Me, A Mother? Bad Idea
It’s fortunate I got my tubes tied before I had any kids. This is attested to by many. It’s also evidenced in ways that I try, but can’t quite manage, to be ashamed of. Like my belief that child labor laws are underrated. My glee when someone kidded, “You call it bullying. I call it parenting.” My adoration for children’s book titles that never made it. ”Daddy Drinks Because You Cry;” “Your Nightmares Are Real;” ”Curious George And The High Voltage Fence;” ”You Can Fly.”
I’ve been laughing at these for the last fifteen minutes. You can check out the rest at: http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20090513132028AA6EUwKI’ve
Okay. I’ve pulled myself together and am ready to continue. In celebration of Mother’s Day, I’ve decided to list a few of the things I might have said to a daughter as she got older.
Age 1: “I’ll feed you as soon as I finish my murder mystery.”
Age 2: “Well, if you hadn’t sat on the bee. . .”
Age 3: “I’m sorry the bungee cord snapped you back so hard.”
Age 4: “Playing with Barbie again, Sweetie? Why don’t you get your Jeffrey Dahmer doll?”
Age 5: “Can you think of a synonym for ‘quintessential?’”
Age 6: “Come watch ‘Pulp Fiction’ with Mommy. She had a rough day.”
Age 7: “It’s called Zoloft, honey. It keeps me from hurting myself.”
Age 8: “Shush now. You can stop wearing the brace as soon as we get the handicapped parking sticker.”
Age 9: “For your birthday, I’m giving you the book, ‘Helter Skelter.’ I think you’ll enjoy it.”
Age 10: “You tell Suzie’s mom that there’s nothing wrong with Cocoa Puffs for dinner every night.”
Age 11: “If your breasts turn out to be perky, I’ll resent you.”
Age 13: “Stop talking for a few hours. I’m trying to write a post.”
Age 14: “I have no idea who your father is. I slept with a lot of men that year.”
Age 17: ”Give me your U2 tickets and I’ll give you the keys to the liquor cabinet.”
Age 18: “Happy Birthday. Now get out.”
Age 19: “It’s good to see you! Let’s put on slutwear and go clubbing.”
Me, a mother? Bad idea.
← Back To The Nude Beach |Back To The Nude Beach
My harrowing experience on a nude beach last year did not deter me from frequenting the “no clothing” beach on my recent vacation. (Nor should it have. Vacuuming naked in New Jersey only goes so far.) Here’s how day one unfolded.
My boyfriend and I have just returned from breakfast. I’m in the bathroom. “Hey,” Jake calls. “You almost ready for the beach?” “Give me one more minute,” I reply. “I just have to strip.”
We step onto the sand, trundle past a string of people reading their books on chaise lounges. I can’t even consider leaning forward to try to make out the titles. It’ll look like I’m appraising their genitals.
Jake and I move farther along and claim two chairs. I lotioned liberally back at the room, but as I lower myself to sit, doubt creeps in. What if I missed a crucial spot in a delicate area? “Can you hand me the sunblock?” I ask. ”Sure,” Jake answers. “What number?” “3,000.”
I reapply, trying to ignore the fact that I’m touching my private areas in a public venue. I try redirecting my thoughts to my cat’s monumental cuteness, but they snap right back to the moment. ”It’s not what it looks like!” I want to yell, spreading my arms wide. ”I swear, it’s not what it looks like!”
At long last, I’m settled on my lounge chair. I tilt my face toward the sun, reminding myself that, for the next week, there will never be a bathing suit creeping invasively up my ass. Nothing damp requiring constant yanking as I try to feign nonchalance. No risk of camel toe. I sigh contentedly.
Jake and I wade into the water, chat with a group of people. Nudies are rarely shy; friendliness abounds.
I realize that the bouncing, giggling and bobbing of body parts is the ultimate equalizer. Once I’ve glimpsed your water-shrunken penis and you my strikingly unspectacular breasts, intimidation or a sense of superiority will be out of the question for either of us.
Hours later, Jake and I take a walk down the beach. As we pass other resorts, everyone we see is wearing a bathing suit. We exchange glances. ”Freaks,” we say with a smile.
← The Little Yellow Bus | Me, A Mother? Bad Idea →The Little Yellow Bus
This year I’ll turn forty-seven. I’ll hate everything about it, with one exception: being one year further distanced from that little yellow bus.
7:04 a.m., any day, my junior year of high school: “Honk! Honk!”
There it is, the short bus, announcing itself as it pulls up to my house. Twenty-six minutes early.
Again.
“Honk! Honk! Honk!”
Translation: You have four minutes to get your ass out here before I sit on the horn.
Four minutes and one second later, the honking resumes, in a most insistent fashion.
If this noise keeps up, my face will be plastered on a dartboard in every neighbors’ basement. So, no matter that my hair is wet on one side, boinging out in others; that my bra issn’t fastened, and I’m wearing only one shoe. I rush out to claim my seat among the other “special” kids.
Doug, a freshman: ”Hey, June, how many fire hydrants are there in your town?”
My ass hasn’t even hit the seat yet.
Me: “I have no idea.”
Doug: “Guess!”
Me: “No.” It comes out a little pissy.
Doug: “Guess!”
Me: Deep sigh. “One-hundred and thirty-one.”
Doug: “Why do you think that?”
This, before coffee.
Me: “I have no idea, Doug.”
Doug: “My town only has thirty-one, and it’s 2.7 times the size of yours. There’s no way your town has that many!”
Me: Silence; hostile facial expression.
I suffer from depression, Goddamnit. I even tried to off myself! Now I’m contending with a mood disorder, a bad hair day and Doug, all on no caffeine.
“Can we stop at Dunkin’ Donuts?” I implore the bus driver.
← The Black Hole | Back To The Nude Beach →
