Hi, I am trying something new this week, my posts are getting a bit long, so this one is going to be divided into two posts. Enjoy part one, and check back next week for part two to find out what happened at the bridal shower!
Welcome to the family
My brother is getting married on May 31th. . I would say that with an air of anticipation if they had not been engaged already for a few years. You would think he had been dragging his feet about the wedding because of some sexist assumption that that is what men do, get cold feet, but no my brother’s engagement to his beautiful betrothed was mired in bad timing, kind of like this post. Bad timing can crop up for a myriad of reasons, the onset of illness, a work crisis, a total spiritual rebirth and that was what happened, all of those things to my brother. The one thing that never changed was his desire to be married to his fiancé. I am not sure either family thought it was the right thing or the right time, so fast forward two years we are at the altar. I say we because it’s not just the people, it’s the families that are getting married – for better or worse. Thank God we live at opposites ends of the island, just in case there is a fight about who can be the best mother in law.
My mother has already had a hand in her two daughter’s weddings and they were both lavish affairs, and if I thought her enthusiasm for her third and hopefully final wedding had waned- I was mistaken. My mother actually had even longer to plan, although at times it was twinged with “When will it happen,” angst. As this is her son’s wedding she had to take a back seat to both the bride’s parents, and the couple and she tried her best to keep to her decorum according to the Emily Post book of wedding etiquette and accept the role of “mother of the groom.” It is hard to take a back seat, especially if you are GiGi and on occasion the mask has been known to slip.
GiGi has an especially close relationship with my brother, one that has been on occasion called “weird” by observers, but she has never really wanted to let him go and now she must. It has been a two year learning curve, and perhaps the long lead up has been just what she needed to tone down her own influence over his past, present and future.
We live in the East of the Island and my brother’s fiancé, Dani is from the West end of the island. There is an age old rivalry between each parish, from cricket teams to teenage gangs with guns. Without much encouragement, my mother strapped on her doo-rag, gold chains and “money over bitches temporary tattoos” and fully accepted their chosen theme of East vs. West.
I have been tasked at creating a slideshow for the rehearsal dinner so at the end of last year when I had some time I went to the bride’s mother’s house and collected photographs to scan for the slideshow. During my visit Christine told me of her plans to throw Dani a surprise bridal shower, which I thought was a fabulous idea. A month or so later my mother and sister decide that WE should throw Dani a bridal shower.
“Mom, when I was at Christine’s house she said SHE was planning a shower.”
“I already sent the email and SHE didn’t say anything.”
“SHE is being polite.”
“Your sister feels that because neither of YOU went on her bachelorette you should do something for her.”
“Did SHE really want her sisters in law on her bachelorette?”
“SHE would want us to throw a party.”
“Why don’t you ask Christine if SHE is already planning something.”
“SHE won’t mind.”
“SHE might.”
“Two parties are better than one.”
“You can at least ask Dani.”
“SHE would like you to make your chicken apricot salad without mayo.”
“I will have to check my calendar.”
So that is how it happened- the tale of the dueling bridal showers. Ours was first. My mother cleared her calendar and got the Souleiado table clothes dry cleaned and her silver polished. If she was going to loose her son, it was going to be to a Princess! Nothing was spared, our toddlers were uninvited and the guest list tallied and menu decided, and the date was set for April.
In the week before, anticipation was mounting. My mother started to ask me what I was planning to wear, if I had had purchased a gift, if I had arranged babysitting. The answer of course was “No, not yet.” If I was organized at one aspect of my life, the disorganization would just slip into another area of my life, and so it was that I woke up the Tuesday before the bridal shower with a present idea and not a lot of time to realize it. Back when my friends were getting married I started a personal ritual of getting them kitchen themed embroidered aprons emblazoned with their new last name, for instance:
“Hertzog’s Hussie, Troutman’s Tramp, Bostic’s Babe.” You get it.
And when it was my shower I got “Worsick’s wench” on an oven mitt in retaliation.
Remembering my old faithful idea, I called the embroidery place.
“Can you embroider an apron by Friday?”
“Yes, what colour?”
“Hot pink.”
“What would you like it to say?”
“Um, Spurling’s…. um”
“SLUT…. Yes, Spurling’s Slut.”
“We will call you when it is ready to collect.”
Satisfied I started my work, a few hours later, I imagined the shower, all the women in Dani’s life gathered around, the maid of honour poised with her notebook and pen dutifully note taking who gave Dani what, and then Dani is handed my gift, she unwraps it with the exitement of a little girl at her first birthday party. She lifts it out of the box and reads its adornment…
“Spurling’s slut.”
There is a pause and then a few gasps and then they all stare at me and I wish I could take it back. Perhaps I should give this more thought we were not really as close as I am to Hertzog’s Hussie, Troutman’s Tramp, and Bostic’s Babe.
I called the Emrboidery place back, No answer.
I waited five minutes then called again.
My palms started to sweat. I looked at my watch it would take me thirty minutes to get there. It would take me 30 seconds to call Chris.
In moments my husband mounted his motorbike and within minutes he was outside the embroidery shop. He raced inside hoping he was in time to fix my latest mistake…
“Stop the machine.!”
He looked down and there the hot pink thread came to a winding stop as it finished threading the letter “L”
“SPURLING’S SL….
“We need to make a change.”
“To what?”
“Spurling’s um, um,…. I know…..”
“SPURLING’S SLAVE”
With his quick thinking Chris saved the day, and saved me from unintentional mortification but I was not sure anything would save me from another one of my mother’s parties….
STAY TUNED FOR PART TWO OF MEET THE FOCKERS, NEXT WEEK.
Do you know who Suze Orman is? A week ago I would have said yes but the real answer was really no. Suze Orman’s name and image are like a lot of those ubiquitous things that I choose to ignore, like the Harry Potter books ( although I did watch the movies) and McDonalds, and children’s extracurricular activities. But back in January or February when I was underemployed my aunt said that Suze Orman was coming to Bermuda in May and that she and I NEEDED to go. I agreed, I needed to go especially in my current state but I wasn’t really in the place to pay $40.00 for a ticket, so she offered to buy mine for me. So there it sat Saturday May 10th, Suze Orman’s name in my calendar. If you would have asked me to describe her I would have said,
“She’s that finance lady.” But I had never actually listened to her. This past Saturday was my chance. My aunt Ann and I piled into her van and set off, both admitting we were tired and weren’t sure we wanted to go, but we had the tickets, it was an investment we couldn’t miss. I wonder if Ann hadn’t bought the ticket if I would have gone?
“How long do you think it will last?” I asked.
“I think it will be from 2 until about 4.”
“Two hours! “ I said in shock. The only thing that I had enough attention span to last for two hours was a NAP.
“Are there comfortable seats in the auditorium?”
“I think so.”
I imagined drifting off to sleep while 800 people discussed percentage points and things I didn’t understand like annuities. What the hell is an annuity? I would drift happily to sleep slumped in my chair, happy to have two hours away from a toddler because as a newish mother I really didn’t live in the future or the past anymore. My life was firmly grounded in the present between cooking an organic Applegate sausage to taking out the dirty overnight diapers, boiling eggs, trying to get my work done and carving out an hour to write this blog. Hmmmmm. I was in for a surprise.
When she walked out on stage I raised an eyebrow, she was magnetic and she hadn’t even started to speak. When she started to talk to us I realized she was more than magnetic she was funny. I like funny people, suddenly sleep dropped on the priority list. Then she continued, wow- she had actually done her homework, she was interested and knowledgeable about Bermuda and how we were different from the United States. I always felt a bit helpless here and I didn’t know how to find financial advice from someone who isn’t trying to sell you something you can’t afford to buy. But here she was, Suze Orman, with her perfect news anchor hairstyle and power outfit, speaking directly to me, and 800 other financially irresponsible Bermudians. She was empowering, no-nonsense, and logical and I felt like I came out of there three hours later with a total perspective shift.
This was my takeaway.
Number 1: Pay off the credit card debit.
I don’t have any of that, but only because what I do have is a husband but if I want to keep the husband, I need to:
Stop accumulating credit card debt.
Number 2: Have an 8 month security fund. I don’t have that, but I do have a husband, but if I want to keep the husband I need to:
Save for my own 8 month security fund.
Number 3: Invest in your pension. A pension? What’s that? I have a husband, does that count? NO!
Accumulate my own personal savings in a pension.
Saving? I thought that was something I had to do for my daughter’s college fund not for my pension. I’ll never retire anyway. No.
Save for yourself, your child’s education comes second.
“Finances” is one of those three syllable words that I totally tune out to, but not anymore. I need to be more diligent, I need to learn about this foreign world and take responsibility for my future before it’s too late.
Then Suze, said something else. She was talking to me, it was like she saw me routing around for ten minutes, in my Mary Poppins purse trying to find my cell phone to turn it off at the beginning of the talk.
“If your office is a mess, if your kitchen is a mess, if your closet is a mess, then YOU are a mess. “ She said.
“I am a mess, Suze, I really am a mess Suze!” I thought.
“Prioritize, get your life in order, empower your self.” She said.
“Loud and clear, Suze.” I thought.
So now I am a Suze Orman fan/convert and I am vowing to have more financial responsibility, think long term so that when I get old, Eva won’t be burdened by my needs any more than she will be burdened by my personality.
So today I took pictures of my kitchen, my office and my closet. It’s pretty bad. Lots of room for improvement, like my bank account.
Kitchen… yes that is my purse spilling out onto the table, yes that is an open bottle of organic ketchup and a full ( not for long ) coffee press.
Office… Before you ask that is a wine bottle behind the computer screen, and yes its empty, it was a mother’s day gift ( in addition to the toilet seat) from Chris and I am keeping it because it has a cool label, see below.
Closet… This might be the worst one, seeing I can’t even open the door to get inside, but yes the cowboy hat and sparkly heels are within easy access.
And just look at what I am teaching Eva.
I vow to improve so this time next year, why don’t we call it Suze Orman month (May) I will see how I have improved. It’s a challenge!
Here is the ticket for the show: It got covered in spilled ink in my overstuffed purse. I will need to give that an overhaul too.
Thanks Suze for the wakeup call. Whenever I have a challenge I think W.W.B.D.D. (What would Bette Davis do?) but now I think it might have to be revised: W.W.S.O.D. (What would Suze Orman do?) My favorite story is how she sued Merrill Lynch while she worked there!
As we would say in Bermuda “That Girl, She’s GOT SOME CRUST.”
I did pay my aunt back for the ticket, it was well worth the $40.00 investment
My personal essay “A Real Mother” part of the book Take This Journey With Me: Bermuda Anthology of Memoir and Creative Non Fiction is launching tonight at 5:30pm at the Bermuda Society of Arts in City Hall. Come and see me read a short excerpt along with several other authors included in the book. Pick up a copy for $10.00 and support Derelict Mom! Our editor Rachel Manley will also be speaking.
Happy Mother’s Day! Contrary to what you may think I have been celebrating Mother’s Day since 2003 when my two twin babies were born, Piccolo and Piglet. After I met Chris, my husband, on our first mother’s day as a couple he gave me two Bermuda baseball hats for my dogs. If I wasn’t sure I would marry him before that moment I was convinced right then. He peaked early.
Fast forward eight years. Wow Eight years. I am now coming up to my third mother’s day as a mother of a human. A part of me is still in denial the rest of me is in awe and wonder.
I wonder how I will spend my third human Mother’s Day. My first mother’s day we went out to lunch with my parents, I had two Planter’s Punches and don’t remember the rest of the afternoon. I wouldn’t mind a repeat. What I do remember is the morning of my first mother’s day. Chris and I were still in the throws of getting used to being parents, and what’s more being a parent to a difficult child with colic. But Chris didn’t forget Mothers day because he never forgets anything. He gave me a framed picture of myself with Baby Eva from Easter Sunday. I think my dad had taken the picture with my camera and I had sent Chris the pictures the following week. It was nice but I didn’t really need a reminder. I got a card too, it was signed” x Chris.” I was hoping for a devotional statement about my amazing skills, devotion and persistence at motherhood and the card was blank in the space where it should have been written. This was before I had wholly embraced my derelict ways. My first mother’s day would have been somewhat of a non event if it hadn’t been for the fact I had barely left the house except for work for four months. Chris had said to me that morning that Mother’s Day was not about getting a day off, it was about spending time with my child, as he passed me Baby Eva like a hot potato.
My second Mother’s Day we went to brunch at Grotto Bay, it was a time out in between a week of managing and entertaining two visiting teachers and the one thing I remember was that it was a beautiful day and Eva ate all her Pesto Pasta and Nana and Pops were visiting so it was Grandmothers day too, which Eva loved. And Nana and Pops took care of Eva for a week while I hosted a screenwriting workshop- that was much better than Mothers Day number one.
Then I forgot Father’s Day… left Daddy at home with Eva and went to a friend’s Bridal Shower. Chris won’t mind. We won’t go deeper into that one. I have an excuse. I suffer from Brain Fog. Then I forgot his birthday, not that I hadn’t planned to celebrate it, not that I didn’t have a present but I forgot on the day. Again- Brain fog.
This Mother’s Day, I have a lot of guilt and disbelief that after 11 years I gave up my little baby boy Piglet. It was for a very good reason, he had been trying to kill his brother for a decade and I could no longer keep them apart. See my post from earlier this year for the full story.
I still see Piglet several times a week for visitation like a divorced derelict parent. On days I don’t see him, I try not to think about him and for mother’s day this year I printed out and framed a picture of him and his new mother and put it on my desk. We are now a complicated family. I still have a hard time when I have to leave him after a day out but I know it’s as it has to be. Accept the things you cannot change etc etc. And I am very grateful to his new mom. I should be more thankful to my own mother, but she makes it difficult for me.
The other day she came home from her volunteering as a family court panelist and said they were shown photographic evidence of a truly derelict mother’s child’s lunch box. It was dirty and inside there was only two slices of white wonder bread with a Velvetta cheese slice in between that was still in its plastic wrap. She said it reminded her of Eva’s lunchbox.
If there is one way in which I am not a derelict mother, it’s with Eva’s lunch box. Yesterday she had tomato soup in a thermos, shredded zucchini with pesto sauce, Chinese dumplings and a few raw chocolate super cookies, which are made out of coconut, dates and cacao. It’s hard to find something that is not organic in my fridge. Maybe my mother is just jealous that I don’t feed Eva chicken nuggets, fish sticks and TV dinners like we ate as kids. It was the 80’s I am actually not trying to give my mother a hard time. But really- we ( Chris and I ) even go to the lengths of spooning organic Stonyfield yogurt into empty Peppa Pig yogurt containers because Eva like most of us is a slave to the celebrity culture of being two years old. URGH. The lunch box is actually what I do best even if this Mother’s day I have to proclaim that for myself.
I was thinking I should start a new tradition this year of writing a card to myself, a card to help silence the inner critic, the one and the same, who named herself derelict mom and laughs the hardest at the worst moments. Moments like the night a month or so ago, while I was reading nighttime stories to Eva and she lifted up my shirt grabbing my stomach overhang with her two hands and needing it like dough demanding, “Time to play with my toy.” I guess it is a bit like play dough.
I am thinking that my mother’s day card to myself this year will say,
“Keep laughing, it’s the best medicine. You are doing the best job you can at the hardest job in the world- being you. The universe has plans. “
It will probably have three times as many words as Chris’s card. And if he forgets entirely I can’t really get mad at him. I was hoping for a surprise on Mother’s Day until he surprised me early- last night, sharply ending the suspense I had been in all week. Chris walked in from work carrying something and announced that he had bought my Mother’s Day present. I was excited because it looked big, wrapped in a plastic bag and at first I couldn’t discern the shape although I see it several times a day. He removed it from its sheath and handed it to me.
“ A brand new, Mayfair… Redondo…. Toilet Seat.”
“I got metal hinges, for fifteen more dollars so you won’t be able to break it.”
“ Thanks.” I said looking at the wrapping “ Evidently Redondo is Spanish for Round.”
“Your new nickname!” Chris says.
“Sounds, fancy.” I say.
“ Fancy and Round.” I add.
“ Fancy and Redondo” Chris says with a Spanish accent.
A week before, Eva and I had been mutually partaking of the potty. She was on the “little potty,” and I was on the “Big Girl Potty.” Bathroom breaks were the only time I could sit down in a given day with Eva so I always took advantage of what was usually quite a production. We have a collection of books in the bathroom, they are all intellectual titles, if you are Two. We traded in our New Yorker magazines for “Good Night New York,” our Time Magazines for “ Ashleigh’s Big Girl Potty.” So on and so forth.
Mid Production, Eva yells “Mommy, turn the page.”
So mid production, I lean over toward Eva to flip the page, when
“CRACK”
For a moment I wonder if I have farted, because the sound is coming from that direction, but I realize it’s pretty hard to do that without knowing despite what everyone says.
Then I feel something slide underneath me, I imagine it’s like a 5.0 magnitude earthquake along the San Andreas fault but the problem was the fault line was under my butt.
I careened, caught in my underwear into Eva, spilling her off her potty, and both of us, pants around our ankles, fall into a heap on the floor.
Chris rushes into the room.
“I think I broke something.”
“Yes you did.”
“I did?”
“You cracked the hinges right off the toilet seat. How did you manage that?”
“I don’t care about the toilet seat, I think I broke my ankle, bracing for the fall from aloft.”
“ Maybe it’s just sprained,” I say trying to recover my decorum.
“ Why don’t you pull up your pants,” Chris says.
“Christ give me a minute, “ I say as I pull up Eva’s undies and pants.
“No I mean yours!” Chris says.
“I might not be finished.”
“Well you finished the toilet seat.”
“All I did is lean over and turn the page in her book.”
“ I have told you before, you aren’t very good at doing more than one thing at a time.”
“Don’t most people multi task on the toilet.”
“It’s not the place to learn.”
“Eva, Mommy broke the toilet seat.”
Eva started to cry, and I comforted her.
“Mummy’s got a big butt, it’s not your fault, Eva.”
Eva, like a lot of two year olds starts to cry when something unexpected happens. She has really been perturbed this week because there is a new baby named Luke at nursery. Yesterday when she got home I asked her,
“Do you like Luke?”
“No,” she said.
“Why?” I asked
“Because! He is a baby.” She shouted with disdain.
“I KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN,” I think flashing back to my first few months with Eva.
Eva climbs up above me on the bench we have in the yard, looks quizzically down at me, as if wondering why I was asking. She took her right hand and with the sweetest look of kindness she caressed my face like an old woman would a young child while saying,
“But Mommy, I like YOU. “
and then she added in a preview for June, “ and I like Daddy TOO.”
And that was enough for me on Mother’s Day. Oh and the new toilet seat was a great addition. But Mother’s day is also about being grateful for ones own mother. I certainly can’t forget I have one of those, so even though she doesn’t like to babysit for Eva, criticizes my highest achievements in motherhood, my lunchbox, and drives me crazy, I still have to admit she is wonderful, I do love her, and she is an amazing sport about my blog although she is prone to longwinded comments. But who reads the comments?
I found this funny picture of my mother with her mother which I thought I would include doesn’t the picture say it all!
In celebration of the love and hate relationship which is the mother-daughter dynamic, go and watch August: Osage County with Meryl Streep and Julia Roberts, and listen to this old Blues track my friend Sara sent me, “Motherless Child Blues,” a Blues track from the 1930s by “Geeshie and Elvie” one of the earliest and rarest recordings from early 20th century African American music and read the NY times article “The Ballad of Geeshie and Elvie.”
And just in case you are curious, I did give my mother a card, I scanned it and included it below. Like Eva likes to say now: “It’s So Funny!”
This week’s blog is more of an announcement. I am now a published author, as my story “A Real Mother.” is part of a newly released anthology of memoir called: Take This Journey With Me edited by the author Rachel Manley. I haven’t been published before, except for my unedited weekly self published blog which is often “maudlin and full of self pity” but also equally “magnificent,” so this is a big deal for me even if it isn’t for other people 🙂 This piece was written about my experience before I had Eva before I discovered that a real mother is actually a derelict mother. I hope you enjoy a little preview below, and will join me at an event that is free to the public, a reception for the book launch on May 15th at 5:30pm at the Bermuda Society for the Arts where you can hear me and a few other contributors read excerpts from our work. Hope to see you there! Must sign off before Eva smears my entire body in butter.
A Real Mother excerpt:
As a child my vision for my future looked like something out of a Merchant Ivory film: romance, drama and lots of horse riding. There were no jobs or children or responsibility but then somehow I woke up married, 35, pregnant and working full time. Real life had dawned and another person’s life was soon going to take priority over mine and I was in both shock and denial. I was able to waddle through life quite happily thirty plus pounds overweight, but every day when I picked up my prenatal vitamins I was relieved by the sound of the pills rattling around inside representing all the time I had left before her birth. On one particular day I looked down at the mother and baby on the bottle and was sure of only one thing: that was not what was happening to me. Call it a premonition, but I knew what I was facing would not be the vision of smiling maternal bliss on the vitamin label. My fingernail picked at the corner of the picture hoping it would peel off. Did the woman have to look so thin and perfect, be dressed nicely and have perfectly straight hair? The mother looked like she had been eating lettuce leaves for nine months not chocolate milkshakes. I brought the bottle up really close to my eyes, and squinted at the detail; I was horrified to realize that she was a model. It was a lie; this woman was posing; she was getting paid; she wasn’t the babies’ real mother. She wasn’t real like me. I wondered what that meant, what made me a real mother? Swollen ankles, cellulite, chocolate milkshakes, a scowl and the other speechless things that happened to you in pregnancy? Then I looked at the baby in the picture and down at my stomach, and realized that part of the picture wasn’t real yet either. I had no idea what a real mother was.
When I started this blog in January I never thought I would be blogging about genealogy, in fact I had to look up how to spell the word, but now I am hooked. My “uncovering” led me to my grandfather’s albums, which had been temporarily forgotten in a box in my parent’s vacation house. I have no idea what might have happened to the albums when my parents sell the house they are putting on the market this week.
At home, my husband gets madder and madder every evening when he discovers another book or file from the 1930s spilling pages stacked up on the back of his couch, when there is no room left he might move out. And then there is poor Eva who with my blog, scrapbooks and videos and her misfortune to be born to a documentary filmmaker mother, she will be both immortalized and exaggerated for time immemorial. My current philosophy regarding hoarding is, it’s an underappreciated art form but I digress.
My grandfather Curt was a lovely sentimental man who left us at the ripe old age of 96 and with a few mysteries to figure out. In his album, he did not disappoint- we found a secret pocket with correspondence from an ex girlfriend who had suffered a mental health breakdown, and a family secret hidden in a letter hidden behind a photograph. My mother discovered it by accident and we then had to pull out every other photo and look behind it. All of that to say, that in the same album I came across this poem cut out and glued in, which in a way inspired this post.
All of our lives are quickly passing, brought home to me recently by reading love letters clearly penned by a teenage boy whom I only knew as an old man. The same is to be said of watching my little toddler grow up and change from an infant into a little girl. Don’t worry I am not getting sentimental – Hell will freeze over before I get sentimental about the first six months of Eva as a baby. I don’t want that back ever. When I was crying to strangers, with a boob hanging out, unable to get a grip on my life, there was always that advice, “This 2 Will pass.” It was the only thing that helped, I knew at some point Eva would have to stop screaming. Five months in she grew out of her colic and things began to improve. I no longer looked at people who had bathed that day with wonder and jealousy and I had reclaimed some control over choices in my life, now if I don’t shower it’s because I chose not to. It wasn’t grand but it was better. What didn’t work was this advice, “If you think having a baby is hard, just wait until you have a toddler, it’s worse.”
Now that I have a toddler I have a new theory on that piece of advice and it is this: People who complain about toddlers must have had easy babies. It just can’t compare. Give me a tantrum any day over breastfeeding that doesn’t work, a baby that doesn’t sleep, sterilizing six times a day for months, mastitis, and weight gain that gets worse after birth, and no way to communicate with a baby who clearly did not want to be born into this century or maybe she just didn’t want to be mine, the last theory is still on the table.
Eva I would say is a pretty good toddler, but tantrums do occur sometimes and sometimes at the worst moments. A few weeks ago was the Bermuda International Film festival. Every year I try and take part in some way. This year Jan Harlan was Chief Juror and he returned to Bermuda for a second visit after coming last year for the Screenwriting in Paradise workshop I hosted. I was happy once again to see him several times over the week. A friend Susanne and I had planned that on his last day here, she would drop him off at my house, I would entertain him, take him to dinner with Eva and then to the airport to catch his night flight back to London. Sounded like the perfect plan but seldom does anything with a toddler work perfectly to plan. I always have hope, I am not sure why.
On the evening in question, I was running late as usual and drove into the house at 5:30 but managed to get Eva’s dinner packed and her sorted out before Susanne and Jan arrived. Jan Harlan for those that don’t know was Stanley Kubrick’s brother in law and longtime producer, collaborator and friend. Jan now keeps Kubrick’s films and legacy alive by travelling the world setting up the Kubrick exhibitions and lecturing and publishing books about the man, his films and his legacy, which is Jan’s legacy as well.
After Susanne left, I took Jan over to meet the Gruncles, (Eva’s Grand Uncles) to show him that all things on Speaker’s drive aren’t derelict and that there were people who lived here who had class and good taste. Eva tagged along, happy to visit their toad pond, and dressed head to toe in a Tinkerbelle fairy costume. We approached their glorious house, two stories surrounded by wrap around balconies, over St. George’s harbour and framed by a collection of palm trees. Walking up the brick welcoming arms onto the porch, I detected a slight reluctance in the little fairies hand I was holding. I nudged her along.
After admiring the nasturtiums in full bloom, we entered the Gruncle’s house through two huge suspended temple doors. It was like passing a threshold and entering the Ming Dynasty except that there is also a fully equipped modern kitchen with all the latest appliances, (except for a red kitchen aid mixer as that is at my house.) By now Eva’s reluctance had turned into a “No, I want to play outside.” To which I responded,
“We have to go inside and see the Gruncle’ Michaels.”
She started to cry, so I picked her up and brought her inside.
“This is my Uncle Michael,”
Jan shook Michael’s hand,
“And this is my other Uncle Michael.”
He shook hands with Big Mike. He didn’t look confused even if he might have been.
The Michael’s poured us glasses of white wine, on a glorious late afternoon in a Bermuda spring. It couldn’t be a more beautiful day.
Jan took in the whole house, the blooming pink orchids, the scent of sumac, and cardamom, to the tall ceilings and art and artifact of the Michael’s previous lives and adventures through Asia. Classical music was tinkling out of the sound system and the air had the promise of summer.
“This is magnificent, just magnificent.” Jan said taking in the palms that almost surrounded the house.
Eva was a bit of a liability in a house like this, there was always a risk she would want to take a trinket or a souvenir out of the Ming dynasty Pagoda and it would disappear and turn up months later in her Peppa Pig doll house if at all. Or worse be dropped in the toad pond, and forgotten. Babies and toddlers probably didn’t belong in the Michael’s house, so when she was there I tried to keep a close eye on her. Worst possible scenario is she would try to mount the Tang Dynasty camel.
Eva was patient enough to see if she was getting a present, usually when she comes over she gets either a new Chinese outfit or at least a dumpling. She was 0 for 0 this afternoon and she didn’t drink wine yet. Eva didn’t know or appreciate it but the dumplings that appeared in our freezer were put there by the Gruncles.
I had just sat down probably for the first time that day, and brought the glass of wine to my lips when I got a tug on my trouser leg.
“Mommy, I want to go outside.”
I put the glass down.
“Ok in a minute”
“No now! “
“No in a minute, Mommy is talking.” Mommy wasn’t talking she was trying to drink a glass of wine and have the option of taking part in a civilized conversation that didn’t involve Peppa Pig or Mickey Mouse.
“Outside now” Eva barked, this time I didn’t respond. She stewed.
A few sips of wine later, I was thinking about pitching to Jan how he should try and sell the idea of my screenplay to his friends at Warner Brothers.
A Perfect Day,
A Glass of Wine
A possible entre to Warner Brothers
The perfect moment.
And then it happened.
Eva shut her eyes, balled up her fists, opened her mouth and there was just silence and then an ear piercing scream followed by short rapid breaths, blind kicking and punching movements vaguely in my direction but with enough force to knock her off her own feet. Then muffled words came out between the scream-breaths.
“I –WANT- TOO – GOOO- OUTSIDE.”
I put down my glass of wine, gave Jan and the Michaels a sheepish smile while they continued small talking while pretending not to stare at what is known as a TANTRUM.
The side door was the quickest exit. I whisked her out immediately. That is always your first goal as a parent, when the TANTRUM strikes, remove child from the direct vicinity of anyone even if they have hearing aids. A piercing scream would make anyone think twice about saying how cute Eva is.
When we got outside, meeting the demand, which started the TANTRUM, Eva was not satisfied as the TANTRUM usually ends up being about anything other than what actually started it.
“What is wrong Eva, What do you need?”
“I want to go to my house.”
“You can’t Eva, we have to stay with the Michael’s and Uncle Jan.”
I don’t know why I try to reason with a toddler, it’s futile but we still do it I think with the false hope that suddenly her capability to reason will grow up by twenty years.
She cried and stomped her feet.
“Mommy has to go back inside, are you coming with mommy or do you need to be by your self.”
“No, No. No” She said.
“Okay Eva you can stay out here but do not leave the balcony, you can come back in when you have calmed down.”
When I closed the screen door to rejoin the party, the TANTRUM regained strength. Her stomping turned to thrashing which turned into running, and soon there was a screaming, stomping Tinkerbelle Banshee running loops around the wrap around balcony, each one getting faster and louder, as I enjoyed my glass of white wine inside chatting to Jan and the Michaels.
“The wine, the body is full, but it’s so light and zippy.” I say commenting on the Pinot Grigio, kissing up to the finer palated in my midst.
“It’s quite fruity.” replied Jan in his Teutonic tone.
“Pardon me,” Said the Michaels.
I swirled the wine in the glass like you are supposed to do. I smiled and did my best to indulge in an over thought out analysis of the short films that won at the festival.
As the screaming and running continued unabated, I thought to myself:
“This 2 Will Pass. She won’t scream forever.”
Conversation drifted to Coral Beach, the exclusive private club where Jan had been staying, the highs and lows of the food at the restaurant, the view, the general ambiance as we, the four of us tried to collectively ignore Eva’s pacing and screaming. Eventually I spoke to what no one else dare comment on. The TANTRUM.
“Let me just check to make sure she hasn’t thrown herself off the balcony.” I exited stage right onto the porch.
She looked up at me, stopped running like she might have finally won,
“Eva, have you calmed down now, would you like to come inside?”
“No, !!! I want to go to my house.”
I knew she wouldn’t leave without me, so I shook my head and returned inside the threshold of the screen door.
She returned to her well worn loop.
When back inside, I said, “She is only 2, she has to get tired at some point.”
Jan looked at me with a slight smile, one that was either a smile of understanding or of disapproval; I could not tell, and then he said,
“It seems to me that there is a battle of wills going on, who will win, that is the question, who will win?”
“I will win the battle, she will win the war.” I thought.
A few minutes later, after I had gulped my wine when no one was looking, I saw a little face smushed up against the screen. She was breathing heavily, sort of snorting but she wasn’t screaming any more. Her face was red and she had worked up an appetite.
I bent down to her level, and asked,
“Eva have you calmed down?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to cry anymore?”
“No.”
“Okay, would you like to go to your house?”
“Yes.”
“Would you like a dumpling?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes they just have to get it out of their systems.” I explained.
Eva and I had come to an understanding you might call it a TRUCE.
Jan, Eva and I said farewell to the Michaels and stepped out of the Temple doors and went back to our house. Later we met daddy at the restaurant, had a pleasant dinner where she was surprisingly well behaved and then we took Jan to the airport and said our goodbyes before returning home to put Eva to bed. It was the end of a typical day in the life of a 2 year old and her Derelict Mother.
That night as I was going to bed I was reminded of those people who said, “If you think a baby is hard, wait till you have a toddler.” They were wrong. I wouldn’t trade this for the world, sure my Warner Brothers moment was ruined but she had already pretty much ruined my career, if you could call it a career. But when she was a baby- that – almost ruined my whole life, but I knew then as I knew in this moment… That This 2 Will Pass. I will have to admit that I will in later years look back at my raging Tinkerbelle and miss her spirited rebellion and hey anything where I can still sit down and have a glass of wine- it can’t be that bad now can it. It’s nowhere near as bad as breastfeeding a baby. A friend who had had a similar experience sent me this link this week to a blog about breastfeeding.. I would say it touches on what it was like for me, but I made it far worse for myself by working and refusing to give up. I won’t be writing a blog about breastfeeding, I will be writing a book, forthcoming. # Crazy and Derelict!
I cheated on a test called a PSI earlier this year. It was my first time cheating on a test, as I was always an honest student in school and proudly flunked every math class as a result.
I had never heard of PSI before, or rather I had only heard of it as PSI the scientific exploration of psychic phenomena and yes I would probably pass a test in that, it has been a hobby of mine for the last few years. To my dismay the questions did not entail details of what happened in last week’s episode of “The Ghost Inside My Child,” or “The Haunting of that guy from CHIPS.” … and it was multiple choice, something about multiple choice fills me with anxiety… but let me explain how I came to have to take a standardized test at age 37 while thinking I was enjoying a twenty year hiatus between the horror of taking standardized tests and the anxiety of coaching my child through them. I was always one of those students that was much much smarter than her test scores (no one accuses me of modesty) but that’s not very remarkable is it? It’s far more interesting to meet someone who fails in school but scores perfectly on the math SAT. The exams are rigged, that’s my theory. Multiple Choice was invented by men to befuddle women so it came to no surprise to me that the PSI test I was subjected to was written by a man, a man named: Richard R. Abidin.
In January the Department of Child Services mailed me a pamphlet asking if I wanted a free assessment of my child to assess her two year old development progress. Of course I will go for anything that is free, so I filled it out and said: Yes please, I am unemployed so my schedule is open. At some point later in January a nice woman named Edwina (she even has a name from the 12th century) came to visit my daughter one afternoon to “assess her development.” I was worried that Eva would not accept Edwina into her lair at age two for Madame Eva takes some time to warm up to strangers especially when they are in her space. At the moment she is even jealous of the dogs, and says to me “You are not Piggy’s mommy, You are not Lum Lum’s Mommy, You are only Eva’s Mommy.” She freaks out if they come near her when she is eating or if they try and come into her room or the bathroom while she is on the throne. It’s called Sibling rivalry. If Piccolo tries to sit on my lap, she bears her teeth at him and stares him down in a declaration of war until he gives up and returns to his pillow. It made me wonder when the fangs would come out with Edwina.
Eva was suspicious and obviously concerned that Edwina might be that monstrous thing called a babysitter. I tried to distract everyone,
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
Eva stared at Edwina and the enormous blue suitcase that accompanied her. I could tell Eva was wondering what the hell was in it, and I was having the same thoughts, because when she was assessed at eight months old they only brought a few blocks and stacking toys. I wondered if they made it that big, big enough to fit a two year old if they felt her surroundings were “unfit,” and needed to smuggle her out of the neighborhood. I had spent the two hours before Edwina came scrubbing Eva’s play area, which probably had not been cleaned since it was erected. Nothing was giving me away except for the unmistakable odor of cleaning fluid. Pine- Sol fresh. I wasn’t really trying to hide anything other than cockroach droppings and I didn’t put those there on purpose. I was trying to be a good mom even if I was a few cockroach droppings shy of perfect.
Edwina’s first words after, “Earl Grey,” were, “My goodness she is small for her age.”
I winced wondering how much Eva understands of that sentence, as I am sure she will hear it over and over throughout her life until she is my age and starts growing in other directions, out and down and soon no one would be able to call her small anymore even though she never broke five feet in height.
“Don’t tell her that, she calls herself little.“ I say.
Eva says nothing but stares at Edwina’s clipboard with fascination and mistrust. Halfway through our tea cups I decide to interject.
“Shall we all go down into the play area?”
The three of us march downstairs, Eva’s head swivels around careful never to loose sight of Edwina but careful not to get too near. Edwina follows my lead and does not try too hard with Eva as not to blow her chances.
The three of us sit down in the play area, Eva just keeps staring at Edwina’s suitcase like she was waiting for the big reveal. Edwina slowly unzips it and very quietly she pulls out a toy and places it on the floor between Eva and herself. Eva’s eyes light up, and Edwina pulls several other toys out of the bag. Eva looked at me with excitement and perplexion as if to say,
“You lied mommy, Santa Claus isn’t an old fat man in the red suit at the mall in Boston with ketchup on his beard, Santa Claus is a beautiful woman named Edwina.”
Eva snuggled in next to Edwina like she had found her long lost mother, and at the same time theorizing in her tiny mind that I had kidnapped her from the maternity ward. As soon as the toys came out, Eva had one foot in the big blue suitcase and was hoping to be signed on as Edwina’s little helper or a reindeer if the position of chief elf wasn’t possible. They got along like a house on fire. I was surprised, maybe I was a little jealous. Edwina was one of those people, with an enchanting way about her. When you see them with children you know that was what they were born to do. Poor Eva she didn’t get one of those as a mother, but now she has one as her own special social worker / Santa Claus at least for the next hour.
I was hovering over them; I admit it. I was wondering if Eva would thread the needle just right, or pick up the right colored ball, and when and how and for what I would get points deducted from my placement in the institution of motherhood. Edwina noticed me hovering, she returned to her suitcase and I was sure she was reaching in for tranquilizers but instead she pulled out a folder of paperwork.
“While I am testing her I need you to fill out some paperwork.”
“Okay “ I said, figuring parents did not belong in Santa’s workshop.
Edwina handed me a pencil and pointed to the opposite end of my dining room table. I obeyed and flipped open the booklet.
“PSI.”
“Don’t worry it is multiple choice.” Edwina says from across the room.
“Okay.” I say with anxiety looking at the pencil.
“Now Eva, mommy has to do some homework and you have to play with Edwina”
“No!” Says Eva, “ I want to get naked.”
I drop my pencil and return to the play area, Eva was feeling too at home in Edwina’s presence, and because she was only two had no idea she was actually being examined and that her behavior was impacting on our standardized test score. I hoped there wasn’t a time limit.
Eva tries to take off her shirt and it gets stuck on her head and she starts to panic. I grab the shirt and whip it off. Then she bends over and starts taking her pants down, bending over so that Edwina gets a peek at her bum. I panic and pull them back up.
“No Eva, its not Naked time.” She starts to whine and scream.
“I want to be naked.” I look at Edwina trying to see if she is shocked and try and determine if I should take a stance or give in. Edwina didn’t seem to mind so I gave in, and let her take her development test in the nude.
“I am naked” Eva says with a smile.
“Play nicely with Edwina.” I say turning my attention to the test. To my surprise, naked Eva sits down crossed legged and with quiet concentration plays with Edwina like the perfect child wearing an imaginary tunic from 1805.
Meanwhile, I look down, and instantly suspicious of this PSI test I roll up the sleeve of my left hand and like a grade school cheat I scratch the website and address at the bottom of the test sheet onto my forearm to look up later. After answering the first few questions I look to see how many sheets this thing was, it was going to take me forever- in actuality about an hour, about the same time Edwina needed to test Eva without interruption from an interfering parent.
It came with directions:
“In answering the following questions, please think about the child you are most concerned about.”
And it continued.
“The questions on the following pages ask you to mark an answer which best describes your feelings. While you may not find an answer, which exactly states your feelings, please mark the answer, which comes closest to describing how you feel. YOUR FIRST REACTION TO EACH QUESTION SHOULD BE YOUR ANSWER.”
“What is my first reaction: F this test.” I start to write that down then realize I am not actually answering a question so I read on.
The first question is: When my child wants something, my child usually keeps trying to get it.
My answer “ Strongly Agree”
My child is so active that is exhausts me?
My answer “Strongly Agree.” And then I scratch in the margin, “especially after a few cocktails.”
My child appears disorganized and is easily distracted?
“Strongly agree,” “ but that might be my fault not hers.” I scroll in the margin.
My child squirms and kicks a great deal when being dressed or bathed.
“Strongly agree.”
“She prefers to be naked but will wear shoes but we argue about that: she likes her high heels and I try and make her wear her red sparkly Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz shoes every day and she hates bathing, she can’t get her hair wet unless its Wednesday.”
My child rarely does things for me that make me feel good.
“Strongly Agree. “ I have visions of when she ran around the grocery store piercing plastic packages with her uncut fingernails and knocking things off shelves then crying and saying Mommy hurt her. I gave the cashier my best Derelict Mom fake smile.
Most times I feel that my child likes me and wants to be close to me.
“Strongly disagree.“ I remember last night at 2am when she slapped me in the face and screamed for her daddy, her gigi, her hamma, her nanna, her pops, the man on the street corner, anyone but MOMMY.
When I do things for my child I get the feeling that my efforts are not appreciated very much.
“Strongly agree. Last week I made her Sheppard’s pie she threw it on the ground and then screamed when Piccolo ate it.“
My child seems to cry or fuss more often than most children.
“Strongly agree. “
I feel that my child is very moody and easily upset.
“Strongly agree. She is just like her father, it’s genetic.”
My child does a few things, which bother me a great deal.
“Strongly agree”, and I begin my list: Tantrums, she likes Daddy more than me, she is jealous of the dogs, she never wants me to play with her.
When my child came home from the hospital I had doubtful feelings about my ability to handle being a parent.
“Strongly agree. When I got home from the hospital I was hoping I would wake up from a dream. Go away bad dream! “
My child turned out to be more of a problem than I had expected.
“Strongly agree. It started with the colic.”
The probing personal questions were making me feel like Harold in the movie Harold and Maude when his mother makes him sign up for a dating agency and he has to fill out a questionnaire. See this clip on YouTube. One of the best movies ever made in Hollywood. Not only can I relate to Harold, but I bet my mother had a hat like that in the seventies.
This test was testing my development not Eva’s somehow I knew this had to all be a ruse. I was being tricked into being honest again. I looked down at my test; I was most certainly flunking. I looked at the pencil Edwina gave me, — it was one of those ones WITHOUT an eraser. I took a deep meditative breath like they teach you in pregnancy yoga and tried to figure out my options.
“Edwina?”
“Yes? “She says from the playpen.
“I am about half way through, do you mind I will excuse myself to use the bathroom, but Eva seems to be fine with you.”
“Of course,” Edwina replied.
I waited a few minutes, then as quietly as I could I slipped out of the room without Eva noticing, closing the door behind me. I ran up the stairs into my office and ransacked my drawers. Among the old canisters of film, and old cell phones I found a disregarded pencil eraser- thank god for saving things from the nineteen eighties.
I ran back down the stairs flushed the toilet, counted to ten then calmly entered the room and sat down shifting my presence so that my back was hiding my erasing arm. By some miracle of 1980s textile manufacturing the eraser didn’t fall apart and I was able to fill in the “correct” answers with enough variety to not arouse suspicion.
There were even better questions on the next page:
There are problems in me marriage
I feel I have lost my identity
I resent my child
(I am really glad these aren’t essay questions. I think)
I feel trapped by my responsibilities as a parent.
I often feel that my child’s needs control my life
I feel that I am:
A very good parent
A better than average parent
An average parent
A person who has some trouble being a parent
Not very good at being a parent.
And still more, these are my favorites:
Sometimes my child does things that bother me just to be mean.
“Strongly agree, I mean disagree. “
And
The number of children that I have now is too many.
“Strongly agree I mean disagree.”
Eva’s test seemed to be going even better than mine and she was really pulling out all the stops. Suddenly she said to me, “Mommy I have to tee tee.”
Edwina’s eyes popped out of her head.
“You mean she is potty trained?”
“Yes, she was potty trained for tee tee from 18months, and we conquered number twos at twenty two months.”
Edwina was astonished. She was even more astonished that Eva knew her opposites, complex concepts, could count and use prepositional phrases, plurals, and had better pencil grip than her mom. The only thing I could really take credit for was that I was pretty good at lying to my kid about the TV being broken so she would read books.
“Well on the Ghost inside My Child, they say children with exceptional abilities have a past life they can still remember.”
Edwina’s eyebrow arches in my direction. I start to back track.
“I know going to the potty isn’t exceptional to most people.”
When Eva and I returned from the bathroom, Edwina had packed up her suitcase. I think I scared her off with too much talk about Lifetime television. This is what motherhood had done to my Saturday evenings. Edwina seemed to be in a rush out the door.
As she zipped up the suitcase, Edwina said, “Eva passed with flying colours.”
I thought to myself “Mommy passed too even if she had to cheat but Eva will never know until she finds my Derelict Mom blog archive.”
We were walking up the stairs toward the front door. Edwina paused to say goodbye and she could look directly into my office from where she was standing. Out of the corner of her eye I could see Edwina spot and stare at the ransacked drawers. I follow her eye and thinking on the spot I got creative to try and cover my tracks.
“Eva has a pet rat and it escaped when we were cleaning its cage. We think it is making a nest somewhere in my desk. “FiFi” “FiFi”
I was getting better at lying and now I was thinking it was right up there next to cheating, hoarding and parenting in the Derelict Mom list of useful skills.
Edwina seemed to buy it, and we said our goodbyes, Eva and I stood on the doorstep waving goodbye like the perfect developmentally advanced, Derelict Mother and Daughter.
Eva and I spent the rest of the evening looking under the couches, and in the desk drawers for Eva’s imaginary pet rat. “Fi Fi” “Fi Fi”
I was relieved. The only thing that stood between Derelict mom and a visit from the mental health visitor was a pencil eraser. Thank god for pencil erasers. One day I will be honest with my daughter, I will tell her the truth, that mom was just somebody who had some trouble being a parent. I know there are others out there.
A few weeks later I got my results in the mail. We both passed. Tucked in the envelope though there was another pamphlet “ Time out as a discipline technique.” I guess Eva’s naked episode made Edwina think I needed a few pointers. At least Derelict Mom didn’t have a naked episode was all that came immediately to mind.
I have had a pretty crazy week. Two weeks ago nothing. Now madness. Spent four hours this morning planning to change the world with my newest sisters. BTW ladies its National Siblings day, thanks for adopting me. Changing the world takes a lot of work therefore I only left my self the last 45 minutes of the work week to write my blog. EEK. I promise a longer blog next week, this week it’s the Reader’s Digest version.
As I have said before I have been investigating my mother’s father’s family: The Youngbloods. I have come to the conclusion that my grandfather and a couple other siblings got all the brains and I might still be being modest. It turns out my relatives might not be the only ones a few hotdogs short of a picnic. Earlier this week I decided to chase up a death certificate I had ordered for my grandfather so I called up the central records office of the State of Virginia.
“Hello, I ordered a death certificate and it has not arrived yet.”
“What kind of record were you looking for?”
“A death certificate.”
“What is your name?”
“Lucinda Spurling, I ordered it about four weeks ago.”
I could hear her typing my name into the system.
“I don’t see anything coming up, is the death certificate for you, in your given name?”
“No I am looking for a death certificate. I am not calling from the afterlife. The certificate is for my grandfather, he died in 2005. I am still here.”
“Oh, of course. What was his name?”
I myself suffer from brain fog on occasion. I am not sure what to call the above, brain fog, confusion, or just mediocrity or being bored with the job of telephone attendant. I know I would be bored. It was funny for a moment.
So today I decided to share a few more “funny for a moment” clips from my 1985 family video from the deep south. I was thinking about writing a description for each of these videos but I don’t think there are any words for them you just have to watch. I find it endlessly entertaining. I will probably be playing these clips in 2025. I do find it funny that a paper mache skull won the science fair. Maybe that’s where my interest in the macabe comes from. Enjoy, each of them are less than a minute long. Until next week.
I have a confession to make. I failed my 10th grade grammar test required to pass into the next grade. I was one of only three people in my entire year to fail. Luckily they let me retake it and I managed to – on the second try, pass, enter the 11th grade eventually graduate and get into college. Phew. Thank goodness for retakes, spell check and friends who are good at proofreading because I really could use a brush up. I have reserved in the most generous core of my being a little bit of admiration for the grammar philes- you know who you are– who consistently point out our errors. It is all of you I have to thank for the knowledge I have a problem with rogue commas, dialogue placement, indentation, and far worse grammatical crimes like dangling participles, a phrase which sounds more like the discovery of a murder weapon than the possible misinterpretation of a sentence.
These women, I have yet to meet a man who is a member of the grammar police, are half school teacher, half passive aggressive serial killer. You might have the misfortune of sending a missive their way and they fire it back to you with highlights, word layers and so much so it looks like a child scribbled with crayons on your typing. Part of me thinks these people draw your attention to your mistakes partly to be helpful and partly in a haughty I am better than you at something way. They sometimes wait for a reaction like they would be pleased that they mortally offended you. It does feel a bit like you went to the doctor’s office and they took a pincher clamp and pinched you in all the wrong places to prove to you you have a weight problem.
I have both, a weight problem and a grammar problem and I already know. My larger difficulty is that I never liked rules, and I can’t count calories. The irony does not escape me, that although I failed my tenth grade grammar test I have a career where I write blogs, scripts, teleplays, grants, and plenty of letters. I give plenty of people fodder for the pleasure of correcting me. I should learn from all this unsolicited “help” but do I, no because I never liked rules like the grammar police. Rules are far more boring than ideas. I say all of this to bring up my big: however moment because there is one grammar issue that bothers me and is the source of much confusion in my family: pronouns. Women seem to be worse than men at this annoying habit of not being specific and my own mother is one of the worst. For example….
She will often ask me something like:
“Will you pick that up and bring it to me.”
“What?” I ask.
“That” she responds with exasperation pointing into the air.
“What?” I ask again as I pick up a folder, a magazine, a pen.
“No, that!” she points again in frustration.
“That, what?” I again plead with her for specification.
Finally she obliges.
“That catalogue.”
“Oh” I say and hand her the catalogue.
“Not that one.” She says
“Which one?”
“That one! “ She insists.
“Ahhhhh.” I respond and push the stack of catalogues in her direction.
Shaking her head mom looks at me like I am stupid and should be able to read her mind.
My mother also suffers from old age. Her bad hearing and eyesight do not help matters when pronouns are involved. I am happy to let the readers know that my mother had a successful operation on a cataract a few weeks ago, but before that time she had been “legally blind” since she was about 10.
One day about a week before she left for her eye operation I joined her on a dog walk in Ferry Reach Public Park with her Doberman, Babe. My mother has been walking her dogs at Ferry Reach for decades in fact I think she thinks it is an extension of her own backyard. It is usually the same people out exercising at the same time of each day, interspersed with Works and Engineering workers, campers, and Regiment soldiers on drills at different times of the year. Then there are Sundays when the park is descended on by families, dogs, and the “Hoi Polloi.” As you can imagine my mother and her Doberman don’t associate with the Ferry Reach “Hoi polloi” and therefore they don’t go walking on Sundays.
Out of the regular weekday walkers I only occasionally show up with my mom and Babe. It is usually a weak moment. My mother has asked if I wanted to go on an exercise walk and I have agreed, knowing what could be a 45 minute walk will turn into a two hour, walk, swim, sunbathe, trip into St. George’s and chat at the post office during which time my mother will address all of what she is concerned are my major challenges in life, like the need to have a son, clean out my fridge, and entertain the neighbors. Most of which have barely crossed my mind.
One such day a couple weeks ago my mother and I and Babe are heading around the last stretch home enroute to the car when my mother (cataract and all) catches sight of a movement in the distance.
“Did you see that up there?” she asks.
“I am not sure, “ I squint with my 20/20 vision.
“I am sure I saw something.”
“Mom other people are allowed inside, it’s a public park.”
“Other people aren’t usually out here at this time.”
“Well maybe today is an exception, the schools are on break you know.”
My mother shakes her head, unconvinced like a hawk shaking its feathers to get a better view. Suddenly she pulls on Babe’s lead who then snaps to attention. Simultaneously she puts her right hand out in front of me to stop me in my tracks, like she used to when she braked for a pedestrian in the old bright red Honda we had growing up before the era of seat belt laws and booster seats.
“Oh my god that person up there has a dog!”
“It’s a free country mom. Other dogs are allowed in Babe’s park.”
“Yes but the dog is off the lead. It’s against the law”
I squint down the mile expanse and I see something shifting about.
“You might be right, but I can’t tell if it’s on a lead.”
“I can’t see that well.” Mom says.
“You saw it before me.” I say.
“What size dog is it?” she asks.
“Mom I think it might be medium sized.” I say squinting at the creature in the distance being walked by it’s family.
“It’s wearing a sweater, so I can’t tell the breed.” I add.
“I can only really see movement from a distance,” my mother says, “everything else is blurry even close up.”
“I bet its an Alsatian, they are really vicious,” She adds. “I saw one out here a few months ago.”
When we approached the family, a little voice said.
“May I pat your dog?”
“Yes,” I say as my mother at the same time says, “No.”
I whisper to my mom, “It’s not a dog.” But she doesn’t hear me.
My mother looks down at the little girl coming toward Babe. Making out the pink sweater she says, “ You know SHE should really be on a leash.”
The mother looks shocked and responds,
“Well SHE is four years old.”
“At four THEY still jump around, trust me, I have one myself they need a leash.”
The other mother just smiles at me awkwardly and they ask again,
“Can we pat your dog?”
Hopeful that my mother could show some willing, I answered for her with a resounding.
“Yes” at the same time she said even louder, “No!”
I look at her as if to say she was being ridiculous and she felt the need to explain,
“My Babe, SHE bites, does yours too?”
The woman keeps trying to pull her daughter away from Babe.
I smile politely and lead my legally blind mother away at which time she says within earshot.
“People need to control their wild animals.”
“Mom it was not a wild animal it was a child on half term break!”
“SHE still needs a leash” my mother said.
It was this moment at Ferry Reach Park that made me realize that my mother’s surgery was not without urgency. This was brought home a few days later when she was taking care of Eva’s cousin Sadie, my sister’s daughter who is also two years old.
My sister’s older son Trystan is five and is being schooled in the art of the prank by none other than his own mother. When my sister arrived at my parent’s house with Trystan to pick up Sadie, Trystan slipped off unnoticed. Thirty minutes later, my mother, Sister, Sadie and Trystan walk into the living room. There on my mother’s prized Moroccan rug was a huge poop.
My mother squinted. She hovered. She sniffed. She bent over, then recoiled in shock.
“My carpet! “
“Quick get the paper towel..” my sister ran off to oblige, when she returned, my mother took the paper towel and hovered over the mess.
Mom looked at my sister and Sadie and said,
“SHE has really gone crazy this time.”
Sadie started to cry. My sister looked at mom in horror.
“Sadie is potty trained.” She insisted.
“No SHE is insane.” My mother insisted.
“Who?” my sister said. “Not Sadie.”
Sadie cried harder.
“ No, BABE! “ My mother yelled as she bent over and picked up a hard fake plastic dog poo.
Trystan giggled the rest of the afternoon, his prank had been more successful than he anticipated… Trystan and my sister after telling me of the scene above, convinced me to replicate the same prank on Chris. What do you know, it worked, probably because there is something easily believable about dog poo on a carpet in the Spurling compound. Of course I videoed it.
The following week I realized I myself was creating misunderstandings for Eva with pronouns. Since she was only a few months old Eva has had a healthy marked obsession with animals. She rides horses without fear, gives fierce snappy dachshunds bear hugs, talks to the flies and feeds the fish; it is part of who she is. Most days we venture to the toad pond to count the toads, and she is occasionally brave enough to touch one; we watch the bird nests and look out for big fish and sea turtles and I cannot wait until she is old enough to take her whale watching.
With her recent emotional maturity evidenced by tantrums and fear of the nighttime, she has started to talk to me about her feelings. On our regular walks she points out every lizard she sees, and says, “I love HIM.” And “I love HIM.” And “I love HIM.” Then she sees the kitty cat, Inky, and says, “ I love HIM.”
I was beginning to realize the errors of my ways, as I must have referred to every living thing over the last two years as a “him.” OPPS. BIG OPPS.
“Inky is a girl kitty cat, Eva.” I say.
She looks at me confused.
“No titty tat is a boy.”
We disagree for quite sometime about this fact until I give up, and go in search of a toad and a snail, which I then refer to as HER. “
“I love HIM.” She says back.
“NO, her “ I say back and she looks at me confused. I realize I am digging myself quite a hole with a toddler.
“Yes you do love the snail but the snail is a girl.”
“No, a boy.”
“Okay whatever.”
Later that night I took her out of her bath and she asked to be held like a baby, so I wrapped her up in the towel and started singing, “Hush little baby,” to which she laughed hysterically and then without warning she announced,
“When I grow up I am going to be a boy. “
“But you are a girl.” I said.
“ No! When I grow up I am going to be a boy and play football.”
“Oh!” I said, “But girls play football too.”
“No Boys! “
These ideas about gender had obviously been subconsciously if not outrightly implied and she had been ruminating about it all day, or perhaps all year. I knew I should have been worried a few months ago when she picked up a baby coconut and pretended it was a penis, and tried to pee standing up.
There are some things women just shouldn’t do but football is not one of them. I will teach her, she will learn. I might have to try and play football just to prove a point. That would be funny. I should video that too. Watch this space.
P.S. My mom posed for the reenactment of the scene below. Who says she doesn’t love my blog!
I had three projects turned down last week. Three! That is a bad week even for me. Truth is the last three months have been the worst in my career. I had found a wonderful person to work with and everything was on the up and up and then I had to let her go and make myself redundant with no pay or notice when a client sidelined a project I had put months of unpaid work into and helped shape and develop, a project we had started in 2011 before Eva was even born. Stupid I know.
Shit happens so why am I so irritated by this latest string of rejections. I think I may have finally come to the last straw: the last of a series of annoyances or disappointments that leads one to a final loss of patience, temper, trust or hope. Definitely hope, trust, yes that too.
Someone said to me yesterday, “By now you should be used to rejection in your business.” Do we ever get used to rejection or do we finally say fuck this and give up and try something new.
I like to think of my current career, (I can’t call it a job because its not a job at the moment) as a Bad Bad Boyfriend. That boyfriend who never calls you back or when he does treats you like crap and yet there is just something about him that keeps you coming back for more despite your ego which is telling you to run for the lifeboats. I dated a few bad boys a long long time ago, got wise to that and found an amazing husband and father to spend my life with. Why can’t I do that in my career? Perhaps it is time to listen to my ego.
The problem is my ego is confused, as soon as I decide I have had enough, people look at me like I am dumping Jude Law, but Jude Law is a bad bad boyfriend too he just looks pretty to everyone else. But then all of a sudden a silver lining, something good happened – an antidote, a great group of people gave me a great job. It is part time so not the answer to all my problems, but it is a start. It is enough to pull me back from the edge when I have already decided to jump. So I am going to make another film, this time it will probably be my last one, it’s kind of nice knowing that going in. I am sure I will get plenty of questions.
“Why are you giving up?” but the fact is I didn’t give up. I had a vision and at some point, and certainly at three points last week, the world more specifically Bermuda decided they didn’t share that vision and so it is time soon to get that divorce from that bad boyfriend I keep complaining to my friends about.
They don’t say anything really to me when I complain they just look at me with fake pity and a haughty “I told you so” look. Even though they say nothing, I can hear them thinking, “Why did SHE think SHE could be a filmmaker as a career.” Then they offer up a “Why don’t you meet with a recruiter,” as if I haven’t thought about that, or they think but don’t say, “You can always be a waitress.” I was a lousy waitress; I already tried it. It doesn’t solve my problem, which is that my ideas are too ambitious, unrealized and perhaps unrealistic in Bermuda. I could keep complaining to my friends about this problem but they would just look at me as if I was complaining about my weight while eating an entire pizza.
But you know what I am going to do, I am going to do something even worse, I am going to proclaim myself a writer. Forget movies. Forget spending all day cutting the tags out of my demanding toddler’s wardrobe.
My husband played a song for me, which I had never heard before the other night. I have played it every day since. It’s my new theme song a la Ally Mc Beal.
Pearl’s a Singer by Elkie Brooks. I have been singing along to it so much, I started to change the words. I now call it Lucinda’s a Writer.
Lucinda’s a writer
She stands up when she plays the keyboard
In the night time.
Lucinda’s a writer
She writes blogs for the lost and lonely
Her job is entertaining folks
rewriting songs and telling jokes
In the night time
Lucinda’s a writer
And they say that she once was a winner
in a contest
Lucinda’s a writer
And they say that she once made a movie
They played it for a week or so
On the local TV station
It never made it
She wanted to be Betty Davis
But now she sits there watching Shameless
Dreaming of the things she never got to do
All those dreams that never came true
Lucinda’s a writer
She stands up when she plays the keyboard
In the night time
Lucinda’s a writer
She writes blogs for the lost and the lonely
Her job is entertaining folks
Rewriting songs and telling jokes
In the night time
Lucinda’s a writer
She stands up when she plays the keyboard
In the night time
Lucinda’s a writer
She writes blogs for the lost and the lonely
Her job’s entertaining folks
Rewriting songs and telling jokes
In the night time…
This song was playing on YouTube in the background while I put my life up for sale on emoo and eBay. My husband pulled me away before I put him and Eva up for a Buy It Now deal and took me outside for some fresh air and a fresh perspective.
Truth be told, I can write movies based anywhere, if I embrace my new career as a writer I can finally eventually divorce myself from Bermuda which will otherwise suck the artistic life out of me if I let it… Bad Boyfriend!
So I am retiring soon but my blog will continue and I will soon say I hail from Nowhere, Oklahoma. Hey it’s artistic license. I am sure all my true fans will understand, that like Bette Davis in All About Eve I am “Maudlin and full of self pity” but I am also “Magnificent.” Even if its only me that thinks so.
Bette Davis scene from All About Eve: ( I tried to put it on youtube but they blocked me)
Bette Davis: “I am being rude now aren’t I, or should I say Ain’t I”
Addison DeWitt: “You are maudlin and full of self pity, You are magnificent.”
Husband: “How about calling it a night”
Bette Davis: “And you pose as a playwright. A situation pregnant with possibilities and all you can think of is everybody go to sleep.”
Husband: “It’s a good thought.”
Bette Davis: “It won’t PLAY.”
– Bette Davis at her best.
I was writing this the other day, after dressing Eva up as Tinkerbelle at her request. By the end of the day this is where her wings and wand ended up. I think Eva is feeling my vibe. She is now a retired fairy.
Derelict Mom 