No, No, Don't Tell Me!
[image error]I've run into a lot of people lately saying things I wish they wouldn't say. Now, before I point any fingers at others, I'll admit I'm guilty of it too. I'll walk into the kitchen, see my husband has washed some of the dishes, and instead of saying, "Thank you," I'll say, "Why didn't you do the rest of them?" Sorry honey! Luckily for me, he's kind enough to let most of those words slide and attribute it to Bat Mitzvah stress—I am really going to have to come up with another excuse pretty soon. [image error]
But I do think there is a difference between what one says by mistake due to stress and what one says when offering advice, especially unasked-for advice. For example, I remember when I was pregnant. Apparently, having a baby belly creates some sort of magical magnet that draws women with horrible pregnancy or delivery stories to you. As a non-pregnant woman, I can go to a hundred different places without a single person coming up to me and offering me advice; when pregnant, however, everyone had a story to share.
They were not cute stories. They were not funny stories. They were scary and gross stories. There was not a single piece of advice given that I wanted to hear. Believe me, I could make a list of advice I wish people had offered me when I was pregnant; none of the things I was told however, makes that list. I didn't need to hear how you were in labor for 178 hours or how you've never experienced anything as painful as when your child was born sideways or how you had a 50 pound baby and looked just as pregnant as I did. Really.
The only benefit to those stories was that it taught me that sometimes it's better to avoid certain conversations entirely. For example, I go to great lengths to avoid any conversations about Bat Mitzvahs. I'm afraid at this point, half my congregation thinks I'm rude as they see me running the other way, and my friends probably think I'm nuts. But really, it's the only way I can keep even marginally sane at this point. Some of my best friends have already experienced their children's Bar and Bat Mitzvahs and I know that they have excellent advice to share (none of which include 50-pound newborns or any other form of horror story). The problem is that when they were going through their own mitzvahs, I listened as they talked about it.
I was hoping to learn pointers for my own, and I definitely did. I'm grateful for what I did learn and I've used their advice, even if I haven't actually told them about it. But I also found that my heart started pounding and my palms got sweaty just listening to them. And that doesn't include the horror stories the people around them were retelling. Biggest snowstorm of the century. Food poisoning. Red wine spilling on The Dress. I. Don't. Want. To. Hear. About. It.
So, for all those well-meaning (?) people who feel the need to share their own horror stories with me—don't. And to all my amazing friends who are ready and willing to offer me any advice that I might need, and who are trying to show interest in my process—thank you, I appreciate it. But I can't talk about it.
