What the Fuck

A couple of weeks ago my husband and I were driving home and someone cut us off. It was not
serious but it was jarring. J-man, from the car seat in the back, screamed, “WHAT THE FUCK!” I
turned around to look at him, having not even really heard my husband say it first. J-man looked
at me, and in his most assertive two-and-a-half-year-old tone, he said, “Not nice car. Don’t do
that,” pointing his finger.

He didn’t repeat the phrase again for a couple of weeks. I wasn’t there at the time that he did,
but apparently he and his brother were playing at my mother-in-law’s house, and clear as a
bell he said, “What the fuck!” When my mother-in-law sternly looked at the twelve-year-old and
asked where the baby had learned that, J-man proudly announced, “Daddy said dat.”

The real humour in all of this, for me anyway, is that my husband never swears, and he is
poshly offended when others do. I, however, come from a home and an industry where profanity
is like punctuation. In the early part of our relationship we would fight, and inevitably the fight
would turn into a fight about the fact that I had used some bad word and how dare I direct it at
him. In any event, we worked hard at correcting the phrase and turning it into, “What the heck.”
It seemed to work and we thought J-man had all but forgotten it.

That was until the other night, when we were in the car going to my in-laws’ house to pick
up the twelve-year-old. My husband got a disturbing work email, and in total frustration he
blurted out the dreaded phrase. That was it; it was non-stop and everywhere I went. J-man now
says “WHAT THE Ffff,” and then looks to see our reactions and laughs hysterically.

So what to do? Well, I’ve started telling J-man not to say that bad word. I tell him he can
say “What the heck.” I’m no child psychologist, but he seems to understand what I am saying
to him. My husband thinks that telling him it’s a bad word will only make it worse. He has been
allowing him to say “What the fuck” without reaction, and tells him jokingly, as if it were a game,
that “What the heck” is a bad word. This is the conundrum of co-parenting, and J-man has to be
nothing but confused. I can hear his little mind working: “What the fuck are my parents talking
about? What’s the bad word? I am sooo confused.” All I can say in response is when it comes to
erasing phrases from a two-year-old’s vocabulary — I’m confused too!

-Sleepwalking Mama

Number Two

I am so not into being a parent. I love my daughter, I really do, but I am never going to get
excited about mom-to-mom sales or soccer practice or anything where I’m forced to identify
myself as a parent. I have no problem telling people I’m Cookie’s mom, but I stay away from
calling myself “a mom.” Delusions, semantics, whatever…I’m struggling with my identity here, people, so just give me the benefit of the doubt. I’m raising my child in a safe, loving, stimulating home, and that’s the important thing.

But now everyone I know seems to be pregnant (including our own Tightrope Mama — I’m sooo excited about that pending arrival!) or has just had their second child. I’m not entirely sure why— it was actually a pretty mild winter, so was there just nothing on TV? This means the big question — “Are you going to have another?” — comes up a lot in conversation, and when it does, I panic. I just don’t know how to answer it. Part of me wants a vibrant home full of fridge art and people who love and support each other, not a quiet little WASPish cluster of three, but part of me wants to just be ME. Not a parent. With one kid, you can come off as being a fun, funky couple who just happens to have an adorable, brilliant child; you can travel and eat in nice restaurants with minimal chaos; you can wear nice clothes a good forty percent of the time. But with two, you’re a “family.” All of a sudden, preparing healthy snacks and researching organized activities is your life, rather than something you sneak in during commercial breaks of The Daily Show after the kid has gone to bed. Restaurant dining happens at the McDonald’s with the best play place. Laundry is a career unto itself. I totally realize that I can be a parent and be my own person, but I’m pretty sure that with more than one kid that would only realistically be feasible if I had help (see our “I Don’t Know How She Does It” post or, say, Angelina Jolie, and you’ll understand). Well, I don’t want help. I don’t have room.

Keep in mind that this is just my point of view, reflecting my limitations. You may have
boundless energy and willpower and babysitters in your Contacts folder, so you’re entitled to
disagree. But I think it explains part of why I’m so hesitant to jump right in and get pregnant.

And then there’s the family dynamic. Hasn’t our relationship already suffered enough? Will
Cookie continue to thrive? I’m so looking forward to finding time to watch this documentary on CBC, Sibling Rivalry: Near, Dear and Dangerous, about siblings who hate each other. That should add some fun shit to the debate.

When I confess my misgivings about having a second to people, they inevitably ask, “How does your husband feel?” I wish I knew. When I ask him, he says he’s just as baffled and on the fence as I am, but he’s probably just humouring me. Really, all I want is a strong opinion, one way or the other, just this once. Please?

On top of everything, we’re operating under a deadline. As my doctor likes to remind me, I’m
running out of time. Charming. Decisions must be made. The debate will continue.

-East End Mama

[image: big sister tee via etsy]

Cheating

Last week I kissed a man who is not my husband on the mouth. He was gay, and drunk, and he actually did the kissing, and I told my husband, and he laughed, but I still feel a teensy bit guilty. Not because I wanted to be kissed, but because I did get a bit of a thrill out of it. Not that the thrill was due to attraction, because it wasn’t. This guy was clearly not even in the same ballpark as me, let alone on the same team. (I don’t know what that means.) I think the thrill was a result of being married too long and being stuck home most nights with a child and not getting to do the crazy sexy things I did in my youth. This is the closest I’ve got to dancing in the foam pit at Senor Frog’s or making out on a pool table in a long time. And it’s not even close. And it’s all because of Cookie.

I’ve had this urge for a while now. Not specifically to kiss a strange man on the mouth; just to get irresponsibly drunk and make bad choices. In this case, I was merely a tad tipsy and I let someone else make a choice that was rather out of character. But in all the scenarios in which I imagine myself indulging this urge, my husband is there, so in my mind I’m not cheating. Which is great, right? That I fantasize about doing naughty things (although not those naughty things, but that’s another story) with the person I’m supposed to do things in general with. Still, no matter how much I rationalize it, I can’t shake this urge. Once again, it’s all because of Cookie.

Before Cookie, I wasn’t a party girl (although I did enjoy a good, or even a bad, party) or a bar fly (although my favourite seat anywhere is a barstool) or a slut (full stop). But I enjoyed my relative freedom, and enjoyed it well into my thirties, so to have had it so abruptly taken from me is still a bit of a shock. While I was pregnant, but before I knew it or even suspected that it was possible, my husband and I drank our way across Britain, from whisky tastings in Scotland to pub-hopping pints in Yorkshire to a champagne- and Pimm’s-soaked wedding in Ascot. Spirit of the West’s “Home for a Rest” comes to mind. Cue the immense guilt a month later, when I finally figured out why the bike ride to work was taking five minutes longer than it should. Not to mention the nagging concern, despite my doctor’s repeated assurances. (“We really only worry about binge drinkers” — well, it was a good vacation, so define binge again?)

I think I’m still looking forward to the next party, and over two years later I haven’t got to it yet. And I want to, I so want to! But any time I’m out, I just know that if I have more than a couple of drinks, the following morning will be intolerable. If you’ve seen that show Up All Night, with Christina Applegate and Will Arnett, you can imagine the scenario. In the first episode, they go out, decide to stay out way too late just like they used to, and sure enough they are woken up a mere two hours later by a screaming child. They’re fully dressed, hung over, and faced with a nasty diaper that they can barely change between the two of them without hurling. I know that scene; I’ve lived it. Once was enough.

So my fantasy goes something like this: Cookie stays for an entire weekend with someone. Don’t care who; sometimes you just have to let the details slide in fantasies, just as in sitcoms. Hubby and I go out Friday night with our best friends. First stop is pre-dinner cocktails, then dinner accompanied by buckets of wine, then a bar for drinks made with Malibu rum or blue curacao or something equally ridiculous and ill-advised. Then we do something stupid, like go to an after-hours club or make out with the wrong spouse or take a cab to a casino a hundred miles away. On Saturday we sleep it off. On Sunday we go out for a very greasy breakfast, then clean the house, then pick up Cookie, and then life returns to normal.

Some people would call that a weekend. I used to, occasionally. (Except for the bit about making out with the wrong person, I swear.) But now that I’m a parent, I call it cheating. On Cookie. Because it just feels like one of those fantasies where you’re hooking up with Daniel Craig, but in order to convince yourself that it’s even possible you’ve got to theoretically get rid of your partner, so he suddenly turns into an irredeemable asshole or you kill him off or something like that. And even though it’s a fantasy, it still feels a bit like cheating. As does the thought of abandoning my child with a family member so I can go off on a lost weekend — cheating on parenthood.

So for now I stick to my two-drink max and the occasional bizarre incident. And someday, someday, when Cookie can take care of herself, I’ll get to Ibiza. Man, will I look out of place by then.

-East End Mama

Just Like Mom

Summer is upon us, and I’m not looking forward to it, entirely. The thought of another summer spent with my mother is bringing Christmas to mind.

My mother spent this past Christmas in the hospital. “You and Prince Philip,” I tell her with a chuckle over the phone, because we’re Protestant and that’s how we deal with uncomfortable situations: via flippant comments, frequently regarding royalty. The reason for her hospitalization is a gathering cloud over the phone line, heavy with fear but unacknowledged, and only guessed at since it’s Christmas and all the lab people are on holiday. But inevitable, dreaded for years, she’s been sick twice before so it’s going to happen again, that’s just guaranteed. It’s the timing that’s the kicker, the news coming during a flying visit to the city to see her granddaughter and help her other daughter pick a wedding dress, delivered to her over cell phone at a party as she helped take Cookie’s coat and boots off, just a week before Christmas. (Why the sudden rush? She’s been complaining to the doctors since last February and they’ve been waving off her suspicions, so they must be seen to be responsive when it counts, I suppose.)

The other cloud hanging over our conversation is the fact that I can’t tell her that I love her and am terrified for her and for our family. It’s just not who we are with each other. My dad’s a different story: “I love you” comes easily to him, and aware that it’s not easy for us he says, offhandedly but significantly, “Yep, I’ll tell her you love her” after I say “Tell her we’re thinking of her” when she’s in surgery. So why can’t I tell my mother I love her?

This is a question I’ve been grappling with for months. For the past two summers I’ve spent several months with Cookie and my mother at our family retreat, our farm, and am about to do the same again, against my better judgment. The first summer, Cookie was brand new and I was glad for the guidance and support and my mom was glad to provide it. This past summer, my mother forgot the number one rule from the previous summer — only give advice when asked — and resented the couple nights I asked her to watch Cookie so I could go back to the city and try to reconnect with Cookie’s dad. Bitter comments followed my return each time, and the resentment on both sides grew over the course of the summer. By the end, anything she said to me in front of others was rude or critical (strangely, she was almost nice when we were alone), so I was ecstatic when she left. I now know that she was frightened and in pain the whole time (and why couldn’t she just tell me this?), but I’m still completely confused by how our relationship deteriorated, although not entirely surprised. To be honest, I was more surprised the previous summer when it did not deteriorate, since historically our limit seems to be two weeks’ uninterrupted time together. And that’s the extreme limit, the point at which silent treatments start. I’ve always speculated that the problem lies in how alike we are, and of course swore up and down after some particularly cruel comments that I would never treat my daughter the way she treats me. But, as inevitable as illness itself, we are destined to become just like our moms.

I am profuse and exhibitive with my affection for Cookie. I tell her several times a day I love her; I hug and kiss her every chance I get; I smile at her frequently and for no reason. And yet, I find myself at times shutting down in front of her or giving her mini versions of the silent treatment I’ve inherited from generations of women in my mother’s family, and it scares me. Was this how my mother was with me? Did she lavish me with love and attention when I was little? I can’t remember, but it’s quite possible. I was her first, and new, and adorable (weren’t we all?), so how could she resist? And if that’s the case, at what point did our current pattern develop? When my sister was born? When I became considerably less adorable, with glasses and braces? Or when I became a teenager and shut myself off from her? Whatever the cause, I’m determined to avoid it, but am terrified that I can’t. Much like the illness we’re faced with.

I recently worked on a project that had to do with this illness and alternative ways to treat it, and was inspired to tackle it myself in such a way, if it comes down to it. But I have a hard time sharing this knowledge with my mother, even though it could save her life. She’s skeptical; she’s been down the other road before (and look how that turned out, I argue); she’s more comfortable within the conventional system; and although she’s not afraid of change and newness, she’s not going to radically alter how she lives her life. These are my arguments to myself. I casually mention a woman in Owen Sound who has done phenomenal things; I consider my work done. But I swear to myself that I will change. I will look for a naturopath and take preventive measures. I will be strong enough to extricate myself from the system and visit the woman in Owen Sound if this ever happens to me. I will live a long, healthy life free of pain and fear and negativity and withheld affection. I will not be like my mom. Ironically, I feel that I owe her that.

-East End Mama

[image source: Andy Warhol Prints]

We Need to Talk About This Movie

Lionel Shriver’s novel, We Need to Talk About Kevin, is now a movie. I remember when the
book came out. I was in London, where they actually advertise books that are intelligent and
well written, so there were posters all over the Tube. My sister bought it. I was curious, but my bedside table was already full.

Years passed, and then I found out I was pregnant. It was a surprise, and not automatically
joyous news, so I took a rather sardonic view of the whole experience. My reading tends to
reflect my mental state, so I borrowed my sister’s copy of Kevin. (I also read Dante’s Divine
Comedy while I was pregnant, so I do know exactly which level of hell unbaptized children
end up in, Reverend Matt.) And I really enjoyed the book. I understood the mother’s conflicted emotions, I shared her hopes and fears, and I was completely caught up in the drama. Despite the obvious parallel to my own life (the having-a-child bit), I felt removed enough from the story that I didn’t relate to the more horrific aspects of it. I recommended the book to anyone who would ask — except other pregnant women. Not everyone is as insensitive as I am, after all.

But now that it’s a movie, I’m avoiding it at all costs. My husband suggested we see it, and my immediate reaction was, “No, no way.” He looked at me a little strangely, then went on with whatever he was doing. I, however, have been analyzing my reaction ever since.

How come I am horrified by the prospect of watching this movie? I have three theories:
anticipation, association, and just plain old creepiness.

Anticipation because I know how it’s all going to play out, and I don’t want to be around for that. It reminds me of the second time I saw The Shining. The first time I saw it, I didn’t find it the least bit scary. The second time I saw it, I knew what was going to happen and I couldn’t watch, didn’t want to see the creepy twin girls, or the torrents of blood, or Shelley Duvall. That may be what’s happening here. I know that that precious mother-and-child relationship will be doomed from the start, and that terrible things will happen to people who don’t deserve it, and that the mother will be helpless in the face of it all. And I don’t want to think about any of those things.

Association because I first encountered this story when I was newly pregnant with Cookie, and I’m afraid that reliving the horrors of it will colour my view of Cookie, or of my pregnancy, or of me. And because now I’m firmly entrenched in parenthood and can relate to the character’s deep love of her little girl and her paralyzing fear for her daughter’s safety.

Plain old creepiness because it’s a horror movie, at heart, and I’m so over horror movies. I’m
tired of being pointlessly scared. The trailer is certainly creepy enough.

I think it’s all three. But I’m curious about how other parents feel about watching movies or
reading books with tragic parent-and-child relationships in them. I’m now terrified of a lot of
books that before I wouldn’t have thought twice about picking up. One Halloween I watched
Dawn of the Dead with a bunch of friends. One of them was pregnant and tired, so she went to bed before we even started the movie. When the zombie-baby birth scene came, her husband said, “Man, I’m glad she wasn’t here to see that.” This from a couple that was referring to their unborn child as “Spawn of Satan,” so I shot him an “as if” look. I’m a little more sympathetic now. I think I could still handle that scene, but there’s a lot I can’t handle. One of my fellow mamas can’t watch Intervention because they always show pictures of the crack addicts as adorable babies, and it reminds her how even her sweet child could end up down the wrong path. I think a lot about how Hitler was probably an adorable toddler, more than I should.

We Need to Talk About Kevin is a complex, intense book richly deserving of the accolades it
has garnered. It seems the movie is following in its footsteps. But I will not be watching it.

-East End Mama