to a national audience is sort of like complaining that your dinner at Le Bernadin was a wee bit salty to an audience which includes homeless people who are eating one meal a day if they are lucky.

No one thinks about it this way, of course, because no one talks about infertility in public, so no one thinks about those who can't have children, and really can't handle hearing another single, solitary woman who cries that she hasn't left the house in four months in anything other than formula-covered sweatpants.

I blame this partially on famous people - those who are already getting press (BUMP WATCH UPDATE!!) and could be honest and say, "yes, I'm 42, and I needed help to have a baby." I'm sorry, I know they have a right to keep their reproductive life to themselves, but I just don't buy that J Lo, Marcia Cross, Mia Hamm and the myriad other famous women who have given birth to twins in the past year didn't have any help in the form of fertility drugs or IVF.

The only good thing to come out of this whole infertility thing is that I will be much slower to complain about sleepless nights, tantrums, colds or allergies. I'll think twice before going on about my stretch marks, boring days doing finger paints, and how annoying Barney is.

Okay, I take that back. Barney is really fucking annoying.

But in the same way that I am careful not to constantly complain about married life or gloat about its wonders to my single friends as we all near 40, I'll be slow to complain about something that so many people will never have the luxury to complain about.

- L.