My mother and husband have a love-hate relationship. I think it is because they both have such an opinion about the different things that go on with the kids, the house, money, me -- pretty much everything that makes up life. So when real feelings slip out, it makes for an even more awkward divide.
The wedge is not intentional. My mom thinks she is being helpful when every now and again she forwards an email that tells me exactly what is in a chicken nugget or how to never drink the water from a plastic water bottle that is left in a car for days. She’ll call me to remind me to make sure the girls have their sweaters because the afternoon is going to be cold or to be careful driving because the roads are slippery.
Things like this really drive Adam crazy. He will question why she's getting involved and he’ll make some snide remark about her staying out of our business. I, on the other hand, will either take her advice, store it in the back of my mind or I might disregard it altogether but I'm polite and thankful. I know she acts like this not because it has anything to do with undermining us, but everything to do with being a loving and concerned mom. Maybe as a mom, I just have more tolerance for it.
There are times though when Adam seems to soften. When the kids are sick or the dog swallowed a nail or we need to put new plants in the front of the house –Adam will call my mom to ask her opinion when he is unsure of his own and he trusts my mom’s advice in certain areas. They will then chat and laugh while they are on the phone. Of course this feeling will remain only until the next time my mom does something grandma-y or motherly that is unsolicited and it will totally annoy my husband again. And then he's back to falling into a mood whenever the phone rings and her number shows up on the caller ID. He doesn't answer it at which point, I will normally pick-up.
Except this one recent time when Ella answered the phone. It just so happened that the call came in while Adam was still mad at my mother for something (which I truly can't even remember what it was - there are just so many instances where I don’t even totally know what sets him off).
When Ella heard my mom’s voice on the other end of the line, she smiled. But within seconds her smile faded. She leaned into the phone receiver as if preparing to say something big and said gently that she had very bad news for her Gram. As it was recounted to me, my mom immediately thought that something happened at school or that Ella was worried about something at home. My mom encouraged her to share the details. Ella, without a clue around the comment, blurted out that the bad news was that Adam hates her.
Being a little dry, level-headed and a realist about her relationship with Adam, my mom just started laughing. Where I would have gotten overly emotional, she had the opposite reaction. Adam overheard Ella say this and started flipping out. Even with her carefree disregard for the comment, my mom felt bad that Adam was now screaming in the background at Ella and me, professing that he never said that. He went from a wild man in the background of the call to the main voice on the line after he grabbed the phone and tried to convince my mom that he didn’t know what would make Ella think such a thing. At this point, while still chuckling, my mom swiftly said that kids only repeat what they hear. I am not sure if her laughing over the situation made Adam feel better or worse.
But I will say that I am certain Adam will now never forget the cardinal rule of using initials, nicknames or code words around the kids when we need to talk about people. I would say we would promise to never gossip but it’s in my nature and yea, stopping that would never happen. So let’s just be smart and spare feelings. Not everyone wants to – or needs to know – the absolute truth.
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It might be wrong, but Adam and I have no problem vacationing without our kids. In fact, I will sometimes remind our girls of this as we are out at a family dinner or on a family vacation and they are acting up for no reason. It seems harsh when I say it aloud but perhaps it comes from daydreaming in those chaotic moments that we are alone, somewhere else. We could be irresponsible and foolish, drunk and lazy. Just like we were when we took our 5-year anniversary trip to Dominican Republic.
Ella was only a few months old when we went on this first trip away from our new daughter. It was both scary and liberating. My parents watched her at our home in Jersey while we flew away for some fun and sun in another country. I was pretty nervous to leave her and as things would turn out, rightfully so. There was point where I feared the reality was never seeing her again. I started the trip heading to the airport with my bottle of Xanax in-hand. Once we landed, I called home every few hours. Over the course of the first few days, I found myself crying several times. By the third day, I was able to look at her framed photo on the hotel room nightstand and did not have a full on sob session or panic attack. As the vacation progressed, it got easier to sit by the pool bar and drink umbrella cocktails. Before we knew it, we were packing to go home and while eager to see Ella, my eyes were welling up and I was wishing we could stay. And we almost had to. As Adam and I walked into the small and empty airport to catch our flight home, we found one desk with a makeshift straw awning and what looked like a handmade sign identifying the spot to be for “departure check in”. It was so quiet we could hear the ceiling fans overhead moving warm air around and the luggage belt humming beside us, barely carrying a bag or two. We gave the check-in clerk our name and in very broken English he told us were weren’t in the ticket system. I assumed we misunderstood him or he didn’t look up our names correctly. He checked again. Nothing. I started to sweat. And panic. Adam had maxed out on my breakdowns regarding Ella by this point and he told me to go sit somewhere while he worked things out for us. I found a little bench under a shady tree and rocked back and forth like a drug addict in withdrawal. When Adam didn’t come to get me after only a few minutes, I went back to the desk. Before approaching Adam again, it seemed that things still weren’t good. As I was walked faster, closing the gap between us, I was rummaging through my bag to get a photo of Ella. I figured anyone with human heart would let new parents board a plane. And anyone with a brain would want a loon out of their country. One of these tactics had to work. Once I approached the ticketing agent, I haphazardly pushed Adam out of the way by throwing the top half of my body and the counter while frantically waving around the photo. I was repeatedly yelling “Bebe! Bebe! Need to get to casa for bebe!!”. Totally freaking out and speaking a made-up language - I was hoping he’d get my point. My arms were flying around in the air in exaggerated motions. Adam grabbed them and brought them to my sides. He gripped tightly around my biceps to keep me still; looking kind of like one does when about to shake the crazy out of a person. He looked into my bugged eyes and said everything was fine. He said we would be on a flight in a few hours. He then told me to stop acting nuts or they probably would detain us, pegging me for mental. I wandered off with a look of emotional exhaustion and popped the cap off my Xanax. I didn’t care that I needed anxiety meds and alcohol to help me through the trip - the point was that I was able to spend days away from my baby and return to her safely. Now, it has been many years grounded at home. While mothering two kids that provoke me to yearn for an escape sometimes, I no longer cry to be with them but rather, I get upset and go crazy when we don’t get our mini-vacation without them! I am not very domestic. I use duct tape to stitch holes; I have no problem ironing a bottom hem, collar or cuff with my hair straightener. The safest meals I make are in the microwave. I have no real need for an elaborate cooking space and so I don't mind that one of the smallest rooms in my home is my kitchen. And I can tell you that it looks even smaller with several firemen standing in it.
In my family, we love food. We are big eaters and big people. So at times, I feel bad about my culinary deficiencies and I will attempt to cook something on the stove or in the oven. It was one of my first attempts to make eggplant parm. To make it a little healthier – and safer - I decided to bake it in our electric oven instead of frying it. As I started to bread the pieces, the girls took their place at the kitchen table to do their homework; the dog was by my side waiting for any scraps that might fall to the floor. With her concentrated stares, she was making me feel nervous. I stopped prepping dinner and left the kitchen area to feed her and get back a little working space. As if there were fireworks for my return to the kitchen, a bright flash of fire appeared in the oven window followed by a booming crackling, sizzle and pop. In my usual dramatic fashion I yelled out a loud and high-pitched screech, equal to what a fire alarm might sound like. I threw my hands over my gaping mouth and stood there for a beat or two with my eyes bulging, trying to decide what to do next. I worried that if I opened the oven door, the contained fire would spread - I opted not to do this. I reached only one conclusion – to get us all out of the house. As the flames continued to lick the inside of the oven, I grabbed the girls by their hands, called the dog and we all ran to escape. In the moment before we bounded through the door, I realized the girls didn't have jackets and so I grabbed a blanket that was tossed over the living room chair near the front door. It was an Afghan my grandmother had made. It then registered that I was without a coat as well. I threw open the hall closet and grabbed the first thing I saw. Because of its enormity, the first coat I spotted was a faux fur. A gift from my mother for winter days when I worked in Manhattan, I wore it just once. In front of her. In New Jersey. On a day when no one else was around and it was hardly cold out. The coat was long and massive because it was reversible - fake leather on one side and fake fur on the other. It was so heavy I would sweat while wearing it; it was so thick, I couldn't bend my arms when I had it on. I called 911 when we got outside. As we waited I wrapped the children together in the Afghan and I stood there and my faux mink trying to keep them calm. When the fire engines and cops pulled up to the house, I feared for a moment that someone might shoot me thinking I was grizzly bear standing near two small children. My neighbor ran over to see what happened. On this chilly day, he didn't waste one minute to ask me why the children were in a light, crocheted blanket and I was wearing a fur coat. And then it dawned on me that I hadn't even thought that the children could be freezing. The poor kids were huddled together under a blanket that had more holes in the pattern, than the yarn that had made it. Damn. I thought too late that I should have wrapped them in the coat. Oh come on - couldn't I just get credit for saving everyone from a practical inferno? Adam pulled up from commuting home. Seeing fire trucks and cop cars everywhere, he ran over to us in a panic. Usually finding me at fault for things, I could tell fury was erupting as he moved closer and realized we were actually safe. The fireman told him that it was nothing I did; a faulty oven coil was to blame. After we were cleared to go back in the house, I took off the coat that could double as road kill. Adam just stood there looking at me. His face contorted in dislike while asking me where I got my coat. He laughed and quipped that I should have thrown my fur in the oven and let it burn. I can't say that I am not unlike any other mom who wants these beautiful black-and-white maternity photos. You know the kind that look like an ad in a magazine where it's a picture of some beautiful belly with a hand on it. Or those where sunshine is peeking out strategically from behind the mound that carries new life. But with a baby on the way, Adam and I didn't really have money to get the high-end photos like I had wanted. So instead I took them myself, the result was overexposing.
I lay on the bed with a short silk robe draped strategically over me to cover certain parts but open in the center to show off my big beautiful belly. I was going for modest and tasteful. After a few minutes of my self-arranged photo session, Adam comes into the room after he said he saw flashes and heard clicks from the other room. Walking in, he sees me laying there with the digital camera on timer, snapping away. Startled, I jump up and my robe falls to the side exposing my big breasts with my big nipples. The camera keeps clicking a series of photos. Sadly, this shoot took place before I had ever purchased a digital camera where you could see the photos instantly. So I had the fun task of dropping off the film to be developed at a local drugstore. Or rather, a drugstore two towns away in the event I was embarrassed by the pictures after seeing them produced. I got the pictures back and tore into them before I left the parking lot. My first thought was understanding why photographers take a long time to set up lighting. I was as white as an egg and as round as an orb. For a few pictures I tried to be sultry and sexy and yet, I actually looked cross-eyed or stoned - with child. And well the pictures that were taken when I was telling Adam to leave me alone and to not make fun of me, were horrendous. My head looked huge, emphasized by my large open mouth and my wide brown eyes, the darkness of my eyes only slightly competing with my big brown nipples (thank you pregnancy). After looking through the lot, I found just one that could work for the baby book. I strategically cropped the photo which was basically just my belly, turned it black-and-white and pasted the memory onto the book page. It wasn't as magical as I wanted to be but it wasn't as offensive as the rest of the roll. Months after the pictures of my belly were developed, and my little babe was born, we were in the process of moving to accommodate our growing family. Ella was about two-years-old and even though I was still carrying around "baby weight", my body was more in the shape that I was familiar with. So when we were packing and I came across the pregnancy photos, I reflected on the moment - amazed at how big I was and how much things have changed. I decided to put the pix into a large plastic bin that was holding other sentimental snapshots. On moving day, we had asked a few friends to come over and help us put some of the heavier items up into our new pull-down attic. Among many boxes slated to be stored, there was our sentimental photo box. Although it was quite heavy, one friend had jimmied the box into a position to send it up the ladder to a friend sitting at the top of the attic stairs. I was standing in the hallway trying to be helpful - but maybe being more in the way - when our friend started to slide the box with the photos up into the attic. And just as the bin was about to reach the guy at the top of the stairs, the lid of the bucket slid off and tons of photos came raining down on everyone. Well, I am sure you know where this is going… The maternity photos I took years before we’re scattered about his feet. Of course, this would be the time where most of the pictures landed face up, just so that everyone could see me and my big head looking right at them - and all else! Tits, belly, and bush out on display. I moved quicker than I have in years in an attempt to scoop up the photos. Looking back on this now, I think both friends may have been scarred for life after seeing the horrid images of a very pregnant person, looking anything but lovely. They both had seemingly done everything to avoid starting a family and the one friend had even joined the clergy. Good Lord – I hope he has some holy water for his eyes – because he can never un-see what has been seen. |
Short Story,
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