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Writing Machine
Join Date: Jan 2005
Location: Is that an existential question?
Posts: 1,863
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Last version
I'm sorry Chris, I liked your suggestion (you're right, I don't like liqorish-blech) but that line STILL makes me queasy to do it more than once, so I took your suggestion and played god.
A REAL MOTHER
I came into motherhood later than most, but it was a carefully thought out decision. I based it on how long I would retain the ability to give birth without needing to rely on mad science or an act of God. More importantly however, I needed a sense of self before I could help cultivate one in a child.
By the time I was done, I’d traveled all over the world, made friends with people who wore leather and used whips for a living, come face to face with terrorists, cavorted with witches, sorcerers and ghosts first hand, and survived a super typhoon and an earthquake that measured 8.2 on the Richter scale. I was still working on my sense of self until I turned 36; I was misdiagnosed with tapeworm.
Nine months later, I was proudly carting that 6 pound, 6 ounce, blond haired, blue-eyed tapeworm around and calling her Lissa.
After five months of isolation because that tapeworm had severe colic and a surliness (which evolved into a bad ass attitude and a will that made Ghengis Khan seem wussy) unfit for public consumption, making me want to become a career alcoholic, my husband introduced me to Lavender.
Lavender’s husband was someone who worked near my husband. I found him an unimpressive piece of bloated ego that reminded me of the genetic risks involved in having children. I couldn’t remember his name even during my friendship with his wife.
My husband Alex thought it was a good idea to cultivate a friendship between Lavender and me.
“She’s a real veteran.” He told me, trying to be convincing. “She’s been a stay-at-home for two years.”
“That’s funny. I sort of thought she was a POW and a casualty…”
Now, I have to make this perfectly clear; motherhood is a draining situation, and that is why it’s necessary to have that strong center, that solid sense of self before you have that child. Especially in the unlikely event you’re unlucky enough that the birth of one child heralds the arrival of TWO.
In such an endless ocean of responsibility, many women drown.
Lavender was a sharp, highly intelligent woman, though 10 years my junior. She possessed a sardonic, observant sort of humor that was subdued from visits to a therapist and the drugs he provided her.
“…She’ll help you adjust to a stay at home life, Roxy.” He went on, referencing my newly retired state from the military.
After a few days of Lavender’s life of endless cleaning, dinner promptly on the table, trips to the playground, baking cookies, and entertaining whatever guests her hubby chose to bring home at a moment’s notice without complaint, I could see why Alex saw her as a ‘vet’.
Did I mention she was seeing a therapist for depression?
“Fuck the housework, Lavender.” I smirked and grabbed two car seats “On second thought, let’s hit the Pagan Pride Day festival. They’ve a few knights from last weeks RenFair that are WAY better suited.”
“But Roxy, my husband will be mad that I’m not home.”
She was so nervous; her hands shook and there was a tremor to her voice that was very much like that of a wounded child.
“He’s only a senior airman,” I reminded her knowingly. “Alex is a master sergeant and my husband, I’m still a tech sergeant. I outrank both. Let’s go.”
To be perfectly honest, this woman just shocked me. She had the soul of a bohemian, but she had no idea about the small art studios in the area, or the Female Spirituality Center. She was unaware of the coffee shops where poetry was read, where books were reviewed. And yet, when confronted with the reality of them, she soaked everything up like a sponge, and life just blazed in her eyes.
A good example was when we stopped in one of the mom and pop joints that sported art done by local aspirants.
“…Oh wow!” Lavender stared at a painting that was done in oil, a cross between japanime and the Blues “Look at these strokes—he has so much confidence.” She assessed thoughtfully “And the combination of styles give the subject such depth and credibility.”
“Here are the rough sketches to that piece over here.” I pointed to the side bar of the display “He did them in blue ball point—the lines are so elegant, don’t you think?”
“Oh, I know.” Lavender agreed whole-heartedly “God, I’d love to meet the artist.”
“Ladies, your wish.” Ryan, the young artist whom I was already familiar with, had come up beside us when he noticed Lavender examining his work.
“You know him? Really?”
“Yes, I know him.”
“So, can I have him too?”
We both chuckled, and agreed to share him over a bottle of wine at the local pub, as my mind reeled during this interlude, and many days after wards.
How was it possible that this woman, with so much potential, so full of life, wasn’t aware of the things her soul was so aligned to?
I got my answer during a St. Patrick’s Day Parade one overcast day downtown.
I was pregnant again, thanks to a defective condom and God’s quirky sense of humor. Morning sickness and constipation was giving the world a free glimpse of what I’d be like during full-blown menopause. So, when Lavender’s husband tried making excuses, I told Alex to either get them to the parade, or I’d skip hormone treatments when that magic time actually came upon me.
We did fine, until the end of the parade when I got hungry, and so did Lavender.
I shoved our little bundle of joy at Alex, and waited for Lavender to do the same with her own fussy 2 year old.
Her husband made the two year old seem pleasant.
“It’s my day off.” He complained, snubbing both wife and son.
“Look pal, I’m hungry, I need help carrying the food back, and fighting a two year old will make the situation impossible.” I reasoned, very politely as Diana, one of the ladies who ran the spiritual center handed me a coffee in an effort to help appease my hunger.
“So what?” Lavender’s husband shot back. “I only get two days off. I’m not going to baby sit.”
“And what about Lavender?” I was curious to know “Doesn’t she get a day off?”
“From what? She stays home all day, does nothing but watch ‘Oprah’.” The man debated, with a coarse chuckle “Besides, the kid’s her responsibility. It's her job …”
After everyone backed away in abject fear, I gave him a few moments so that the significance of that action could sink in, and he could consider why.
“…She’s a mother.”
But he went there anyway.
“Yes, your wife is a mother,” I finally spoke “But she that doesn’t mean she has to be yours, too.”
I’m not sure what hurt him worse; the hot coffee I poured in his lap, or his pissy son, who kicked him moments after I dumped him there, too.
“You’re right you know.” Lavender admitted, as we walked to the deli in a sort of miserable silence “It makes me feel bad. I can’t define where it makes me feel bad, or when it started. I can’t trace the source in order to turn it off. I’m not even sure if it’s not me the one causing it.”
“Then why not back away for a while, from him, your marriage? Just long enough to clear your head ”
Yes, in the tug over Lavender, I won that battle, but it was the war I couldn’t win, because I was the only one that saw any cause to.
“I can’t do that,” she answered with a sort of solemn reverence of one who had been taught from rote “He’s a really good father, and he’s not a bad husband. I just have to work harder at it, that’s all. I mean, it is my job after all…”
I saw that Lavender was already snagged by the undertow that was her husband, and she was so weakened that she couldn’t grab on to a lifeline, even when it was offered.
I lost her to the special assignment her husband signed up for two weeks later, and she just followed him without a word to the middle of nowhere; a place that lacked even a library, let alone art and beatnik cafés and a woman’s center.
It didn’t take long, fighting a current stronger than she was, for it to make her go numb. After that, it only took two inches worth to drown in. Lavender had that two inches; it was in the shallow end of the gene pool.
Lavender had her husband.
He made her his mother after all
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Old enough to know better, young enough to think I can still get away with it.
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...heh, I never say no to a good time. In fact, I pretty much don't say 'no' at all.
