Dearest Steven,
Happy Birthday. I will send a present and a letter soon.
Lots of love, from Daddy
Five months went by with no letter, no present, no phone call from Daddy. Hope turned to disappointment, then to anger, and finally to cold, implacable resolve. He’d gone too far. You don’t make promises like that to a child if you have no intention of keeping them. That’s how children are broken – and there was no way I’d let my child be broken. I waited for something throughout those five months – I had to be sure. I also had to wait until most of the anger was gone.
Then I wrote a letter of my own. Written on lined exam pad paper in my scratchy seventeen-year-old handwriting, it was a polite, mature letter – not nasty, but very clear. When I posted the letter, I felt it slip from my fingers into the dark post-box slot. It felt so damn final. I cried as I wrote it, and I cried as I posted it. It must have arrived in Durban a real mess, a soggy, tear-stained Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card.
What I’d written was that if he couldn’t be a proper father to Steven, then it was best if he stayed away. I told him that having no father was better than hao Stter thving a lousy father who hurt and disappointed his child, a father who wasn’t strong enough to stand up and take responsibility. I told him that Steven only needed people in his life who would be there for him one hundred percent. I told him to go, and not come back.
And he did. I didn’t hear from him again for seven years.
If he had fought for Steven, even if he had begged for another of those thousand second chances, I would have given in. This wasn’t the way I wanted it. I didn’t want to explain to Steven that he didn’t have a daddy because mommy sent him away. That would be bad. But worse would be watching him swallow that daily dose of slow-acting poison: Maybe my daddy will remember me today.
I was trying to protect my boy, that’s all. Whether that was the right decision – well, I guess Steven has to decide that for himself.
Sigh… this is depressing.
Meanwhile, life carried on. I saw some of my old friends occasionally, but I didn’t go out much. That was okay with me. I hadn’t given dating a thought. If I had, the thought would probably have been “Oh God, does that mean I’ll have to shave my legs?”
When Steven was ten months old, my friend Bianca invited me to a Valentine’s Ball at her school. I was to fill in as a partner for a friend whose date couldn’t make it. She phoned me the day before (me being the only person she knew who’d definitely be home on a Saturday night) and said, “Hello darling. I’m afraid I’ve got you in the soup.” Bianca says things like that.
I was reluctant at first (babysitting arrangements, leg-shaving issue, complete lack of any social skills whatsoever), but she managed to twist my rubber arm and off I went. I got myself all dollied-up for the first time in a year-and-a-half, and was surprised to discover that I still remembered what lipstick was for. I felt strange among all those school kids. They were all so different from me. But it was somewhat exciting, too – the glamorous single mother out on the town, devastating the admiring plebs with her wit and awe-inspiring maturity. Yeah, right. I was jelly-kneed and tongue-tied all night.
We met my date, James, at the school. He was late and I was starting to think I’d been stood up. But then he arrived – handsome, smelling good, tall and serious. Four of my top five requirements in a man, in no particular order. Absolute obedience to my every whim can wait until the third date – nobody could ever call me unreasonably demanding.
This wasn’t the first time I’d met him. We’d been introduced a few months earlier in front of the local Steers (sadly, it’s no longer there. Many a long Friday night was spent there, ten of us lingering for five hours over two plates of chips and half a glass of water). I was with Bianca, enjoying one linjoyingof my very rare nights out. She knew him from work.
I can still see him standing there in the parking lot across from his flat, wearing blue and white striped boxers, socks with no shoes, no shirt, a beer in his hand.
“Good evening, ladies,” he’d said in a quiet drawl I found appealing. That, for the record, was the first time I met James. Even if he doesn’t remember, I do.
Rob was cute. I liked his confidence, his sleepy-eyed charm – his adultness. This here was no boy, and I liked that.
He looked so good the night of the dance. I was shy and awkward, but compensated by being just a little bit slutty. I’d like to say I was a bold, confident young woman going for what she wanted, but I think slutty would be more accurate. Such a fine line there. It’s hard to get the balance right. Err on the side of caution and you’ll die a shrivelled old maid. Err on the side of Cosmo and you might just die a whole lot sooner, shrivelling and oozing optional. Yuck.
We danced and we laughed, we spoke about Steven, we kissed. Alright, I kissed him. He was a little taken aback, but dammit, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Can’t be hanging around forever waiting for demure, gentlemanly types to get their act together. Carpe Diem and all that, right? More like Carpe My Only Chance Of Getting Laid Anytime Before Menopause!
I had a lovely time, and after much deliberation, I saw him again the following night. A late Valentine rose was delivered to my house with a card that read, “Would you be my Valentine? Love, James”.
Melt…
As it turned out, I would certainly be his Valentine. Within a few weeks, I was his girlfriend, too.
Scary stuff, considering Steven. But the two of them clicked immediately. James accepted Steven completely and that nasty boyfriend vs child tug-of-war never happened. He came to love Steven as his own child. That sort of thing doesn’t come around very often and I was lucky that my first, tentative foray into dating as a single mother was with someone like him. He was just what I needed then – a family man with a five-year-plan. He was reliable and responsible – a nice young man whom I could happily take home to Mom. Like me, he wanted the white picket fence and a happy family (possibly, I suspect, the Stepford wife, too, but that’s a whole different chapter). He showed me what was possible for me, and I’m grateful for that.
Unfortunately, he also ruined me for future relationships. Ever since, I’ve compared my boyfriends’ interaction with Steven with his, and they always seem to come up short. So far.
Chapter Eight
In which she remains stubbornly unsaved
Then I blinked and Steven was nearly three years old.
How does that happen? What happens to all those cute, drooling bundles that hang around their prams, doing little more than generate tons of dirty nappies? Where did this other boy come from – this wide-eyed, serious child who could name every internal organ at two and write his name at three? Steven was a sensitive soul who scared me sometimes – if you think a newborn is intimidating, try spending five minutes with a three-year-old whose favourite word is “Why”. You will feel a strong urge to run away screaming, as your brain liquefies and dribbles out of your ears. The boiling point of human brain matter, it turns out, is the approximately twenty-second repeat rate of the question “Why?” in any given conversation.
I realised with a shock one day that he was no longer a mewling, leaky pudding relying on me simply for physical survival. Here was an intelligent, real person, who required far more complicated actions than handiness with a Wet Wipe.
“Ho, ho! You poor, naive sap,” jeers Future Tracy. “Try being a single mother to a moody, silent twelve-year-old boy! Ain’t nobody else gonna talk Erections 101, darlin’. It’s all on you. You’ll be begging to explain the Jesus/aliens/Father Christmas connection instead.”
Babies don’t come with a manual. Everybody knows that. But when you come right down to it, really, one baby is pretty much like another. They eat, they sleep, they cry, they poo. And then they do it all again. Your job is to make sure the proportions are correct. It’s not that complicated. I don’t mean to burst your comfy bubble, but it’s true. Once you get the hang of it, babies are easy. Don’t look at me li
ke that – I know all about colic and sleepless nights. Hard work, for sure. But easy to understand – eat-sleep-cry-poo. Figure out which goes where and you’ve got it waxed.
There are many reasons why babies are preferable to later models:
They don’t end every conversation with, “I hate you!” and a head-splitting door slam.
They don’t talk back and confuse you with cunning arguments.
They don’t ask difficult religious questions.
They don’t demand Liquorice Allsorts for supper.
Any dumbass with a boob and a goodly supply of Pampers can get by just fine. But try telling that to the mother of a newborn. You’re likely to get yelled at and cried on.
Then, just as you think you’re getting the hang of this baby thing, the little horrors turn on you. At roughly three years of age, everything changes – cuteness levels drop and continue to do so until the age of twelve, when any remaining cuteness is shed in favour of monosyllabic surliness. Baby books should, at this stage, be replaced by The Art of War and perhaps selected works by Machiavelli. Forget Chicken Souping your way through it. You’ll need less of the Gratitude Journal and more of the Jedi Mind Trick. What we need is a parenting book written by Yoda: “Grounded, you are. To your room, go you will.”
I like that.
But at three? If a manual existed for three-year-olds like Steven, it would have to be the one translated into English from Chinese by a committee of dyslexic Norwegians, remaindered in Sudan and burned as fuel to boil water – impossible to come by. He wasn’t your average gooey-nose-picking sweetie-gobbler. For Steven, getting his hands sticky was a major catastrophe. Likewise if two different food types touched each other on his plate (did I mention the OCD factor?). Clothes and shoe shopping was a nightmare – scratchy labels had to be removed immediately upon purchase and much of the coolest stuff avoided because it wasn’t “comfy”. He’s like that to this day. Fashion is not on his radar. Never mind fashion, it’s hard enough getting him to wear pants without holes in them. Some day, when you’re not looking, my son, those damn fluffy dishwater-coloured tracksuit pants are going to fall prey to a mysterious washing line thief. Or something.
In 1997, the concept of twelve years old didn’t exist for me. Wet dreams, girl trouble and long division were all so far in the future, I could safely ignore them for now. Three years was momentous enough for me, angelic baby and chubby toddler things of the past, nappies and bottles a distant memory. On his way to being – gasp – a preschooler.
Preschool! I was excited. A whole new world of learning and playing and friends would open up for Steven. I pictured packing healthy lunches – muffins, carrot sticks and elaborate sandwiches. I saw him kissing me goodbye in the morning, happily skipping off to play with his friends in the sandpit. I imagined finger paintings on the fridge, the wheels on the bus going round and round, sweet, rosy-cheeked teachers reading stories on the mat. It was going to be so much fun.
Oh, what was that? Did you hear that ominous roll of thunder and the howl of the eldritch wolf? Again? Oh yeah. I should have known.
When it came to preschools, there wasn’t a whole lot of choice. I avoided the most obviously dodgy playschools advertised in the local paper – those run by hard-faced, chain-smoking women in ski-pants and the one where misbehaving children were rumoured to be locked in the toilet. Besides those, the preschools in the area were all run on Sound Christian Principles, which, by the way, doesn’t really mean Love Thy Neighbour and Jesus Loves Me and All Things Bright and Beautiful. Surprising, isn’t it? Beat Children Into Submission While Brainwashing With Cultish Dogma would be more accurate. I sure was shocked. Unfortunately, by the time I figured this out, my poor little boy was in the clutches of the born-again crazies and it took some ugly scenes to get him out.
The first school I went to see was a definite no. I considered it because it was one of the few with no religious reference in the name. I thought this indicated some inclination towards moderation and non-fanaticism. Silly me.
I was impressed at first. Dozens of quiet, well-behaved little children marched into the classroom in single file, all wearing identical plastic aprons. All seemed organised and well-established. Pleasant outside area, with bikes and toys in pristine condition. James and I smiled hopefully at each other – this seemed promising. (Yes, he tagged along, looking and sounding serious with his navy pullover and pertinent questions. We’d been together almost two years by then, and I was sporting a semi-engagement ring. I was ever so proud of my ring, even though I strongly suspected it had been recycled from a previous girlfriend).
My first impression of the principal was good. She looked like a comfy granny, all floral blouse and Estée Lauder. As she showed us around, once again I was struck by how tidy it was, and how quiet. Too quiet... A little warning bell began to ring, but I shushed it. What did I know about preschools anyway? These were professionals. Who was I to question? Meanwhile, Steven had formed his own opinion – and he was not amused.
He clung to my leg like a limpet and refused to let go, no matter how I coaxed, begged, ordered or contorted my body in the hope of dislodging him. I smiled sheepishly at Principal Grandma as I tried to peel him off, so that I could read the indemnity form like the proper grown-up I was trying to be. I expected to see her smiling indulgently back at me: Don’t worry, I see this all the time, it’s quite normal.
That’s not what I got.
Her lips pulled into a thin line, and she said in her best stepmotherly voice, “You need to put that child down now.”
Good grief. Nobody had ever called my boy That Child before. I was taken aback, but pressed on with my list of questions.
“So… um… how do you handle discipline here?” I asked in my best excuse-me-for-breathing voice.
This time, the indulgent smile did appear as she chuckled, “We find we don’t have too many discipline problems here. I’ve been in this business for a long time and I know how to handle the little buggers.”
Did she just call the children buggers? Alarms screeching now. Warning! Warning! Red Alert, Defcon 1, self-destruct imminent… Yet I stood and listened.
“I had problems with a boy in my class last year who was exposing himself to the other children…” she continued.
Oh my. There’s just no good ending to that sentence. My expression of polite interest froze in place and my eyes glazed over as I waited for the undoubtedly disturbing punchline.
Chuckle, chuckle again. This lady was rather impressed with herself, you could tell.
“Yes, I handled it quite well. I just told him his tollie would fall off and the dogs would eat it if he did it again. He’s kept his pants on ever since. His mother thought it was a wonderful idea.”
I’m sure she did, you bitch! That’s because she’s obviously crazy, too. She’d have to be to send her child here. What is it with all these creepy people in my story?
This was clearly not the place for Steven. Not even close. I felt so sorry for the children stuck there. I wanted to open the front gate and help them escape to freedom, like a Greenpeacer let loose in a vivisection lab. Run little ones! Run while you can! Of course I did no such thing.
We left Auntie Cruella, tollies intact, but illusions shattered. I wonder how many innocent kids she’s bullied into chronic adolescent bedwetting. It’s a sad thought. Finding a preschool was proving to be not as easy or as much fun as I’d imagined.
Our nerves fragile and optimism greatly reduced, we moved on to the next place on my list. Noisier, less tidy, a nicer looking principal. The children seemed to like her. I saw lots of them skipping up to her for hugs. Stockholm Syndrome, I realise now.
When I asked my discipline question, cleverly mentioning smacking specifically, she seemed shocked.
“Oh no, we never smack the children. Good heavens! Definitely not.”
Such an open, ingenuous face. She looked absolutely horrified that I could suggest such a thing.
At last, a likely option
. This little school seemed to have it all – friendly teachers, finger paintings, dog-eared books, mess and noise. All strong indicators that learning was taking place. And I liked her. I admit it, I was taken in. She was younger and snazzier than the other teachers I’d seen, and although she mentioned, too casually, her Christian Principles, I believed it would be okay. Surely, the whole point of Christianity was basically to be nice to others? What’s wrong with children learning that? Nothing, as far as I could see. So I could easily overlook my slight unease at the join-the-dots crucifixion pictures.
As we left, application form in hand, I heard the soggy, heart-warming tones of twenty three-year-olds singing The Wheels on the Bus, accompanied by postnasal drip. Nobody could remember what the Grannies on the Bus did, but that’s hardly the point, is it?
First day of school. Scared as hell. Lots of tears. And that was just me.
Steven’s little brown suitcase was packed with spare clothes, fruit, notebook for the teacher to write sweet, encouraging notes in (so I imagined).
I’d been preparing him for this day for weeks and I thought we were ready. He seemed excited. As we went inside, he went off to play immediately, which encouraged me. I chatted briefly to his teacher. Miss Timid was a soft-spoken lady with frantic eyes, who was obviously out of her depth and actually looked like she could snap at any moment. She assured me he’d be okay. He was happy enough as I hugged him and left him playing with blocks. I wasn’t sure if he understood that I was leaving him there, but it was too late to turn back now. I left quickly, before I could change my mind.
On my way out, I peeked through the window – he looked so cute and grown up. I cried again. It was exciting and scary and sad, all at the same time. My boy was growing up.
I watched the clock all morning, drinking gallons of coffee and pacing the house. God, what a long day. Mom and I barely spoke. We didn’t have to. We knew. Three more hours… two more hours…
We gave in eventually and arrived to fetch him a ridiculous forty-five minutes early, waiting outside and feeling sheepish, but we didn’t care. Do you know how long forty-five minutes is? We waited a decade or two, then I hurried inside, only to find his classroom empty.
The Girl Who Couldn't Say No: Memoir of a teenage mom Page 12