Today I found out that someone I know spent $140,000 to get pregnant through In-Vitro Fertilization.
I told my husband about it and he said,
“To each his own.”
What a stupid fucking thing to say. I mean, yes, to each his own.
But isn’t that kind of a conversation stopper?
There are so many pieces of this subject we could discuss, ad nauseum. Instead, he seems to think conversation is unnecessary, perhaps hedonistic.
How did I marry a man so adverse to communication when it’s so necessary for my mental health?
If you read my comments, though, you know that Soapbox Diva thinks I should stay here so the kids will visit on Thanksgiving!
Fuck that, fuck me, fuck everything.
Where do I even begin regarding my thoughts on that subject?
My 14-year old daughter is being such a complete shit that I’m not sure I’d pay $140 to get pregnant if I had to do it all over again.
Now I’m not saying I’m a gift to motherhood. I’m a complete pain in the ass, especially when I burst into tears like eight times in three days, twice in different restaurants.
Abandonment, loss, grief . . . those are the buttons being pushed. I know it’s selfish and I’m a professional victim.
As my daughter will tell you, I analyze the FUCK out of everything. Similar in attitude to my brother, who told me the last time I saw him, ”If you’re going to ANALYZE everything, leave me out of it.”
An un-analyzed life seems so pointless to me and yet I’m surrounded by people who think otherwise. I just don’t get it. I want to know everything, I need to know everything, it’s the only way I can understand people.
To know all is to forgive all.
The girl was 2 when the boy hit 14 and she watched from from a front row seat. He was so lucky to escape while I had another chick in the nest.
Nothing about my expectations were reasonable. She fed into the insanity by telling me she would never act like a teenager and she said it with a tone of voice that almost made me believe it.
I love you, Mommy!
WARNING: CHILDREN ARE THIEVES & HEARTBREAKERS, DO NOT FALL FOR IT.
Now she just rolls her eyes and acts disgusted. Disgusted by me.
I handle this about as well as a psychotic serial killer.
Me: Yes, I hear my own mental illness.
Alter Ego: Individuation, that’s the name of the game!
Me: Fuck individuation.
I’m so goddam immature, she’s far more advanced in so many ways.
I refuse to look at her sometimes hours later as my passive payback, as if she cares! I don’t want to talk to her even when she’s happy to talk to me, usually at bizarre times of the day about inane things.
Walk carefully when my feelings are hurt, I’m a grouchy injured hyena.
If I don’t think about how she used to be I’m fine for the most part. But when I do allow myself to remember her looking at me like I was the smartest, funniest, prettiest woman who ever lived,
the sobbing is just gross.
I said I’m over it, that I don’t care if my kids spend much time with me at all as adults, and that’s true to some extent. But it doesn’t mean I don’t miss the adorable little people they used to be.
So, surprisingly, it turns out I’m ridiculously good at creating children with fantastic self-esteem, kids who are independent and ready to take on the world.
I just didn’t realize what that meant.
All this time I think I believed if I simply loved my children, unlike my own mom, they would adore me to an unreasonable degree.
It never occurred to me they would never know the difference, that love would be their norm.
Really such a lovely outcome when properly analyzed.
On Books & Life ~ Part Three (A Conclusion)
March 22, 2012
Continued from On Books & Life – Part One and Part Two
The book combination noted throughout this 3-part entry could probably be used as Exhibit #1 in a competency hearing re:
schizophrenia.
The shiny bow on this package is
“Arguably Essays By Christopher Hitchens.”
At least 2/3 could have been written in another language, full of history & esoteric literary references. Let me say it first, I’m not a deep thinker. I glance. I peruse. I skip to the last chapter.
But the essays on VietNam, Agent Orange, North Korea & the Kennedys left my mouth an open invitation to flies. There are books and then there are BOOKS. There are authors and then there are THINKERS and DOERS.
Christopher Hitchens left me with a broadened sense of my own egotism and self-obsession, the fantasy that my “problems” are even worthy of the word. Compared to the big picture I should be giggling and tossing my head with happy abandon.
VietNam now has generations of chidren born so monstrously affected by Agent Orange their pictures will never be printed in American magazines. He knew this beforehand, the reality was so much worse. The ground is so saturated with dioxin there is no answer as to when it will end.
THIS while I’m still pissed about my MOMMY for God’s sakes. (Oh, it’s shameful.)
Satellite photos show an actual line of demarcation between South Korea and North Korea at night, due to the fact that the North Korean government shuts off all electricity when the head bastard deems it’s time all citizens are in bed.
THIS while I’m sitting here so pissed off I could spit over my husband eavesdropping on my phone calls. If only we’d been having an*l all these years so he’d have room to stick his head up my ass. I would like to ship him in a box to North Korea.
SEE?! There I go again. Me, me, me! It’s all about me!
It shames me that I had no real idea regarding such conditions but can tell you Beyonce’s daughter was named Blue Ivy AND have memorized most of the words to all the songs in the Broadway show Rent.
Hitchens also included a piece on the way we borrow sorrow from such twisted places. The uproar over Princess Diana’s death versus Ugandan women tortured for lifetimes.
We boo-hoo about the most ludicrous things.
We are, unfortunately, akin to sheep. Not even particularly sheep of good stock.
* * * * *
When I was about 3 my aunt knitted me an afghan and filled the rest of the box with small books.
JOY!
This is how I want my son to feel!
So I’m going to leave his adult male counsel to that intellectual author Tucker Max.
I’m going to give him the best gift ever, a mother who doesn’t embarrass or interfere or overreact or preach.
I wish I’d started doing so a very long time ago. Hopefully it’s never too late.
On Books & Life ~ Part Two
March 20, 2012
Continued From On Books & Life ~ Part One
Nothing about parenting children prepares us for parenting adults.
I did not want to accept that I’m no longer even a consultant unless my son asks for my opinion. He’s an adult male, more successful & responsible than I’ve ever been. It’s his life, not mine.
Yes, I considered discussing this with him; however, he views my cautionary remarks as something an old female hunchback would say to preface a hex. “Be safe“ translates as:
“You’re a moron so be extra careful.”
Or in this instance:
“To avoid destruction via your penis, here are pointers on how I handle mine.“
It’s not as if I’ve never instructed him to protect himself. More than once.
He was about 9 when we had a discussion about the wonders of masturbation and how it could save him from all kinds of difficult entanglements, including women who would steal him blind, neglect his children & spend his child support on cocaine.
Perhaps I was a little extreme but, considering his genetic make-up, not entirely. He does not appreciate my dramatic flair these days.
In my own defense, his maternal cousin spends Saturday nights in a McDonald’s play zone. His wife is bi-polar. Jealousy is the glue that holds them together but they’re sparring for a take home prize no one in their right mind would want to win.
Typical Maury Povich Americana.
This would not make him happy.
But living like Tucker Max in “I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell” makes me cringe a little, no matter how much I loved the book.
Typically I hear the devil’s advocate in my head say, “There are things so much worse.”
F*cking voices make me nuts.
* * * * *
I was way more comfortable when I thought money was my little geek’s #1 motivator & the computer was his girlfriend’s only real competition.
It never fails though, parenting is a competitive sport.
I was ashamed by the realization that the neanderthal part of me is a little proud
my son’s penis is popular.
“He says I’m perfect but he needs to sleep with other girls for the experience or he feels like he’s missing something.”
Honestly, I love this girl but I totally get that thought (she does not). The drudgery of repetition is like a pillow smashed upon my face. As much as I enjoy filet mignon and chocolate truffles, eventually I would suffer from the desire for peanut butter and jelly.
Twenty-six is way too young to sign a contract of ownership (even with a pre-nup).
But what’s a good age? 60?
None of us know what’s going to happen tomorrow, how it will change us, who we will become because of it.
I can’t even commit to MYSELF, to saving my own life.
* * * * *
I used to be so f*cking proud of my desire to own someone, expressed through intense jealousy. There have been times when I even loved the idea of being owned, of living up someone else’s ass. However, lucid and rational thought make it clear both are character flaws.
Still, just one stray emotion can so quickly become
“Ofukthatshit.”
I’m never proud of myself afterwards, I almost always regret it.
Emotional me versus intellectual me, it’s always a struggle. I could argue the case for either.
But I want to get to the place Lynn Grabhorn describes in the aforementioned “Excuse Me, Your Life Is Waiting.”
She states that “the first step in forgiving (and you’re probaby not going to like this) is releasing the resistance that caused the blame in the first place, meaning the ability to say . . . and mean, “Who cares? Who gives a hoot? Maybe the idiot did do something awful, something really tasteless. So what?”
Reality is I’ve done so many incredibly stupid things myself.
And it could always be so much worse.
(To Be Continued)
On Books & Life ~ Part One
March 18, 2012
I read the book “Blue Nights” last month but unfortunately I’ve become a skimmer. Similar to my recent attitude about relationships, my attention span is no longer capable of hanging in there unless I’m completely spellbound.
So it was interesting to find this quote today:
“When I began writing these pages I believed their subject to be children, the ones we have and the ones we wish we had, the ways in which we depend on our children to depend on us, the ways in which we encourage them to remain children, the ways in which they remain more unknown to us than they do to their more casual acquaintances; the ways in which we remain equally opaque to them.”
― Joan Didion, Blue Nights
* * * * *
Perhaps it only stood out to me after receiving a message from my son’s ex-girlfriend wherein she called him a “nymphomaniac” and stated that
“the joke is his heart belongs to me but his penis is community property.”
She could not have surprised me more if she told me I was growing a tail. I think this means I’m a naive jackass or else Ms. Didion is correct in her assertion that our children remain unknown to us.
I recently read somewhere else that any 10 acquaintances could know us better than we will ever know ourselves, even as we spend a lifetime attempting to do so.
Perhaps the two issues relate to one another.
But this is my little boy, the kid I think of as a computer geek, the child who asked,
“What is birth control for?
Why would you have sex if you don’t want to have a baby?”
Clearly, he’s discovered the answer to his question.
Is it possible for children and their parents to see one another clearly? Maybe not.
This is all new information. I don’t think I’d have believed it even 10 years ago, definitely not 20.
* * * * *
I was surprised reading comments left to my mother on her birthday, it reminded me that she can be entertaining. Her bitterness has clouded that part of her personality for me.
The older I get, the more I realize how harshly I’ve judged her, no matter the good reason. My own bitterness scares me. I want to cast it off and never pick it up again.
She cannot view me as just another person, either. Everything I do reminds her of some flaw in me that she noticed when I was a child. I’m indecisive and messy. I’m promiscuous and always carry an air of superiority in her presence.
Of course, she’s almost always right. She can read things about my behavior that no one else can, perhaps because we carry the same DNA.
Living across country from one another, out of millions of choices, we once sent the same Christmas card.
After all those years of hating her for correcting me, for pointing out my flaws, for telling me I had smelly feet and bad breath and body odor . . . I have a daughter and realize “Ofukme.”
It’s not that she was particularly evil, it’s that teenagers really do stink sometimes.
* * * * *
The other book I’m reading is “Excuse Me, Your Life Is Waiting (the astonishing power of feelings).”
It’s a book I’ve had in the forefront of my mind to read for probably 10 years. I read a few pages and then I look at it some more. It doesn’t recommend just forgiving people, it recommends (insists upon) forgetting.
In other words, unconditional love for everybody.
“I will keep my valve open to well-being no matter what crazy thing you’ve done.” (Remember, you don’t have to change it or even like it; you just have to stop focusing on it!)
“It means ‘I don’t need conditions to be just right to be happy. I’m not going to pay any more attention to your silly habits, because I don’t need everything to be perfect for my love to flow to you.’”
* * * * *
Well at least I know one person in this family has managed to get his love flowing.
Perhaps more than necessary.
(To Be Continued)
H-IV Negative &/or Still Twisted After All These Years
October 27, 2011
It came up again today, which doesn’t happen very often. Someone asked me how I could possibly be H-IV negative when I’d had a baby with a man who was H-IV positive.
I began to stutter. The fear is never completely gone, it’s always there, at least the memory of it.
Such a crazy time it was, pregnant at 25 by a guy with this new disease I’d barely heard of but knew could kill me. A disease I couldn’t talk about because people would run, shun, shy away, freak out, even those in the medical profession. I had to keep it to myself and make life and death decisions and still go to work every day even though it felt like my world was ending.
I chose to keep the baby. I chose to stay with the man. I wasn’t brave, more like fearless. I didn’t know enough to make informed decisions.
I was tested once, twice, three times, four, sure my luck was eventually going to run out. But it didn’t happen that way.
* * * * *
Now I know the chance of transferring the H-IV infection through a single episode of heterosexual unprotected sex is 1 to 2 women in 1,000. I know that I probably saved my own life by saying no the one and only time it really counted, when I refused to have anal sex, bluntly, loudly, definitively.
Say it loud, say it proud, don’t touch my ass.
I saved my kid’s life, too.
When I think of what other women went through, those who found themselves positive, discovered their children were positive, I could dry heave with sorrow and terror.
* * * * *
I kept this secret for so many years. It didn’t even seem like a choice.
I’ve had some difficult things to get through, like every human being on the planet, but man have I been blessed. I won the lottery of life. The good by far outweighs the bad.
I would lose 1,000 parents rather than a child. I would take a million fucked up mothers over finding out my baby was going to die from AIDS. There is no comparison.
Some of the things that happened were scary and humiliating and sad. But in the end I walked away with the most wonderful bouncing baby boy, who never gave me a moment of trouble, who has lived a charmed life as if protected by angels.
I have no doubt they are his father and his uncle, funny, bright, charismatic, beautiful men who made the simple mistake of putting needles in their arms to dull life’s pain, to catch what was once a random irresponsible high and became a life sentence.
They were behind me during his graduation from graduate school. I swear I heard them laughing like excited boys, saying “Look at him! You did good, Bub.”
It was all so worth it. I need to remember all the ways in which I have been the luckiest bitch on the planet and forget the rest.
Twisted Pieces of My Heart
October 25, 2011
I’ve been the kind of mother who is a pain in the ass to all authority. I once wrote 2 pages of instructions regarding my daughter’s potential haircut. After handing them over to the salon owner I proceeded to burst into tears. She did not get her hair cut that day.
Oh, yes, I am a fucking freak.
In my defense, I have had fine, straight, brown hair my entire life. My daughter has magnificent blonde curls. How can she possibly be mine?! If you fuck with her curls, if you even tell her she should straighten her hair, you awaken a wildebeast that slumbers inside me.
There are other issues at play. My sister-in-law gave my son his first haircut without my permission. I came home from work and his hair was trimmed. If I’d thought the police would take me seriously I probably would have filed assault charges.
I was forced to wear a short pixie cut with bangs my entire childhood. My reactionary response was my daughter’s hair grew to her ass. When she was little it sometimes took us as much as an hour to get the tangles out. I will skip the details about getting lice twice. Let’s just say, I am an honorary monkey.
But as much as I adore and love my daughter, my son is my moon and stars. His father died when he was a year and two days old. My father died when I was ten. It made me doubly psychotic with regard to protecting him. My focus was nuclear and that is probably part of why he now lives in California. He was cognizant of the fact that I was living through him even before I was aware of it.
For over three years now I’ve been blaming a majority of my wack-a-doodle brain frack on my brother Jim’s death. This morning I realized OOPS!
Yes, I’m sad about my brother but he lived across the country all my adult life.
Yes, I loved him like mad before I ever knew my kids would even exist, he was the one thing in my family I felt good about, that I was proud to be associated with.
I will love and adore that little boy forever, the one who drove my mother insane with his antics, breaking her prized possessions and gleefully telling her to go fuck herself.
But I realized this morning that the real earthquake in my life occurred when my son grew up. There is no preparation for losing the love of your life. And say what you will about him still being there, my little boy is gone.
I judge my self-analysis on one thing only, whether the thought that pops into my head makes me cry like a fool. Well, I can think about my brother and laugh, remembering all the good things. When I think about the fact that for all intents and purposes my son is gone I lose my shit.
I compare myself to friends whose sons are dead and I think I’m a dipshit for feeling this way. But I can’t dispute the fact that the hole in me, the one that grew into an abyss in childhood, was filled by my son. Suddenly I had a family, I had someone to take care of, someone to play mother bear to. And I did. I had a purpose for the first time in my life. I hung onto that purpose like a lifesaver from the Titanic.
Then he left. It would appear I should have transferred all my attention onto my daughter. Instead, the old shit came back.
After my father died, then my grandmother, the two people who loved me most in the world, I was a mess. I moved to California, I got pregnant, and then that fucking guy died.
It didn’t even make any sense for me to give my heart away again, but I did. I gave it to my son. And then I gave it to my daughter.
Although I’ve given the girl more love & adoration than many people get in a lifetime, sometimes I wonder if I’m slacking off because she has a father.
Today I began to wonder if it’s because I want to leave before she leaves me.
The complete & total devotion I’ve felt toward my childen was the one thing that made me proud of myself. But recently I’ve been focused on me and surprised by my selfishness, ashamed of it.
Now I think it may just be survival instinct. My chidren will always be my heart. But I need to make room for myself in there.
The Twisted Bitch Blogs
March 7, 2011
I must begin blogging again or my head will explode and psychedelic shit will cover the surface of the earth.
There is no other way to take the pressure off my brain unless a doctor drills a hole, something like you might see at www.popthatzit.com . I recommend clicking that link only if you have dermatological instincts which make you desire to remove the enormous yellow blemish of a stranger on a city bus, which I happen to possess.
Since it’s been a while since updating this blog I shall provide a quick synopsis:
1.) Unable to say much about my mother or sister since I haven’t spoken with either, even though yesterday was my mother’s 70th birthday. The fact that my sister allowed her boyfriend back into the house after he made comments about my niece’s breasts sickens me.
Add to that my mother’s input, telling my niece that she’s had more cocks than most farmhouse hens, and I hope you understand why I’m rotten enough to block both of them from Facebook, which is really my only communication with the outside world.
2.) My glucose levels reached a new high of 500 today thanks to fucking Girl Scout cookies. I will not be buying any next year, thank you very much. It’s a constant struggle and I am loopy over it.
3.) My son is still living in San Diego and has A GIRLFRIEND. I haven’t actually met her, but I love her. I hope they get married and live happily ever after. She is a Gemini, her birthday only two days after mine, and she likes me. I must admit that pretty much my only criteria for liking you is that you like me. But she’s funny, too. He has been wonderfully successful in every other way, so why did I worry about who he would bring home? I should have known.
4.) My daughter is now two inches taller than me and twenty pounds heavier. I am not happy about the second part of that sentence. We joined a gym, took a yoga class, and with her butt in my face I heard a loud putt and we ran out of that damned class, convulsing with laughter. It turns out I do not like yoga. I don’t like anyone bossing me around. I certainly don’t like anyone telling me to get on the floor, then stand up, then get on the floor again. Fuck that shit. It completely sucks.
5.) Still in New Jersey but planning to put the house on the market and move, quite a frightening proposition. I’ve come to the conclusion I never should have gotten married, never should have had children. But since the children are wonderful I’ll keep them. The absolute certainty is I never should have stopped working, earning my own money, having a life of my own.
I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the economy sucks ass and getting a job is nearly impossible now, though I continue to look. I watched a show about millionaires giving money away last night and when a soup kitchen was highlighted and many, many toothless people were on the screen, I began imagining an entirely independent Pam. I am such a fucking pussy about things like shiny teeth and properly highlighted hair.
As always, I would love your thoughts and comments. I’m going to start updating daily, I swear I am. Comments will help make it happen.
Pamajama
Dancing Girls
August 24, 2010
Everything I believed at 25 and 35 and 45 has been turned upside down & twisted around. Nothing is as it seemed: not my marriage, not my family, not the mistaken belief that Mel Gibson was an attractive & reasonable man with an adorable sense of humor.
Last week at a freaking Jonas Brothers concert it happened again. WTF?
* * * * *
Immediately upon confirmation of the pregnancy resulting in my daughter, before I even knew she was a girl, I began shrieking “Oh my God, she’ll be huge & have an enormous head like your sons!“ (I am mortified by this reaction because it’s too much like my mother saying, “No, we can’t name her Tina because she’ll be fat and they’ll call her Tiny.“)
I was speaking to my husband in such a shrill panic-stricken voice because I’d suddenly visualized his two boys from a prior marriage. It occurred to me that they were born to a woman far more petite than I, yet still look like cousins to Moe & Curly of The Three Stooges. How could adding my oxen comparable DNA to the mix end in a more feminine result? Better yet, how did I not think of such a thing beforehand?
It’s how I am, histrionic & over-stated, catastrophic thinking after the fact. It’s a way to get what I want but dispose of the responsibility. I can’t make a decision to save my life, so I accidentally on purpose end up where I want to be. It’s a dangerous way to live. You don’t notice yourself edging toward the cliff until BOOM.
I was desperate for another child, 37 years old, and it had to be a girl. It had taken me a lifetime to determine I could do the mother/daughter relationship again. It didn’t feel like I had a choice. Hormones are big screaming loony bitches. Just say yes.
My son was 11 & fully entrenched as an only child. I was concerned about the possibility of having a child with Downs Syndrome. A sibling was already a step down from a pony or a four-wheeler; one who needed anything extra seemed way too unfair. I might not be able to drive my beloved prince the 3 blocks to school daily. So I went to a pre-natal specialist & did what was possible to make sure this would be
a convenient child.
They should have tested me instead. It’s comical that I believed a chromosomal difference would be more twisted or troublesome than what already exists in my family.
* * * * *
The infant we watched reach her little hand out in utero, as she tried to grab the needle during the amnio screening, turns 13 in two weeks. I took her to a Jonas Brothers concert last Monday and we sat with 5 of her friends.
She is different than her brother. She puts up with my quirks a little (maybe a lot) more than he did. In truth, though, I am trying to be less obnoxious, less funny at her expense, less loud, because I realize the consequences of being myself this time around. He beat my rough edges with a hammer.
Still there are similarities between them. There are also things I won’t stop doing. I can’t stop breathing just to please my children. I’ve tried. The end result:
“MOM, stop it, you’re turning blue! It’s embarrassing, get off the floor!”
There are times when Rachel wants my personality to disappear, like that of an Alzheimer’s patient or a victim of too many shocks in a psychiatric hospital. It happens most often when I (1) sing off-key and (2) laugh too loud or (3) get drunk & accidentally kiss a woman with a moustache good-bye on New Year’s Eve or (4) dance at a Jonas Brothers Concert. Her eyes begin to roll like marbles. The huffing & puffing sound like that of a veteran glue sniffer.
Last night was perfect, though. She ended up sitting in the next row down. I was between two other girls who were not the least bit embarrassed by my inappropriate joy & inexcusable happiness, since we share no DNA.
Even better yet were the two chicks in front of Rachel. Right from the start neither appeared at all self-conscious, something it took me 35 years to even approach. They were dancing with each other, bubbling over with excitement, never stopped smiling. They were totally my dream dates and of course both had Downs Syndrome.
This was not the first time the thought has occurred to me: “I am such a dickhead.” The paradox kicks my ass.
I’m not ridiculous enough to believe it’s all buttered biscuits & birthday cake. But there is a yin & yang factor and I cringe at my own ignorance.
I’m So Surprised When People Allow Me Near Their Children
March 19, 2010
Recently we joined a co-op. Families gather once a week from 9-3. Unlike myself, the proactive, responsible mothers choose a topic in which they have some level of expertise, a subject both educational & entertaining. Then they teach a class and “cooperatively” share their knowledge. At least, that’s how it’s supposed to work. (Two families have already dropped out, leaving people in the lurch a bit.)
My position? I’m on the cleaning crew.
A smattering of the folks involved include: a multi-talented polymer clay artist, an attorney, a ridiculously fit & flexible yoga master, an amazingly down to earth woman who earned her doctorate working on an AIDS vaccine, and a breast-feeding guidance counselor (who was actually Roxanne’s first wedding client after her internet-ordination as a minister). I so completely love it when I’ve pigeon-holed someone as a regular moron & then discover they’re not, in the process confirming I truly am a jackass.
Even in my position sterilizing the nursery I must fight the devilish urge to shirk my duties. Who would ever know if I really bleached the fingerprints & spit off tiny toys
. . . . or not?
My 12-year old’s courseload is on the heavy side: Art, Yoga, Cooking (vegetarian cuisine which disgusts her to a place where I believe she wants to bring contraband beef jerky in her pockets and gnaw on pork chops during breaks), Lunch & Science.
I am a horrible person.
I do not kid myself, my awareness continues to grow in leaps and bounds. I have oodles of knowledge about things of no importance (pop culture, obscure spellings, bizarre news items), and practically none in intellectual pursuits (mention Shakespeare or another haughty author held in high regard by academicians & my eyes roll to the back of my head. However, I read everything Truman Capote ever wrote & would be happy to lead a discourse on ”In Cold Blood.”)
Most of all my lazy & belligerent attitude spells disaster. “Commitment phobic” downplays what happens once I’m locked into even the things I WANT to do. The 9 a.m. arrival time is nearly equivalent to asking me to snake your toilet or re-attach a severed limb. My students would eventually be found playing near double yellow lines or hanging in the tops of trees.
After years of fighting my own nature, I no longer volunteer to jump from cliffs or corral children whose parents may be standing nearby. I have control issues that flash like the lights on a patrol car and the standard for reasonable behavior falls across such an enormous continuum.
I am reminded of hated classmates when a child believes they are more adorable, intellectually gifted &/or worthy of special treatment than all others, as no doubt convinced by a self-absorbed mother. Even worse is when the aforementioned parent is present & ignores behavior that would have been included in the script for “Problem Child” if only the writers had better imagination.
Coming from a dysfunctional wack-a-doodle family, it seems I have what some consider a heavy hand, unreachable standards, & ridiculous expectations. Like I want the kids to decline from eating boogers (no matter how tasty or protein deprived) & never, ever, emit a high-pitched scream without accompaniment of a rodent or splintered bone (spiders are not rodents & gleeful best friends do not have pediatric orthopedic surgeons). I’ll agree, my margin for error is slim.
* * * * *
But occasionally the cosmos grabs your groin, twists and giggles. At 11 p.m. last night I heard the voice message: “We need you to teach the “Numbers” class for 3-5 year olds. No one else can do it.” I was the only slacker with flexibility in my schedule even though “assisting” this week with “Letters” and “Poetry.” My lackluster motivation has been completely ignored.
I never went to bed. It was the only way to assure gremlins could not disconnect my weak link to punctuality. The perfect combination: A hopped-up nutjob with a class full of moldable minds.
Upon arrival I pulled out the items I brought for my curriculum. Two “friends” began to laugh. “Pam, they’re 3!”
Okay, so I tempered my expectations once I noticed the adorable little chick with her finger in her nose to the knuckle. I wanted to heave when I remembered the affection small children have for sharing their own germs. But more than half the class looked like they’d stepped out of a Mary Poppins movie: perfect hair bows, striped knit dresses & bright tights. My favorite pattern contained wiener dogs wearing sweaters. I could not fight the cuteness quotient.
It was fun & it was exhausting. A captive & appreciative audience is the stuff of my dreams (mostly prison scenarios with tremendously grateful muscle-bound bald men).
I could have told these kids they were frogs and made them hop. Actually, I did make them hop. Does it get better than that? Oh, it does. They laughed at my jokes, the way my 24-year old used to when he was a tiny little thing who believed my lies & distortions.
They agreed that it’s not a good thing when your name is “Pam” and it rhymes with “ham.”
When we went around the table telling our names and ages, then counting and shouting it loud and proud, Besamela claimed she was eight. We took it for granted she was telling the truth, even as her grandmother in the corner sputtered something about the veracity of her answer. When I asked the class which cost more, sneakers or a laptop computer, it came to a 50/50 split decision. No one asked for the correct answer, so I didn’t give them one.
At one point Dominic appeared a bit annoyed with the goofballs. As an oldest child myself I could completely identify with his frustrations. Emily’s little sister, Abbie, had trouble with her scissors but was happy after chopping up 30 paper towels I held taught while dodging her shaky weapon.
If only I used that much patience when dealing with my own kids more often.
In a stroke of genius I’d thrown the tape measure in my bag as I ran out the garage door. These excitable little doe-eyed moppets wanted their height measured, along with their hair and their eye sockets. We measured feet and fingers and shoulders. Could I do it twice?
It escapes me how belly buttons became part of the mix (mostly 1-1.5 inches).
Most importantly, all children were alive and accounted for at the end of the day. To my own amazement I didn’t swear a single time, not even at their mothers.
Instructions For Being A Big F*cking Thanksgiving Turkey
November 28, 2009
The holiday season has begun and I’m in rare form. Whereas previously I’ve done things like gone to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in Manhattan (spectacularly awesome) or shopped my ass off on Black Friday (exciting enough that I’ve very nearly sh*t myself) . . . this year would have none of that.
* * * * *
I bought Thanksgiving cards, none of which I mailed or even addressed. Well, I did send one, probably to the person least likely to care, cause that’s how I roll.
In my refusal to participate in this thankful thing I didn’t buy food, cook anything, or even wash a dish. Pretty sure the reason my daughter hasn’t spoken to me in over 24 hours is that I didn’t want to sit at a decorated table, not when there are only 3 people, no dead grandparents, no screaming babies, no conversations of political dissension, no familial hatred, irritation or annoyance.
Yes, I realize some bizarre oddballs would do it just for themselves, put out a big fat brown paper turkey and a plastic tablecloth, but personally I prefer to make myself and everyone around me miserable. It’s a mind-set and you have to work at it to really perfect something so wicked. If I cannot have the agony of family past then by God I will re-create it for a new generation.
When the phone brought Thanksgiving greetings I didn’t answer it. Although I always think I will make calls on holidays, be a good friend or relative, I never do. I’m more likely to just stop talking to the elderly blind woman who enjoyed my company so much that I decided I didn’t have time for her.
My niece called twice — the kind of enthusiasm I appreciate when I’m not thinking about how annoying it is when people love me & want to tell me about it – but I didn’t answer. Maybe if she’d tried 5 or 6 times I might have acquiesced out of exhaustion.
(I’ve been supportive since she got out of prison, but could no doubt have done so much more. I like telling her stories about what a fuck-up I am. I make sure she knows details of ALL the familial sins, not wanting her to fall into that addictive thought thing where she believes she’s an original. There is hope for the future. She too can marry a decent man then years down the road ruin his perfectly controlled life when she lets her personality come to light after years of denying it.)
My brother Scott called too, but I missed it entirely. At least that way I don’t feel guilty. He’s decided he no longer wants a life of depravity & brought up religion recently. If that wasn’t a downer I don’t know what could classify as such. I mean REALLY? You’re going to go from stories of swinger escapades where you accidentally left a condom inside another man’s wife to tales of meeting potentially sweet chicks at church, just as I’m ready to tell you I’ve gone off the deep end? It seems so unfair!
When my son rang, of course, I answered and put on a smiling face and perky attitude that must have made him think I was popping amphetamines while decorating the tree with a martini in my left hand.
“Yes, son, we can’t wait for you to come home at Christmas! This family is all about happy tradition & by God we’re looking forward to seeing you my dear.”
* * * * *
I fantasize about holidays spent serving turkey to AIDS patients and wiping the asses of foster children, burning gravy while sporting gray hair that hasn’t been tended to because I’m so busy caring for others. But none of that has ever really come to pass. Well, it’s never even been attempted. My mind is so much busier than my legs or arms or dialing fingers.
My alter ego believes in tending to others so much more than my real self can conjure up the motivation to actually do it. Oh, but the thoughts of humanitarianism I’ve had could fill an orphanage with children who love me beyond words AND a homeless shelter with dirty bed-bug ridden strangers who would no doubt speak very highly of my loving nature.
* * * * *
I did eat a lot, all things that I am not supposed to: the french silk pie (a deep dark chocolate cream) was cut into around 4 AM the night before the day, but still technically on Thanksgiving. Then it was creamed corn casserole (made incorrectly), stuffing (to perfection), mashed potatoes and gravy, plus vitamin & fiber-free white rolls with butter. It’s a dreamy kind of diabetic recipe for leg loss. (I hope if I ever do end up in a wheelchair someone just wheels me out to a deserted location and dumps my ass near a red ant hill.)
During most of the festivities I watched 8 hours of a Godfather marathon. Part I was great, Part II not so much. It ended at 4:30 a.m., so I finally went to bed. The marathon was a lifesaver, all that blood & sadness, cause I didn’t think too much about anything else as I worried about Michael & poor, poor Sonny the emotional hothead who’d fuck anything that walked.
It did however annoy me that my husband stayed up until 3 just to keep me company, when I didn’t want it. Instead I’d prefer he disappear into thin air. That’s a whole other story and of course I don’t want that for my daughter. He needs an invisibility cloak that works only for me.
Yes, I know I should be on anti-depressants but they make me gain weight and take away my ability to orgasm, which obviously would depress me. Stupid, stupid fucking pharmaceutical companies. Combine an anti-depressant with a diet pill that makes me orgasm without a penis and now you’re talking.
* * * * *
Holidays don’t bring out the best in me, if you hadn’t noticed, instead they make me want to fall in a hole and be covered by just enough dirt that I can continue to breathe. I’m not QUITE suicidal, I have too much hope for the future. It’s that schizo thing that alternatively saves me and frustrates me until I want to peel my skin off with a fork.
* * * * *
So yesterday was the day after Thanksgiving.
First, I slept until 11. When my husband brought me the phone I looked at him with the hatred of a terrorist at Guantanamo facing her captor. I spoke to my great friend Roxanne for a few moments from the toilet, nearly falling back to sleep on the bowl. Promised her I would call back, which I never did. (She puts up with a lot.) Checked for a text that wasn’t there, then slept some more.
Coffee is the only thing that makes me smile every single day. So I had some.
Eventually Lucille Ball and Henry Fonda were on the tube with “Yours, Mine and Ours.” It was beautiful & I cried tears of joy instead of the other kind. But when it ended I was back to my real life and didn’t have 16 children and one on the way (because you know I am really incredibly fond of laundry and making sandwiches in bulk).
So we put in another film to further escape our hideous lives in this home that’s practically a mansion with its two acres, pool and flat screen televisions, a refrigerator full enough to feed a Sudanese tribe. (Fortunately they were not here during my eat-a-thon because I might accidentally have popped one or two of those tiny people in my mouth without looking, mistaking them for licorice or beef jerky or a slim jim.)
I should be ashamed of myself but I’m way too white trash for that.
* * * * *
Did I mention I woke up this morning weighing 179 instead of the 249 I was at some point during a Weight Watchers weigh-in before the diabetic diagnosis? 179 might sound like a lot to those of you who live perfect American lives with women wearing jeans in a size 0 after a pregnancy that ended 90 days ago.
For me it’s a loose size 14 and the best I’ve looked in two decades. It’s trading clothes with my 12-year old and doing dumb shit like wearing a t-shirt with a Miley Cyrus tag from Wal-Mart when I’m in the mood to be an asshole. If I get any thinner my skin will further hang like fancy draperies.
My crooked bangs and big chiclet front tooth are still all I see.
Yeah, happiness comes from weight loss & a great house & a husband who adores you beyond his ability to express it without weeping (which if you’re like me will disgust you to no end).
Believe it & get a big surprise. Happiness lives inside your head & you can make yourself totally fucking miserable in any situation at all.
* * * * *
So after Billy Bob Thornton and his dumbass movie “Daddy & Us” pissed me off completely I took 2 Xanax after sobbing on the toilet (back to my favorite place). I went to bed at 8 p.m. and woke up & headed downstairs just as my husband was coming up at 12:30 a.m.
Holiday’s over. Time to get back to normal life.
The problem is I haven’t known what that is for the past five months, ever since my brother died, I turned 49, my son moved away, my daughter hit puberty & I lost any and all purpose I once pretended to have.
So that is why I haven’t been blogging funny entries that are supposed to be entertaining and make you laugh, although this one did do it for me in spots.
Maybe I’ll try again later.
The End of My Twisted Summer Vacation &/or The Memorial Tour
September 22, 2009
Tomorrow the pool will be closed. My summer was spent mostly on Mafia Wars, not poolside, but I like looking out the window and seeing the attractive blue color. The husband spent an inordinate amount of time keeping it that way. Fortunately he likes that kind of mundane task, the sort that make my eyes roll to the back of my head. There were people actually in the water less than 12 hours total. Personally, I did not spend an hour, not half an hour.
Except for a week on the road I sat with my laptop and cell phone in front of a big screen. I learned to text message this summer, sending hundreds of them. It would not have been a really big deal if I’d had no use of my legs. (As it would happen, my favorite story this season was that of a man who met a woman on Match.com, then found out she was in a wheelchair only when he had to carry her to the car on their dinner date.)
I thought living in a big house with all the associated accoutrements would make me happy. Well, if finding out interesting things about yourself brings joy then I’m a gleeful mofo. My mid-life revelations have all been surprising. There are so many things I previously observed other people do and judged harshly, insisted “NO WAY.” Then I did them. Pretty sure I would have eventually made the same revelations in a studio apartment.
I am like my mother in so many ways that if I was really, really consistent and true to myself I’d commit suicide. I am also unlike my mother in so many ways that it just saves me.
In August I drove to Kentucky (again) and took stops along the way in Pennsylvania and Illinois. My daughter stayed in Pittsburgh with her paternal aunt and hated it. It was her very first time being away from either parent. She told me she believes I am “like a queen” now after “living in anorexia.” We all live these private lives & have different ways of doing things that we don’t even share with our closest relatives. They’re as foreign as if we were born in different countries.
A single tiny chicken cutlet served with applesauce and canned carrots might as well have been a serving of pig’s feet in my daughter’s experience. Her aunt actually told the rest of the family, “R is ALWAYS hungry.” R no longer wants to call her “Aunt” Bev and insists I change our will so that she is not ever left in her care again. For crying out loud, the girl grew 6 inches in the last year and is nearly 5’8″.
I drove on to Illinois and visited with a cast of characters. My aunt and uncle, as always, were a happy highlight of the trip, reminding me that there are close family members who have never (1) spent time in jail OR prison or (2) resembled something off a “Po’ White Trash” calendar or (3) played pornography on the television during daylight hours with young children in the vicinity. I hope that doesn’t make me sound too ultra-conservative or uptight.
It was interesting meeting my brother Jim’s girlfriend’s new lover, a guy that’s both living in his house and doing his chick. It would take approximately four of the new guy to even come close to Jim’s size. He was utterly lovely and answered every single one of my very nosy questions without batting an eye, including being quizzed about how soon they got together and at what point he moved into the house. No one could ever take Jim’s place, not even with Julie. I was surprised to discover that her oldest daughter still calls Jim’s cell phone every single day to hear his voice. Of course then I had to do the same thing, not knowing previously that the account still exists.
* * * * *
It was my delight to be the person who picked up my niece from prison and took her home after nearly two years. The end of that story has not been written, as she will be heading to Kentucky on Wednesday into the snake pit that consists of my mother, her mother (my sister) and a multitude of f*ckery.
Yep, this is the face of the prisoner. WTF?!
When we arrived at my nephew’s house, where S would be staying until court, we were met by his beautiful 2-year old amidst the 20 or so broken down vehicles parked in the yard. Hailee had used an electric razor to shave a 2-inch swath down the middle of her head, making a reverse mohawk. According to my sister’s ex-husband, who also lives there, it probably happened when her mama was posing naked in front of the living room webcam. He’d caught her entertaining someone that way a few days before our visit.
That would be my nephew’s fiancee, the girl whose parents were both on death row before her mother died in prison last year. She’s both beautiful and crazier ‘n hell. I’m sure that’s how she found our family, with dysfunctional sonar.
* * * * *
Kentucky was the last stop before saving R from Anorexia. It was my sister’s birthday and the anniversary of my brother’s death two days later. Our plan was to get matching tattoos, but the day to day details of taking care of three children ages 1, 2 and 3 made that impossible. However, I’m still getting the freaking tattoo.
Since this was my third trip in less than six months I was able to see a little clearer picture and experience more of the anger my sister barely contains. She is miserable without her friends nearby, stuck in a house with either my mother or the kids at all times. Her boyfriend is such an idiot that he’s jealous if the man next door stops by to play horseshoes, as if she would blow him on the kid’s trampoline. (If she did it might at least take away a bit of her isolation and hatred for life in general.)
By the time I’d stayed just two nights I had both sister and mother in stereophonic sound stating that I wanted the kids to like me too much, acting as if I was being a show-off for trying to keep them happy even during things like clothing changes and bedtime. Always a fan of the underdog, the boy is my favorite and it rubs everyone the wrong way when I make it clear I think he’s perfect in every way, when I insist he does not have ADD or anything of the sort. However, arguing with my sister does not make it better for him when I eventually get in my car and drive nearly 1,000 miles to the east.
* * * * *
My niece has been out of prison for almost a month now and last weekend was her first time to Kentucky, her first time to see her kids. She, too, was accused of being “too nice,” told she needed to “toughen up.” When she took the baby to my mother’s house the toddler stepped in dog pee the moment she walked in the door. My mother was angered by the ridiculous idea that her feet needed to be washed off thoroughly, what was the big deal?
Mom then offered S, a 22-year old, her old bras and underwear. S gained weight during her prison stay, but she is still under 200 pounds. My mother is over 250 & a filthy pig. Mom advised her that her jeans were inappropriately tight. This is the same c*nt who used to insist that I should buy my clothing in the men’s department.
End result, my niece is no longer excited about going to Kentucky.
Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that she got drunk with her mother the last night she was there. According to her reports she “only drank four beers” but then “threw up all over” her own shirt. Yes, my 48-year old sister got drunk with her daughter the paroled crackhead. Did she think it would be a bonding experience or was she just in the mood to tell her how completely she’s f*cked up both of their lives? Either way, her motivational efforts had the opposite effect.
Although S has signed away rights to the children, assigning them directly to my sister, the idiotic familial expectation is that she will step right back in and begin taking care of them. My sister and mother both feel so strongly about this subject that I could not speak up against it, could only stand there waiting for flies to occupy my mouth and throat. In reality, after all the craziness, it might even be the best plan.
I did make a discovery that made it all worthwhile, the stash of photo albums hidden in my mother’s sunroom. The scanning will take me weeks or months, but some of the pictures are priceless. Here’s a sample:
This is at my mother’s wedding to her second husband in 1967, all six of us.
Penny (6), Scott (6), Jodi (8), Pam (7), Jimmy (3) and Shannon (3).
* * * * *
In the meantime, my son graduated with his Master’s degree and moved to San Diego. He’s doing really well and seems happy, which is pretty much the best I could ask for. He lives on the beach and tells me the people are “ridiculously beautiful,” then laughs. Here’s a before and after of that, too:
* * * * *
Driving back to New Jersey late at night on the anniversary of my brother’s death, I decided to call Jim’s cell phone again. As I listened to his voice the car lights lit up a big green exit sign that said “Pewee Valley.” Our father’s nickname was PeeWee. Dad died when Jim was only six years old and the sadness of that loss permeated his life. It was the perfect wrap-up to my memorial tour, acknowledgment that Jim is with Dad and happy at last.
* * * * *
So how was your summer?
The Dude At Sam’s Club is Totally Crushin’ On Me
February 15, 2009
I cleaned my house yesterday while my husband waited to leave on his trek to the Deep South. (The house is not really CLEAN, but there are no underwear in the hallway.)
In the wee morning hours (10 a.m.) my son sent a text that he was coming home. (I’m still wondering if he received an SOS with the message: “Please help. I don’t think your mother is going to let me leave. Need a diversion.”)
Pieces of my bizarre personality are totally comfortable with throwing my body to the ground like a 2-year old in the grocery store who refuses to give up the dream of owning a Hershey bar bigger than her head.
On a daily basis I find myself saying ridiculous things out loud as another voice from within disagrees: “You’re not being rational!”
So as a matter of self-preservation I stayed busy. I also hoped my abnormal cleaning behavior would garner favor with the gods who allow husbands to return home, unlike the people on the plane crash that kept flashing across the news all day and night.
(Are you f*cking kidding me?)
At about 3 p.m I went outside to say good-bye, dramatically displaying my lack of enthusiasm for this trip with both dirty hair & pajama bottoms.
The step-son who plays the role of Lucille Ball’s husband (Ricky Ricardo) in this slap happy moving mess was afraid to bring the truck into the driveway but ready to take it on I-95. He definitely didn’t know how to back it up. My husband, ever Mr. Positivity, said “Bring it on around! I think it’ll make it!”
The flag pole barely survived. However, there is now a rut in the yard large enough to install a Koi pond.
The wooden ties at the corner of the driveway had to be removed to give the truck room to swing back out onto the street, since moving in reverse was not an option.
* * * * *
All of a sudden this morning I noticed my throat hurts. I think it’s from all the work I have to do when my husband is gone. The man is a work-a-holic, it’s all he does. I had to take out the garbage, bring in the newspapers, do the dishes, clean the counters, feed the children and make my own coffee.
During a quick moment at the computer I also accidentally left the water running on the side of the refrigerator door and think I spilled approximately 15 cups worth onto the floor. I saw no after effects on the basement ceiling. Yippee!
As I walked through the garage I noticed all the little things that I should have put away in the past two months since we cleaned the garage. Suddenly, it seemed, my mind was working like my husband’s must on a daily basis. Egads, make it stop!
Next thing you know, my son returned from his night out and wanted to pick up his freshly laundered clothing, make a trip to Sam’s Club & be driven into New York City on Saturday night, prime time traffic, on Valentine’s Day.
Could the situation get any better? Yes, it could.
I innocently asked if I looked okay, since we’d be shopping in public together. His smirk turned into stifled laughter. I’ve been trying to get the kid to speak now for nearly 10 years and his first heartfelt words are, “Oh no, I think you look hilarious!”
What the f*ck? The kid is now a fashion critic! Even worse, perhaps he’s been one all along.
So I said, “Is it the sweatpants? If I put on jeans will that be better?” He was laughing out loud at this point and said, “Well, first, you have to get rid of that sweatshirt. It’s ridiculous. It doesn’t fit, it looks enormous on you.“
I changed my entire outfit and put on heels.
It was worth the effort. The dude who checked my receipt on the way out the door at Sam’s said, “Happy Valentine’s Day.” I replied, “Why, thank you! You’re the first person who’s said that to me today!” It was quite a romantic moment between us, but he didn’t ask for my number.
We made it to New York. I drove directly through Times Square like a lunatic, with no map or directions. I raced taxis and just survived a homicidal bus driver who’d lost that lovin’ feeling. My son’s verbal skills continued to improve as he told me I need to work on my braking.
We helped carry laundry & groceries up to the apartment. We kissed the boy and said, “Call!”
We rushed off to sit in traffic outside the Lincoln Tunnel for at least an hour.
On a happy note, my husband arrived safely in B*tt F*ck, USA and will return home tomorrow evening. He also said the one thing that could potentially erode my negativity regarding this entire trip: “I’ve got stories for you.” Plus, “Don’t worry, I’ll never do this again.”
I say “Screw diamonds, roses, lingerie & chocolates, spill with the details!” The man knows me so well.
A Boy & His Mother ~ A Carnival Ride (Part IV)
January 3, 2009
(This is Part IV of a series. If you wish to read them in order click here for Part I or here for Part II or here for Part III.)
In a brutal twist of fate, although conversation & communication are as necessary to me as oxygen, my 23-year old son is relatively silent in my presence. There are moments when he will express a thought or two on some arbitrary interest or another, as long as it’s devoid of personal information or emotion (what I like to call a jackpot topic).
He has never brought a girl home, never told me a single detail of a relationship. (I am prepared: The mother of my grandchildren will most certainly adore me. It is not optional, I am determined to bring in a hypnotist if necessary.) Dobeman has expressed concern regarding the gay factor, but I don’t think so. I asked. Amanda just wants the boy to be happy, no matter his sexual orientation, and I appreciate that.
He does not watch television, probably because I love it too much. (It was a crushing blow when he realized that he, too, loves The Office.) I believe the happy memories of watching Brenda, Dylan and the gang on 90210 together are too painful for him to bear. He adored me then! We were so simpatico!
He reads only the financial section of the newspaper (I can barely do long division) & considers politics folly for fools (a decision arrived at after I was elected to the local board of education).
* * * * *
His silence nearly got me arrested once. (Well, not total silence.)
Driving him home from a distant party after midnight (not my party, his party), I insisted he speak. I told him it was only fair, if I had to drive then he had to talk. I was rambling on and on as I tend to do, like now.
His reply was simply to fart. Eyes closed. One ass speaking to another.
It was a DEAD offense on my part (Driving Enraged And Disgusted). Five blocks from home I was pulled over for speeding, my purse in the trunk. I stomped to the back of the car to retrieve it, slamming my door in the process.
The young officer said, “Ma’am, calm down. What’s wrong?”
So I told him. All of it. “I just wanted my son to speak & he farted at me!”
The officer held back a snort & quickly muttered, “Drive home safely.”
* * * * *
The kid loves me, I’m sure he does. The psychologist I made him see at 17 said he did. Surely a professional would not lie to a frantic mother who’d only occasionally heard her son’s voice in nearly three years.
I’ve since come to realize I’m in training. For nine long years now he’s been letting me know what’s acceptable & what’s not.
He has told me in the simple language of a psychiatric hospital aide that my incessant repetition of the phrase “Be Careful” has grown old.
He’s made it VERY CLEAR that 3-4 photos are fine, but the camera must then be put away. He is not Paris Hilton & I do not work for Star magazine.
He is in charge, the tables have turned. I am the big cat; he has the whip & chair. When I behave well I can sometimes see a warped gleam of success in his eye. (So can my husband & it makes him nuts. He wants his own whip but fears a repeat of the Siegfried & Roy Vegas incident.)
The whole growing up deal, the mother/son relationship is just so weird.
It’s a frigging Shakespearean tragedy.
This man is the little boy who slept in my bed until he was seven, who held my hand & laughed at all my jokes with with a beautifully up-turned beaming face.
This is the exact same DNA that once stood up for me when his grandmother bitched me out for not calling often enough, who said, “Grammy, you’ve got a phone, too!” I’ve never before or since felt such vindication and support, so utterly defended by another human being. And he was only six!
He did what he was supposed to do, he grew up.
I still want him to climb up on my lap & he can’t allow it.
He’s trying to save us from the usual Twisted Family Antics, while a part of me wants to pull us both down in a raging Oedipal tide.
* * * * *
He does make concessions.
After one or two incidents of not answering a text message or the eventual ringing phone, when I dialed his number 20 or more times in succession due to abject fear & uncontrolled hysteria, he is great about getting back to me. I do not take advantage of this gift. I text, rather than call, and I hate texting. It’s his preferred medium & I’ll take it.
I do not expect daily contact, but I can go no more than 10 days before I get the shakes. However, I do not overuse my privileges. Calls are kept to a minimum, usually to deliver only good news, never before noon. I clip my sentences to ensure quality of contact, rather than quantity. I do not dilly-dally or waste his time. I do not leave voicemails, as he will be forced to clear them from his phone & he doesn’t like that.
In return, if I say “I love you” 6 times a day when he’s home, he replies in kind, which is actually pretty amazing when I think about it. He says it with as little emotion as possible & I get that.
We are similarly uncomfortable with our selves (perceived hideous flaws) & our feelings (too much exposure leads to naked expression of hideous flaws). At times he is painfully indecisive, just like me. He is critical of others, but brutally so of himself, also like me.
In so many successful & wonderful ways he is nothing like me, which makes us both extremely happy. He is a thrifty optimist, saving for the future. I am a free spending pessimist, fearing death around every corner. He has informed me I should stop listening to the news and quit reading the paper. In his opinion, my fears are fanned by mass media. If I don’t know about it, then it didn’t happen evidently.
I work at accepting it all & I am better. I still struggle with whether the silence is his nature (it wasn’t as a child) or unconscious punishment (conscious would be too much to bear). It’s possible that my response to all things, great & small, is so over the top that his adrenal system has been completely depleted over the past 23 years. He just doesn’t have the energy for it.
I am certain he often finds me incredibly annoying, but he will not admit it when the subject is broached. If my own mother were to ask me why I’m angry I would tell her, but she doesn’t want to know, has never asked. I’ve come dangerously close to not just asking but begging. He says, “Nothing’s wrong.” He will not verbalize a single statement to explain his silence.
He says we’re fine & I guess I should believe him, how foolish not to. We communicate better by e-mail than in person, better by text than voice. Maybe I’m just crazy & he’s a little moody. I’ve got little choice but to go with it. Why jump to nuclear when bows & arrows suffice? No doubt, it is my nature. Thank God it’s not his.
* * * * *
~ My pseudo mother-in-law lost not one, but two grown sons. My great-grandmother, both paternal & maternal grandmothers, and now my own mother lived longer than their boys.
~ Three friends/acquaintances lost their teen sons last summer, another boy committed suicide just last week (totaling six locally).
It echoes in my head.
~ My husband got draft papers at 19 & went to Viet Nam at 21, all the while his mother lived with the knowledge her brother, her son’s namesake, died at war.
How did they survive it?
Clearly I am a pussy extraordinaire, lacking gratitude, complaining about things of no import when I so obviously have the perfect son. I cannot possibly reconcile a single negative thought.
The first words that went through my mind when he was born: “I can’t believe God gave me exactly what I wanted.”
They still hold true, 23 years later.
* * * * *
If you’ve read this entire series you’ve completed one full trip through the Pamajama brain, a carnival ride.
If you wish to re-enter, please exit & go to the back of the line.
A Boy & His Mother ~ A Carnival Ride (Part III)
January 1, 2009
(This is Part III of a series. If you wish to read them in order click here for Part I or here for Part II.)
A few years ago, when this adult child thing was still brand new to me, I burst into tears in the meat aisle of a grocery store at the sight of a mother holding hands with her little boy. (My husband will swear I was due to start my period 45 seconds later, but I will deny it.) My heart is super-glued into a semblance of its’ original state only by the knowledge that at least it’s universal; all parents one day face an adult child standing where their beloved Cookie or Bobo once tottered & fell upon a soggy diaper.
Nothing stops them, no matter the parental machinations (violin lessons, Eagle Scouts, batting coaches, private school, American Girl dolls & books up the ying-yang, traveling soccer AND basketball, infant sign language & opera in the womb), they all grow up.
(Except for those who die, the only worse fate. My hobbies of obituary scanning & catastrophizing cannot resist presenting such thoughts in my frontal lobe. A gift from me to you, the knowledge that of course it can always get worse, just in case you might have missed it.)
No one really talks about it much, the fact that one day they’re little, the next day they’re big. It may be skimmed over in a laughing manner, like “HAHA, THEY’RE GETTING SO BIG, HAHA.” I was not prepared. There are approximately one trillion books published on raising babies, little lumpy blobs of people who basically do three things (eat, sleep & poop). How do you possibly f*ck that up?
I haven’t seen a single publication devoted to properly defining your relationship with adult children. Really, who would read it? The comparison of the two subjects is like a choice between the Kama Sutra & something entitled “Adult Female Bedwetting Solutions.”
* * * * *
The grown up version of my son, the birthday boy (who turned out so much better than the pseudo in-laws ever hoped or dreamed with me as his mother), is a dream come true in almost all respects.
He is employed, clean shaven, & tattoo-free with 6-pack abs. College consisted of exactly 8 semesters at a state school with a merit scholarship he maintained throughout. He has never been arrested or received a moving violation & needed no financial assistance with his first apartment.
Humor me & compare this to my friend’s son, who remains unemployed after graduating from a $40,000/year liberal arts college with NO scholarship money whatsoever. He did not finish on time, thus an extra semester of expense. He got drunk & was mugged, had an MRI that insurance didn’t cover (he didn’t get it approved). He does not answer the phone when his mother calls, even though she pays the bill. On occasion she was forced to call his roommate to confirm he was still breathing.
He created a false document that placed him on the Dean’s List after his mom told him such an accomplishment would result in a pay-off of all his credit card bills. The bills added up since he regularly had a taste for steak & lobster dinners, even though he didn’t have any money, so he paid with a Visa card. He’s had several car accidents & is adamant that pot smoking should be legal, therefore he angrily asserts he will continue to act as if it is.
All that expensive schooling, plus Surf & Turf, left him so exhausted he needed to take a couple months off before even looking for a j-o-b. Seriously, I adore this kid. He’s so completely & thoroughly entertaining.
* * * * *
In the interest of full disclosure, however, my own grown son has completed doctoral training in the art of Pamajama & regularly practices a manipulative element of torture designed just for me.
He’s managed to (1) graduate both high school & college, (2) spend a year in an honors dorm with fascinating nerds (my fault), (3) live two years in an animal house (black mold & congealed beer on the kitchen floor totally not my fault), (4) spend a summer in the south, (5) move to NYC, (6) vacation in Miami twice & (7) drive cross country, then arrive home without a freely proffered story of a single event (zilch).
I want to live in his pocket & he thinks I should have my own life, an interesting concept.
If you think I’m exaggerating . . .
Last summer a friend of his was in our car and used the ‘G” word. I nearly severed my tongue, allowing myself only a simple strangulated “Oh?”
My son said, “Oh yeah, I forgot about that.”
Then, with less emotion than I’d express about an overdue library book, he told of being in a restaurant when another customer dropped the slice of pizza he’d just purchased & asked for a new one. When refused a free second slice, he pulled a gun. Customers dove for cover & ran out the door.
Considering the cool & collected way my son relayed the story, I assume he continued to munch a delicious garlic knot or enjoy a plump meatball while bullets flew through the air.
All this reminiscing jogged another memory in the buddy’s mind: the dapper yet crazy black man in Penn Station — coincidentally, the same night – who beat his own head into the wall with such gusto it caused blood to gush & pool beneath him before he was carried out on a stretcher.
My son, in a surprising verbal outburst, laconically added: “Yeah, I didn’t think that guy was going to make it.”
The fact that these two stories happened in one single evening tells me everything I need to know about what I’m missing. No doubt other tales include mention of monkeys, circus clowns and drunken ducks.
On a continuum our relationship is a series of highs and lows with little in between. I must admit he doesn’t tell me stuff because of the gasping intake of air that occurs when I hear things that frighten me. When it comes to my little boy, I’m one fearful b*tch.
He gives me just enough to maintain the necessary level of adoration, to keep me sewing on buttons & cracking eggs with abandon, driving him places & jumping through hoops like a well-trained purebred. He doesn’t even ask, I anticipate. Then he withholds.
Maybe I ask for too much, a definite possibility.
(To Be Continued)
A Boy & His Mother ~ A Carnival Ride (Part II)
December 31, 2008
(To follow in order & read Part I first, please click here!)
My son just turned 23, if you missed it. All 7,395 days passed quickly.
Well, except for the 24-hour period in which he dove to catch a football pass in the street & rammed his head into the steel bumper of a truck. I thought his eyeball was maybe gone, but then I found out even small head wounds bleed a lot.
So many of the little boy stories are adorable. For example: Recollecting the child who literally pulled the hair on the back of my son’s neck while he sat at his desk in Kindergarten minding his own business. Such sweet memories!
Each child is cuter than the next, they’re all gifted in their own special way. (Just ask a mommy blogger.)
It was that same Kindergarten class wherein I attended a holiday program and sat next to Heather, whom I’d never met previously. The entire time the children sang, Heather regaled me with stories of her step-daughter, also named Heather. As most would, she created a nickname to separate them from one another. You might be thinking just the letter ‘H’ would be cool, or maybe her middle name, but instead she preferred “The Little Slut.” I’m not sure she even asked me who I was or which kid was mine.
School days, school days.
It’s definitely not a good idea to put all your hopes & dreams in just one basket, like education. Although my kid is relatively brilliant, had SAT scores appropriate for the Ivy League & a 4.0, you too could end up with a high school principal who keeps your son out of National Honor Society because of a contraband soda brought into computer class.
Heed my advice or it will rankle you every day for the rest of your life that you did not strap your balls on and choose to do one of the following: (1) Set him on fire & roast Jiffy Pop over his flaming body, or (2) Turn his decapitated upside down head into a kitschy ashtray, or (3) Hire a taxidermist to fold his cold naked body into a cube-shaped flower vase.
Yes, motherhood brings out a crazy & competitive piece in us (near the vagina) that stays hidden until the OB-GYN unlocks it with a special key. It’s a mix of kangaroo, feral cat & rabid dog.
I will admit it only here, in this moment: If your child can swim faster than mine or hit a ball better, I might have accidentally fantasized about the possibility of a cast in his future, a small one. Imagine the memories my child would have had of his time on the pitching mound while yours made friends in the dug-out.
It’s all good.
Although I choke & forget my own name if I need to make an introduction, my memory is photographic regarding any child, friend, family member, neighbor, drunken coach or school official who treated my kid even once with disdain. Fortunately, only one of those people should be concerned if I ever discover I have just 24 hours left to live. He should remain in his yard with a running hose, waiting for me to jog by with a fire bomb, praying for my demise. No doubt, he already has.
All in all, it’s been a wonderful life.
HOWEVER . . .
. . . galaxies collide when the son, now a rational young man, has no desire to take your advice & read “that funny blog entry from your 6th birthday!” He mentions that he’s far more interested in the future than the past & suddenly you’re incapable of catching your breath.
Make sure you’re seated when telling him things you assume he’ll want to hear. For example, this statement: ”You’ll be happy to hear Bobby F.’s in prison. I wish he’d been arrested for pulling the hair on the back of your neck back in 1992, but at least he’s finally where he belongs.” It’s a good bet he won’t know what in the hell you’re talking about.
He’s forgiven the entire incident while you’ve been holding a grudge against Connie F., the kid’s handicapped mother, for the last 12 years. He will then remember to mention that Bobby F. texted him from prison yesterday & they’re planning to hang out once the ankle bracelet comes off.
The look in his eyes goes on to say he believes you’re unstable & in need of treatment.
It’s all forgotten in the time it takes to make him eggs, collect the drink glasses & tissues he’s left around the house, & pick up his dry cleaning.
* * * * *
This is when you begin wondering why you made the choices which have left you unemployable even by Target standards, when you might otherwise have been a vice-president or a princess by now.
(To Be Continued)
A Boy & His Mother ~ A Carnival Ride (Part I)
December 31, 2008
I took him home from the hospital in a taxi. One of the first things I did was strip him naked & hold him on my lap, awestruck by utter perfection.
So it was a clear & direct result of my own behavior when he filled my lap with wet, yellow, baby poop.
I continued to coo & giggle, so completely in love. (I’d lost at least 30 IQ points on the birthing table & gained a shoe size.)
It should have been the first indication of a dysfunctional & unequal relationship, requiring an immediate call to an anonymous group & the promise of a free ride to a meeting, escorted by a shaky chain-smoker.
More importantly, it was the first sign that nearly every time the boy would ever do anything unbecoming it was probably initiated through fault of my own. He’s just that kind of kid.
If only I’d always been able to so easily point to my own foibles & errors in judgment with such ease & grace, I would have made such a better mother right from the start.
* * * * *
Today he’s 23.
We sang Happy Birthday over a requested cannoli cake,
& as expected I bought him a shirt that he hate(s).
A corduroy jacket & books, a trip to see Grammy.
On the way out the door he took the tequila,
I didn’t say no . . . oh, stupid Pama-jammy.
* * * * *
Lesson #1:
The mother/son relationship, generation after generation, is neither reasonable nor explainable.
Acceptance is key, resistance futile.
* * * * *
Motherhood is a bait & switch. You’re reeled in by an infant (growing faster than a pony) totally dependent upon your loving care (he’ll be grabbing cold raw hot dogs from the fridge in 10 months, trying to ruin your life via choking hazard).
He can be satisfied only by you (a control issue which, in a grown man, is restraining order appropriate) and the fascination on his little face clearly says you are the single person on earth worthy of his love (just like a dude in group therapy for sex addiction).
Soon he’s driving & you’re the screaming old hag in the passenger seat.
* * * * *
From age 11 on I’d been searching for my place in the world, finding assistance from men who continually detoured me past their testicles. My family was of no help & I regularly held replacement try-outs.
In other words, I took to mothering like a crazed & desperate squirrel with her first nut. For a socially inept control freak it was the ultimate: a human being who could not walk away or even voice its’ own opinion. Not to mention my hormones were imitating Mt. Vesuvius and have never stopped quaking since.
Suddenly I had purpose, a reason not to be a f*ck-up. Nursing was not only recommended, it had the extra advantage of grossing my mother out completely. SCORE! Like all unstable chicks with issues, I wanted to be uniquely special & breastfeeding did the trick. I was practically gifted, as successful as any cow, a self-important milk machine. (How disappointing when he began to walk!)
To this day, if an infant cries, a neanderthal part of me believes I am the ultimate baby whisperer. One small problem: I react poorly to rejection. Children who question my authority are in jeopardy of being dressed as baby seals & placed in the path of club carrying hunters. I begin rejecting the child like a bad kidney.
The obvious truth: without boob involvement I’m not that talented. It’s sad, really. I have so few special skills.
(To Be Continued)
Trisha Truly’s Meme – File 4, Photo 4 and/or The Splits
November 14, 2008
The beautiful Trisha, mother of man-tastic blogger Dobeman and newly married bloggess Birdpress, picked yours truly for a meme. I feel so incredibly important when these things happen, since it makes up for times when my popularity factor was a big fat -7 and I was regularly forced to wear a red and white striped polyester gym suit with crotch snaps. Oh, the joys of childhood.
Like the time I lost the race for class president in 8th grade to a girl named Devra before she dropped out of school completely like three months later. I’m a grudge holding bitch, aren’t I?
I was told that one of Devra’s brothers puked on the floor in their house and it wasn’t cleaned up for three months. Does this give you a clearer picture of where my frustration lies? I mean, yes, she was eons beyond the rest of us, coloring her hair before most shaved their armpits — actually, I don’t think she ever shaved hers – but I came from a f*cked up family, too! Where was my prize?
That was just before I went to the 8th grade dance with Jim Ferguson, a dude who never brushed his teeth, not ever, and used gel (or maybe he just never washed it?) to flatten his hair into a point that stuck 6-inches out from his forehead. At least he was nice enough to invite me to be his date, although I wonder where this dude got such self-confidence? His mother must have been telling him he was the equivalent of Wonder Boy. “Honey, don’t worry, that hideous acne will clear up in no more than 6 or 7 years & I can scrape that placque off with my thumbnail.”
I was a confused little bitch in 8th grade. Here I am at graduation, age 13, an original Gunne Sax dress circa 1974:
I went on to lose the competition for cheerleading in 9th grade, since I could do the splits but nothing else. This heart-breaking loss may have been the impetus for losing my virginity four months later, which did help with the popularity factor. Somehow, Doug Hanshaw realized that one of the few ways I felt incredibly successful was with my legs spread. He was a true humanitarian.
Meanwhile, if you are reading this as a teen-age girl, don’t do it. Do not share bodily fluids, not even tongue juice. Boys are dirty.
I’m completely off the subject! I need to get this meme posted so I can do the other one that’s overdue by an entire month. If my lips were plumper I’d feel exactly like Angelina Jolie.
Directions say I’m supposed to pick the fourth photo out of my fourth picture file, post it & write a story in explanation. So, ta-da, here it is:
My little sweetie.
The story is my daughter’s 6th birthday. In a white-trash Martha Stewart moment I braided a crown out of three yards of gauzy material, tied it with ribbons, then decorated a wooden stick & called it a magic wand! I’m a craft-astic magician!
One of these days I’m going to decoupage a baseball bat, one she can hit boys with and disable them for the rest of their lives should they enter her personal space. It will more than likely include a taser feature & spray both mace & bullets.
It’s not much of a surprise that the fourth picture in the fourth file was of this little princess, since I have enough pictures of her to wallpaper the entire house and never repeat a shot.
Yesterday I put a file of 500 photos of her in scroll mode, then told her she could sit here and see them all. I walked into the other room, then a few minutes later I returned and found her crying. I asked, “HUH? WTF?”
She said, “I don’t remember any of this. I want to be a baby again!“
Sigh. Girl stuff. I can’t imagine my son ever, not in a million years, having such a reaction. It’s a lot like when I began to sob after the nurse told us we were having a girl and my husband said, with utter confusion, “But I thought you wanted a girl?”
Hormones versus testosterone, two completely different masters.
It’s a good thing I can’t make my daughter’s wish really happen. If I was Samantha Stevens (Bewitched), could twinkle my nose and make dreams come true, she’d be an identical triplet.
I’d do it in a heartbeat.
The Definition of Reasonable is Up For Discussion
August 13, 2008
The beloved son had been home a mere 12 hours when we got in the car & drove him to the airport for a quick flight to Coolsville (Miami).
In the mean time I fed him, served him tea, did his laundry, touched his face & kissed his cheek more than once, gave him his mail & condensed the entire summer into a single conversation. I asked all the questions.
I think I might have also said something about how if his cold gets any worse he needs to find a doctor because “Pneumonia kills.” Nothing says “I love you” like a mother’s histrionic & fearful over-reaction.
He’s got exactly 23 days to complete life as he knows it, then the gig is up. We set children up for a fall: 23 years of school, vacations, gifts, parties to attend, jeans, shorts, chicks & summers off. Followed by: 40 years of work, too little vacation, expenses, parties to throw, hot suits, tight ties, chiclets, etc.
To make the flight I had to get out of bed at 5:30 a.m., which is almost beyond my capabilities. I only made a single wrong turn & stopped in the middle of the freeway just once.
The pick-up next weekend is closer to midnight, which is more my style but still not dreamy. The signs I couldn’t see during daylight hours will more than likely remain hidden in the dark. I am happy for this penance as long as it means he returns home safely.
He left half of everything he owns in the middle of the living room: on the floor, on the couch, everywhere. I would leave it there if not for the fact that it will annoy the husband. He feels conflicted about my expectations, since in his opinion they’re non-existent.
It’s true, I will do most anything within reason. It’s just that our ideas about the definition of “reason” are so dissimilar.
My girlfriend, the one who loves her 5-year old so much it hurts, was kind of surprised by the way our entire weekend seemed devoted to the prince. She asked, “Why are you willing to do all that if he doesn’t appreciate it?”
I’m not sure how to answer that question. I know I hope I’ll get to observe her situation in another 17 years. I think I might be giggling on the sidelines.
I can psychoanalyze & justify until my head explodes, yet I’ll never know what he’s thinking or feeling. I just know that I need to feel like I did close to my best & loved him as much as I possibly could.
He’s worth it.
He’s given me 1.) a million proud moments, 2.) a zillion little boy smiles, 3.) at least 40,000 hours of baby cuddles & toddler snuggles, 4.) endless joy & 5.) a singular reason to pull myself back from the brink.
I was worried it would be different with a girl, but it’s not. She’s still only 10, but I see glimpses of our future. Really, when I was having #2, I couldn’t understand how I could possibly love something as much as #1. I think everybody worries about that.
All the emotions related to parenting are a little bi-polar & extreme. Still today, when I notice myself being kind to my daughter, putting up with some silliness or another, it feels foreign. There are times when I find myself defending her, when I catch myself adoring her, and it nearly takes my breath away. I am awed by it. I wonder how did I become such a different person than my own mother?
I was afraid I would parent a daughter the way she did, that I would instinctually be a ranting bitch, jealous of my own child, determined to convince her she’s nothing special. I have pieces of my mom’s temper, her tongue, & her viciousness. But fortunately I also have so much more. My instincts are not my mother’s.
Life is naturally repetitious & most things feel familiar. But I sometimes watch our mother/daughter interactions like a distant observer, an alien from Mars. It’s kind of like the adolescent self that still lives inside me is expecting an angry reaction and when she doesn’t get one asks, “What the fuck? Did you see what she just did?” It’s a path I’ve never been on before, a love I never experienced from a daughter’s perspective.
Then I remember, I have been here. It was with my grandmother, not my mother. Was it her imprint upon my heart that allowed it to open & grow?
I feel so lucky to experience this crazy love, so fortunate to adore them like I do.
So when possible I will do what they ask of me, occasionally muttering a snarky comment for ventilation purposes. Like the other day when my daughter was taking one of her marathon showers and asked me for a glass of ice water. You’re kidding, right? I’d done it for her earlier in the week & now she was going to make this a habit? A shower so long and exhausting that you need an icy break mid-way through?
It makes driving my son to the airport seem so extraordinarily reasonable.
Conversation With Husband
August 11, 2008
On the trip home from Virginia, my husband and son pulled over & helped some people out of an over-turned vehicle. I wanted to hear every last detail.
My husband handed my son a 2-year old through a window.
“Did she cry?” I wanted to know. (Emotion is a very big part of the picture for me.) “No, she was very good,” he said.
Oh. “Did anybody cry?”
“No, they were pretty calm.” Hmm, these were not my favorite kind of victims.
Overall, I was completely & thoroughly annoyed because I have never had the good fortune of seeing my male partner in the hero role, acting powerful & hunkish. I mean, he looks great in uniform but I want to see some superman shit.
Last week he actually pulled a teen-age thug to the side when he caused a disturbance in a restaurant. I missed that, too.
My daughter felt famous as the other patrons asked her, “Is your dad a cop?” I can just imagine her fluffing her hair as she replied, “Why, yes, he is!” She loves to imagine herself threatening other children with arrest or, better yet, a full on prison sentence.
After asking him all about the accident scene — which was not a very exciting one, obviously– our conversation goes something like this:
Him: “I love you.”
Me: “No, you don’t. If you did, you would pull over at an accident scene when I was with you, so I could watch.”
Him: “I don’t plan these things.”
Me: “Yes, you do. Motherfucker.”
Due to the accident, traffic & rain, I was able to clean the house AND make a meal, plus I didn’t stink when they arrived. It worked out very well.
Except for the part where I was sure they were both dead when neither answered their cell phones & it went straight to voicemail.
I began imagining it all in my head: a friend/co-worker of my husband’s would get the first call. He would immediately refuse to call me because he thinks I’m a pain in the ass.
Now I had all this food for two men who might never come home . . . but then they walked in the door.
Whew, what a relief.
