Don't Lick the Minivan
Page 21
And I thought, Chris is going to freak. Will and Viv predicted this on their own.
They started crying. “Daddy is going to be so mad, isn’t he?”
“Yup.”
I drove them to their respective fields, and I popped back and forth to watch them go through the motions in soccer.
When we arrived home, Chris’s car was in the garage.
We stood outside and rehearsed how to tell him.
We walked in. They hid behind me in the kitchen.
“Now,” I said.
Both kids shook.
“Daddy, we’re sorry . . .”
I saw Chris twitch.
“We made a big mistake . . .”
More twitching.
“We used rocks . . .”
Steam.
“ . . . and carved our names into the van’s paint.”
Chris paused, processing this. He sighed, audibly relieved. “I thought you were going to say you wrecked my flat screen TVs,” he said.
“You’re not annoyed?” I asked. I could barely handle the first shock; this one threatened to send me to a chair. Chris recovered, but never freaked out. I clearly underestimate this man, I thought. I grounded the kids for a week. Chris supported my decision. The etchings remain on the van to this day.
It took me a while to get to sleep that night. I tried not to panic as I recalled my insomniac state a year ago. Morning came, and I was in bed drifting in and out of a sluggish weekend slumber. Chris had left for work at some insane hour, leaving me to lie in bed with Viv cuddled into my side and Will snuggled in the nest I’d made with my feet. Because of my industrial-strength earplugs, I couldn’t hear the cartoon marathon that played on TV.
Of course, if it started as a perfect morning, there had to be a moment when you free fall from heaven’s gates. That moment came just after Will asked for a turn using the remote control. Viv listened. She launched the remote at his head with an accuracy that could make her the answer to the Blue Jays’ bullpen problems.
Will didn’t cry, but he did complain. He was rubbing his forehead when I pressed my face off my pillow. I removed one of my earplugs. Viv didn’t apologize.
So, I did what every parent who’s sleep and caffeine deprived does. I overreacted.
“Vivian,” I snapped. “Say you’re sorry.”
She looked at me with wonder.
I took this as defiance. “You can’t whack someone in the head and not say you’re sorry.”
Demonstrating the for-every-action-there-is-reaction principle, she took my anger-induced fastball and knocked it over the fence with a single swing, which—in this case—meant stomping out of the bedroom and slamming the door.
I drifted back to sleep.
Sometime later, I took out my second earplug and yelled again. “Viv? You OK?”
“Yes.”
I grabbed five more minutes of sleep before I showered.
When I came out of the bathroom, Viv sat on the edge of my bed, a homemade book in her hand.
I read the title: Why Don’t You Love Me Mom?
I knew I was in for it.
I read:
Mom doesn’t love me.
Oh how can that be?
I wish she would love me.
Just like a new tree.
I just don’t know why
I can’t make her cry.
But my mom doesn’t love me with glee.
My mom isn’t the same
With nothing to blame.
I wish she would love me with glee.
Please love me.
Please love me.
Please love me.
Please love me.
Please love me.
Please love me.
Please love me.
Please love me.
Please love me.
Please love me.
Please love me.
Please love me.
Please love me.
Please love me.
Please love me.
Pretty please?
Mom?
After silently reading Viv’s book, I did what any mom with half a heart would do: I gave her a hug and defended myself, debate-style.
Before I could get to my second rebuttal, Viv interrupted me.
“Mom,” she said, “you have a booger in your nose.”
“Right,” I said, readjusting my sopping towel so I could grab a Kleenex with an ounce of dignity.
After blowing my nose, I reassured Viv that I loved her forever and for always.
She was not happy to hear this. She looked up at me and said, “You mean I made this book for nothing?”
“Not really,” I said, stalling.
“I even Googled ‘how to make your mom love you,’” she said.
“You did? What were the results? What should you do to make your mom love you?”
“You should make your mom a craft.”
“You did better than that.”
“I did?”
“You made me a book. That is 152 times better than a craft that would eventually go to recycling heaven. We definitely need to show this to Daddy.”
To make up for my inadequate parenting, we took the kids to the beach. This seemed like a good idea until I developed an allergic reaction to the sun that had me lying on the cold tile on the bathroom floor of my basement the next two nights, trying to soothe the itchy blisters and not sell my soul to the first eBay bidder.
Prior to Operation Allergic Reaction, Will wanted to swim in the lake with me. Now, I’m more of a jump-offa-dock woman than a wade-into-the-cold-July-Canadianwater woman. Worse, there were sandbars, which meant it took me longer to get wet than it took Octomom to remember her kids’ names.
“Can’t you just play with Daddy some more?” I asked.
“Mom,” Will said. “You have to come into the water at least once.”
While Chris built a sandcastle with Viv, my son and I held hands and waded into the lake. Amid the onset of hypothermia, I thought of Virginia Woolf, who had waded into waters with stones in her pockets. Thankfully, I was a long way from that.
Will broke my depressing reverie. “Look, Mom,” he said. “The water is up to your pagina.”
I laughed. “And the water is way past your venis.”
“Mom,” he said. “It’s penis, not venis.”
“You’re right. And it’s vagina. Not pagina.”
“You don’t have a pagina then?” he asked.
I shivered again. The water lapped at my belly button, or what was left of my belly button after gestating twins. “No, I don’t have a pagina. But I do have a vagina. Repeat after me: V-V-V-Vagina.”
We were on our third phonics lesson when I noticed a family floating on an inflatable shark beside us.
“Kind of cold, eh?” I said.
They ignored me like I was Peewee Herman at a matinee.
I dove under. Without stones.
Later that afternoon, a friend asked me to go see a movie. We decided to bring an evening picnic. She suggested dark chocolate and nuts. I suggested wine.
“How will we get it in?” she asked.
“I’ll smuggle some Pinot Grigio inside the kids’ water bottles.”
It was decided. I was bringing the wine, which seemed fitting for Eat, Pray, Love. I was excited, not only for the alcohol but for the movie. I had read the book and I actually recognized the names of both lead actors. It was a warm evening, with the sun still high in the sky.
Since I see movies so rarely, I had a paralyzing choice: whether to dress for the outdoor warmth or the indoor air conditioning.
I layered my clothes and opened a bottle of Pinot Grigio, the perfect summer wine, and poured it into my twins’ stainless steel sippy cups. I ran upstairs to say goodnight to Viv and Will, grabbed a cardigan, and searched for my keys—my own daily, Where’s Waldo task. I shouted something to Chris and then I left, without the two sippy cups filled with alcohol.
My friend and I settled int
o our seats and broke out our contraband picnic once the previews started. Little napkins, Babybel cheeses, dark chocolate, and wine, wine that was nowhere to be found.
“Crap,” I said. “I forgot it on the counter.” Then I remembered. “Oh my god, it’s in sippy cups.” A head movie of my six year olds becoming drunk played in my cortex.
I rushed out of my seat, making everyone in our row stand, tripped on a step, and was dialing home on my cell phone before I hit the lobby.
“Have the kids had anything to drink?” I asked Chris.
“Yeah, they’ve had a drink,” he answered. I could hear his voice tense.
“What did they drink?” I asked
“Are you OK?”
“Did they drink from their sippy cups?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do they seem drunk?”
“Drunk?”
“I put wine in their sippy cups to bring to the movie.”
“You what?”
“I filled them with wine. To smuggle it. But I forgot it on the counter.”
“You put wine in their sippy cups?”
“Yes. The stainless steel ones.”
I could hear him descending the stairs, cell phone in hand.
“It’s still here,” he said.
“Can you put it in the fridge?”
“Really?”
“Just put it in a bag first . . . and hide it. I’ll have it later.”
We hung up. I’m not sure what he agreed to do. I just knew that I’d staved off trying to explain this conundrum to Child and Family Services.
I returned to the movie, feeling light.
I was healthy. I was laughing. I had a husband who not only loved me senselessly, but also liked me. I had healthy children. And I was away from them.
THE SAPPY FILES, PART 6 (OR WHY MY KIDS’ THERAPISTS SHOULD HAVE A DRINK, UNLESS THEY’RE ALCOHOLICS, IN WHICH CASE DON’T. BLAME. ME.)
Dearest Will and Viv,
Today you turn seven . Happy Birthday, my darlings.
I hope you think being six has been a lot of fun . You know I’m not good at the big things. I’m not good at planning birthday parties, taking you on a zillion outings (or even two—unless they involve a bookstore and a library), or writing plays for you to act out.
But I think I’m OK at the little things. At laughing at the dinner table, at wrestling, at making music practice manageable by banging my forehead on the keys, at impersonating Donald Duck.
I hope that you will come to see that the little things often matter more than the big ones.
I hope you “get ” my writing someday. I’m not going to lie. I write for me. But I also write for you.
I hope that someday you will come to know me as a person in addition to a mom. I hope you will realize that—in spite of my many, many failings—I love you “across my howt [heart] and back again .” I hope you know in your core that I am “a comeback-er woman” as you once declared.
I hope that you will come to understand that while I laugh at you, I laugh more at myself. I hope you’ll see this as a gift.
I hope that you know how thankful your daddy and I are for you both.
I hope.
For you.
For me.
For all of us.
And I know.
I know the world is much, much better with you a part of it.
Much love always,
Mom
THE POST-AMBLE
or The Sappy–File Finale
THE FINAL SAPPY FILE (OR WHY I NEED TO LAUGH)
Dear Younger Me, the barely pregnant one who doesn’t yet waddle and whose stomach is stretch mark free:
File this letter in the if-I-only-knew-then category, or in the box of photos you swore you’d put in an album even though no one prints photos anymore.
It’s OK to be scared. Anything worthwhile involves risk, and parenting is certainly worthwhile. In fact, if you’re not scared, you’re likely in denial or drunk.
Once your babies are born, toss out the serious parenting books. OK, save one for reference so when your daughter starts shooting out blue poo, you know it’s normaall. But don’t read how-to-be-better parenting books. If you sincerely wish to be better, talk to parents you admire. Ask them what worked. What didn’t. But the books? Have a bonfire and roast marshmallows over them.
Trust yourself. As my friend Vanessa once told me, “You are your child’s best mother.” Trust that becoming a mom doesn’t mean you’ll lose your personality. It’s too strong. You’re too strong.
Trust others. It’s a lot easier to parent with your own village. Let the Coca-Cola delivery man hold your baby. The drunken women too. Maybe. Cautiously.
Laugh. At your babies. At your husband. And especially at yourself. It’s a lot easier to forgive when you laugh . In fact, forgiveness—especially of yourself—may not even be possible without laughing at it all.
Know that it’s all a stage: the small stuff (like sleeplessness and toxic diapers) and the big stuff (your child’s dependence and even your life).
But laugh. Yes, laugh. When you tell your son, “Get that train off your penis” and your daughter, “Don’t lick the minivan ,” laugh. With wild abandon. Make that your new nor-maall.
Love,
Your stretch marked, know-it-all self
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
or People I Didn’t Forget To Thank
I’d like to hold a moment of silence for all of the letter U’s that sacrificed their lives when this book was translated from Canadian to American. U will not be forgotten.
To Jill Marr, my rock star agent, who once said the best part of her job is that she gets to make dreams come true: Thank you for being my fairy godmother and for becoming my good friend.
To Julie Matysik, my editor at Skyhorse: You believed in my manuscript and humour-humor from the beginning. Your positivity is infectious.
I would be nowhere without my Easy Writers Critique Group. To Nancy Hayes, my gentle guide and inspiration: I want to be you when I grow up. To Brad Somer: I apologize for the twenty-eight exclamation points that I left in. There were originally eighty-two. I hope you’re proud! To Elena Aitken and Trish Loye Elliott, my wordb*tches, my beta readers, my besties: If it weren’t for you two, I wouldn’t have believed. Please tell your husbands that “bad mom” thanks them as well.
Every book needs an early reader who has a PhD in Medieval Gynecology. I’m glad Lorraine Valestuk was mine. To Jenny Hansen: I’m sorry reading my manuscript gave you a migraine; you endured. My go-to funny guy is Chase McFadden, who is talented enough to write for SNL. Clay Morgan is my indefatigable writing partner in all things nonfiction. Thank you, my friend.
If ever there was a writer made by a writing conference, it was me. Surrey International Writers’ Conference is fabulous.
When I started IronicMom.com, I never knew I’d develop so many friendships. My readers regularly out-funny me and still they come back. I salute them. And to my real-life friends who put up with me and my writing, I owe you.
I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention my teaching colleagues and students. I get to work with quirky, imaginative teens and adults every day. I know how lucky I am.
Finally, my family. To Mom, Dad, Patti, and Steve: Apparently not everyone grows up in a family where unconditional love and battles of wit are the norm. To my in-laws: Apparently not everyone marries into a family with a sense of humor and open arms. To my husband Chris: Thank you for believing in the third funniest woman you’ve ever met and for loving her senselessly. Back at ya, eh? Base camp rocks. And to my VW: For bearing with a distracted mom and for making her better, in every way. I love you all across my heart and back.
And thank you to _________________ (insert your name here). You know who you are. At least I hope you do.
RESOURCES
or High Tech-y Stuff
To find reading guides, supplementary material, and general hilarity, visit the following sites:
° IronicMom
.com
° Facebook.com/Leanne.Shirtliffe
If you wish to feel all Star Trek-y, just scan this code, which will take you to Leanne’s website:
This QR code is a modern-day Rorschach test. If you can see a face in it, call a therapist.
INDEX
or A Completely Unhelpful but
Accurate Classificat
#$%*, 73, 185
Al Qaeda urethra, 39
anatomically correct boy doll, 109–10
authority of a gnat, 252
baby Alcatraz, 98
Bangkok,
black market bra factory, 61
blind man with rebar cane, 8, 63
Buddha-on-the-dashboard, 44
ping-pong and goldfish girlie
shows, 53
tuk tuks, 23, 42, 63, 88
beer, 27, 37, 68, 72, 94–95, 121–23, 161, 168, 186, 205, 254
beige food group, 175
birth control, 151, 174
ceiling fan1, 17, 26, 45–46, 54, 65, 75, 169
Child and Family Services, 271
Chris2, 3–276
church,
Catholic school, 259
dolphins versus fish, 242
fairies versus angels, 242
“Jesus tastes yummy,” 242
misbehavior, 241–43
virgin, 242
crafts,
anti, 189, 217
Witness Protection
Program, 155
DNA cloning auction, 120
Dora and Diego:
looking alike, 111
torn limb-by-limb, 152
yelling at objects right in front of them, 120
Firth, Colin3, 92, 159, 165, 188, 210
Food,
canned alligator, 207
carcinogenic pretzel crap, 92
deep-fried bugs, 5
ketchup, 112, 156–57, 235–36
mystery-meat-on-a-stick, 6, 206
Guilty Mother Syndrome, 217
Halloween,
dressing like a skank, 133
snowsuits, 134
stealing kids’ candy, 135–36
hermaphrodites, 242
how to hire a hit man, 64
human Pez dispenser, 68
husband,
my first one, see Chris