Gimlet Eye

I don't get it

Last night it happened.

The puzzle pieces came together and the question was finally posed to me.

How does it happen? How does the piece of mommy and the piece of Daddy GET together?

I tried my diversionary tactic.

"How do YOU think it happens?", I asked.

"Through kissing?", she responded.

Now, I can not lie in the face of absolute incorrect information. I can not allow my child to believe that kissing is going to lead to a baby.

I took a very deep breath and I searched for the most accurate, most direct language I could muster.

"Well - you know that you have a labia, right? And there is an opening the leads to your vagina - which is inside your body....and above that is your uterus, which is where the baby grows...."

She is rapt. Eyes fully focused on me.

"And you know that Daddy has a penis...and when a mommy and a daddy want to have a baby - the daddy's penis goes inside the mommy's body - in her vagina..."

Holy #%^%$#$@#$*% God. I could burst into flames right now and die a happier woman.

She interrupts me. "So how does the piece of daddy get inside the mom?"

"Well, the piece of Daddy - which is called sperm - comes out of his penis and swims into Mommy's uterus- and it finds the egg and helps to make a baby."

I exhale. I have said it. I have practically drawn a picture of her father and I doing the deed.  I am now branded as a fornicator.

She wrinkles her nose. Her eyebrows crease.

"I don't get it", she states.

Phew.

Unconditional

I have been thinking a great deal about unconditional love.

Specifically, I have been thinking about my child. Is there something that she could do, something she could become that could negate my love for her? Is there someone she could marry, or love that would make me cast her from my heart?

Is there an unspoken promise that is made between a mother and a child at birth that insures that the child can do anything and still be loved by their mother?

And the answer I have come up with is - not for everyone.

Some mothers can not do this for their children. For a variety of reasons - be those personal, religious or mental health - these mothers can't extend unconditional love to their children. Love is something that needs to be measured and given under very specific circumstances. It can be retracted and withheld. Love is a weapon to be wielded for approval and affection.

When Emily asks me if I love her, I nearly always tell her that anyone who grew inside my body is my favorite person in the world and that I love her completely. I can not imagine any reason that I would ever move away from this feeling. She will always be my child. I will always be her mother. I need her in a way that she has no way to understand and can't until she becomes a mother someday.

That isn't to say that we don't bicker and argue and fight. That isn't to say that she doesn't piss me off and I sometimes say things I regret. That isn't to say that she has never said that she hates me and that I am ruining her life.

But unconditional love is just that. Love so expansive that it does not matter. It does not matter if she hates me, for I understand that as part of her separation from me. It doesn't matter if she falls in love with a woman, or a man - and if that person is of a different race or religion.

It simply does not matter. She is my child and I am her mother.

Annoying Habit

Emily has a maddening habit. Well, she has a couple, but this one is focused around school field trips. Anything school related actually.

She becomes an amazing NAG about field trips. Or Permission slips. Or Notes Home.

I don't mean mentioning it casually. I don't mean asking the question one time and then being content with the answer. I mean Over, and Over, and Over, and Over and Over.....

You would think that we routinely forget to send in her field trip money, or permission slips...But we don't. If nothing else, my years as Teacher and Director make me super sensitive about notes home. They are organized into envelopes, notations made on checks, written on calenders...the whole spiel.

So, today when I picked her up from school, she was ready.

"Madame Stephanne said we HAD to wear bug spray and sun block tomorrow - so we have to buy some tonight. Are we going to buy some? Tonight? Cause it is in the note!"

This was repeated Again, and Again. No amount of saying Yes, we will buy the required items stops the questioning. The checking, the double checking, the triple checking.

But this morning, she has taken it to a new level.

This morning, she snuck into my room and stuck a note on my water bottle. It said:

"Mom, I need a twonnie (a 2 dollar coin) for TCBY today. Don't Forget"

Yes. I know. Believe me - I KNOW.

Everybody Poops

Today we were driving into McGill, so I could pick up some editing work I am doing. Emily had decided to come along. We were rocking out to the radio, when she says to me:

"Hey Mom, Did you ever fart in school?"

"Well, I assume I must have at some point - that's a lot of years to go without farting..."

Silence ensues. I take this to mean that this was something that happened today. So I ask.."Why did you fart today?"

She thinks about this. "Yeah - in Gym class. But I said excuse me, but everyone looked disgusted. So I said "It's a natural Bodily function!!!"

I start to laugh.

"It's true - It is a natural bodily function - just like pooping. I mean, everybody poops too", I say.

"I Know! That is what I said to them!!". She is puffed up in full indignation.

"But....." I trail off.

"What?" She sounds a bit concerned.

"Don't Poop in Gym class. That could pose a problem". And I turn and look at her.

As she dissolves into gales of laughter.

Poop is Always the best punchline.

Emily's impressions of a Limo

"It was like riding in a really big car"

This was of course, the entire reason she wanted to be a flower girl in my brothers wedding this weekend. Limo? Cake? She gets to wear a fancy dress and fling petals around? Where does she sign up?

She performed admirably. My favorite moment being when she flung petals at my newly married brother as he and his new wife walked back as husband and wife. She had saved a handful to throw at him.

Cause that is the way we roll.

A Kiss is not a Kiss

Emily and her father have been having more arguments than usual.

Two weeks ago, they had a real doozy. I ended up - as usual - mid combatants - trying to get both of them to listen to each other. For Terrance belongs to the "I can raise my voice louder than yours, therefore you must bow to my magnificence" school of parenting. I belong to the "If I can out think you, or out last you, or simply ignore you long enough, I will win" school.

You can see where the two may collide.

Emily has both the great good fortune, and the great misfortune to have a combined repertoire of both schools of thought. She can be a virtual chameleon, switching between styles. Unfortunately, she tends to use Terrance's own style ON him. This means two people, trying to out-shout one another. Each attempting to assert some dominance, gain the upper hand on one another.

It started as a normal walk to school. Then, Terrance began to say goodbye. He leaned down to kiss her. She ran to the playground. He called her name. She ignored him and kept running. He follows her onto the playground. She attempts to dodge. He catches up to her.

He says "Why did you keep running? I called to you. You do not run away when I call your name!"

She, from both accounts, remains standoffish. He uses the standard black father threat: " Don't make me beat your ass in front of all of your friends - because I will!"

He tells me of her bolting when he walks back home. He is angry.

Later that evening, I broach the subject with her. Why on earth did she run from him as he called her?

The story tumbles out. It was the Kiss. She bolted because he kissed her. Near the Playground. She was embarrassed, sure her friends would laugh at her. And when he followed her onto the playground, her mortification was complete.

Being a Mom, being a teacher, being a researcher of young children, this makes sense to me. Emily - then a few weeks away from being nine - is more than dipping her toe in the waters of puberty. She is dipping in half a leg, and then running and screaming because her leg is wet.  The world is a jumbled mess. She is attempting to now define herself as separate from her family, but MORE separate from her father.

With the release of the hormones which are clearly changing her body, the changes in her consciousness of what it is to be female are at times more painful to bear. For all of us.

So while I understand and empathize with her, Terrance does not. After she and I discuss the situation, I invite her father to the conversation. He is offended. He is affronted. He is combative. He refuses to agree to not kiss her in front of the playground. He rages at her that he doesn't care if every one of her friends thinks she is a baby, or if everyone of them laughs at her. He is her father and he loves her and he will kiss her.

She rejects his logic. She informs him that she does not want him to kiss her. She yells at him, he bellows back. They storm.

Then, he seems to give a little. He offers to only kiss her on the top of the head, and not on the cheek in front of her friends.

As I am weighing the implications of this laurel branch, Emily rejects it outright. There will be no kissing. She is not a baby and she will not be kissed.

And so the storm continues.

A close call...almost too close.

I have always been fairly open with Emily about my body. While I don't run around nude, I also don't hide my body from her.  Furthermore, I have tried to answer her questions with as much information as I can think up at the moment, without overloading her with too MUCH information.

Emily first became aware of my period when she was maybe 2 and a half. Being a normal Toddler, every bathroom occasion was a family affair. The first real acknowledgment came as she watched me change my sanitary pad one morning.

"Did Keillor scratch you?", she asked. Keillor was our cat. The most logical thing she could think of, upon seeing the pad, was that I had been brutally hacked by our cat.

"No", I told her. "This just means that Mommy isn't having a baby."

She accepted that explanation, with some add ons through the years. Yes, her body will do this some day. No, not for a few more years. No, it doesn't really hurt, but sometimes I am achy and crampy and have headaches. This is my body's way of getting rid of the tissue it doesn't need, since there is no baby, and keeping me healthy. The whole process starts again, in case my body needs to grow a baby next month.

So, a couple of days ago she was snuggling into me - and bumping my breast with her head. I asked her to be gentle, for my breasts were sore - I suspected that my period was coming. She looked up - she repeated the information she knew.

In hindsight, I was too comfortable.

She lifted up on her elbows. She turned her face to mine.

"Mama. I've been thinking. I know that it takes a piece of Mom and a piece of Dad - that your egg comes out when you have your period and it means you aren't having a baby. But I've been wondering..."

I think I might have actually stopped breathing at this moment. I know for certain that my heartbeat skipped and the blood may have drained from my face.

"So how does the piece of daddy get there......"

And at this moment, the moment that I have been dreading -The moment when I reveal to her that her parents have a relationship that goes beyond who does laundry and who packs the lunches, something  miraculous happens.

An exciting commercial comes on television. She trails off of her sentence and gazes enraptured at the television.  I hastily debate whether or not to bring her back on task, still not exhaling.

I wait. I say nothing.

And she forgets. Mesmerized by the television, she forgets her question.

And I am relieved, deeply, deeply relieved.

Why I don't love Mother's Day

As I write this, it is 2:49 PM on Sunday. It is Mother's Day.

To this point, I was awoken far too early to admire my gifts - which were indeed sweet and thoughtful. Emily made me a lovely Popsicle jewelry box - which I will use - for there is some unwritten  rule that mothers will use the  creations of their children.  Terrance regaled me with Itunes  cards and a coffee card for Second Cup.

That's all right, I thought. I can simply lie here and relax and watch the Sunday morning political shows, for that is what I want to do. Not watch Disney channel or Teletoons. Adult shows. Maybe I would drink a hot cup of coffee while "Meeting the Press".

My daughter protested. I leveled the look and this statement "This is Mother's Day - not " lets watch another episode of Cory in the House because Emily wants to" day." Momentarily, I was left alone.

Until the argument between Emily and Terrance began. Which I refereed. Calming both of them down.

At which point, I thought I had paid my dues. The day was MINE!

As- freaking-if.

I was rousted from my spot. I was happily stitching on my latest embroidery project, listening to This American Life  . The sun was streaming in and the cat ( le chat) settled happily at my feet.

However, this was not what my spouse and child wanted. I must be up and active in order to be enjoying MY mother's day. I was hustled outside to garden. I was asked if I wanted to shopping for patio furniture. Where did I want to eat? Could they take me out for lunch? How about dinner?

I grew crabbier and crabbier, as I turned down each offer.

At the height of irritation, I sent Terrance away to the cigar bar. Emily, digging in the garden next to me said "So what do you want to do next? For Mother's Day"....

at which point, I kind of snapped.

"Why is it that no one is listening to me when I say what I want to do for mothers day? I have told you both! I was happy stitching on my project and listening to my radio show! I realize that you both have ideas of what would be fun for me - but I have SAID what I want, and no one is listening!"

Emily is now fully attending to me. The expression on her face is one of hurt, surprise and understanding.

I feel shitty. I have just perverted the meaning of Mother's day. I have hurt my daughter's feelings.

But there it is. The crux of the issue. Mother's Day is about me - yet NOT about me. If I say what I want, I am a mean, heartless mother. If I don't say what I want, I feel irritated and overwhelmed, doing things I don't want to do. I do not belong to me.

What I want for Mother's Day is a day all for myself. A day where I have to feed no one else, attend to no one else's needs or wants. If I choose to lay in bed all day, then so be it. I want silence. I want peace. I want to be with Me.

Is it so wrong to want that? Is it so wrong to want a day away from being a mother as your mother's day gift?

The last thing to get purchased

A few nights ago, Emily was dancing around us in her underwear. Not that this , in and of itself, is unusual. The child spends a majority of her "home time" in various states of undress, with her underwear only being her preferred dress code.

No, this was different because I actually looked at her underwear. And realized that it was too small. WAY too small. Like "OUCH, those panties look like they hurt" too small.

You would think that with all the summer shopping I have done for her over the past few months that I would have cued in that her underwear was not keeping pace with her pant size.

And when I looked at the underwear size in her drawer? Oh - BAD MOMMY. Are you ready?  They were size 8/10.  The kid is a size 14/16 in pants/skorts. Ouch.

This morning, she put on her new underwear.

"How do they feel?", I asked.

"MUUUUUCCCCHHHHH Better, Mama".

I would say so, sweetie.

Its a balloon?

One of the very best things about being at home with a work mainly from home spouse is that we find ourselves with occasional free time....alone....in the middle of the day...together.

Wink, wink. Do you all see where I am headed with this?

At first the hedonistic luxury of day time sex was - well - hedonistic. I mean, no doors had to be closed. No room was off limits. While this has died down after the first full year of being together nearly 24/7 - we still occasionally find ourselves indulging in a little "afternoon delight".

Like all parents, we are careful with our accompanying paraphernalia of sex. We had a particularly funny incident when the Astroglide had been left on the bathroom counter and Emily assumed it was lotion - albeit a brand she had not seen before.  After the color returned to Terrance's face, he became vigilant about making sure all evidence was out of sight.

However, a couple of weeks ago, we must have missed something. For a condom wrapper was left somewhere in/around the bed. Unbeknownst to the adults.

Until later that evening as Emily is playing next to me. I am reading to her. And she pops up over the book...

"WHAT'S THIS THING?" she inquires, making direct eye contact and examining the shiny wrapper.

Seriously, the years of working with very young children has made me cool under pressure. I barely flinched.

"Where did ya find that?" I responded, knowing perfectly well what it was and where she has found it.

"Over here", she indicated in the bed.

"Humph. Just trash - here give it to me", and I stuck my hand out for the wrapper.

Thank God she has never found a sealed one. I recall playing with these great oblong balloons that I made my father blow up for me. They were so durable and bouncy!

I now know what my parents must have felt as they watched a six year old Me chase the several condoms around the house, with a realization that sooner than I care to know she will know what that wrapper is - and what it infers about her parents, and how she came to be.

And it makes me scared. And sad. And hopeful that I will help guide her to a healthy sense of her body and the gift that her sexuality will become...but not yet.