My So-Called Adult Life

Cookie and I met a friend at L’il Bean ‘n’ Green for a coffee. She’s a single mum; her son is 20. Cookie had started daycare the week before, two days a week, so my friend’s first question was, “Do you have your adult life back?” Hah, as if! But the question got me thinking: how do I get my adult life back? What even is my adult life?

Last night I watched a Louis C.K. special and laughed so hard I wept. That guy crosses so many lines when he talks about his kids (he called one of them the c-word! which I totally understand sometimes), but he’s dead reverent when he talks about his wife. (Actually, I think she’s his ex-wife now. Figures.) Women are sexier than girls because their bodies reflect all the incredible experiences they’ve been through, he says, and his best line really hit home: “You’re not a woman until people come out of your vagina and step on your dreams.”

Okay, so maybe my dreams weren’t all that big, or lucid, or even feasible, but I had dreams, I swear. I was going to spend the winter writing in Tuscany, and become the best damn editor ever, and get my butt back, but that all changed when Cookie took up residence in my body. Now I’m spending the winter whining in Toronto, I’m frantically trying to remember basic grammar, and my butt is older than ever. I spend my days playing with blocks, going down slides, and reading Boynton books until my eyes bleed. (I got that last bit from Weeds. I hate that I get casual parenting jokes now. I used to think they were so lame.) Right, some people would kill to spend their days going down slides, but I’m pretty sure they’d quickly tire of not being able to choose when they get to go down the slide or which slide they go on. I want my adult life back!

I’m convinced the only way is to make Cookie my accessory. I know, I know; everyone hates those mums who tote their kids around like the latest handbag, but everyone hates all the other mums too, so you can’t win. And since most of the time it’s all about her, I figure that if Cookie has to spend the occasional day in the stroller while I walk my butt off, or amuse herself with the remote control for a few hours while I send emails begging clients for work, it’s a small price to pay for a healthy, fulfilled mum. One who’s a real adult, who dances like a fool to that goddamn “Moves like Jagger” song and drinks loads of pinot noir (but always responsibly), not someone who continually hums Raffi tunes under her breath and is frequently found picking organic Os out of her cleavage. I hate that woman! (I’ve been that woman.) But I also hate bad mothers, so I guess I’ll just have to keep looking for that elusive middle ground between “mum” and “adult.” Apparently it’s known as “woman.” I think becoming a real woman is a good dream to have. 


-East End Mama