The monsoon that I created by the mere action of bringing my mother to Dana Farber on a Monday, continued for days after. And it was on one of those torrential rainy days that I spent the majority of my time laying on the couch watching Desperate Housewives reruns and allowing Cory to make everyone lunch while I intermittently nodded off like a junkie. I know you’re all sick of hearing about my iron-deficiency issues, but I really underestimated the importance of hemoglobin. That shit makes the world go ’round.
Eventually, dinnertime rolled around and the oft-discussed topic surfaced of who was on whose side. My kids are funny– so eager to turn their most critical inter-family relations into a battle of Israeli-Palestinian conflict-size proportions . Cory was on Jack’s side. Jack was on Daddy’s side. No one was on Grace’s side. Of course, she ran out to me crying , delivering the news that everyone had sided against her. ”Well Grace, here’s the good news. I’m always on your side.” (Of course, I say this to all the kids, but so far, none of them have been intelligent enough to figure that out.) And that’s when it happened…
She seemed satisfied by my reply. She hugged me tight and said “I’m happy you’re on my side. I just wish you spent more time with me.” It was a verbal scimitar that pierced me directly through my heart. It’s so cliche to say that my heart literally hurt, but there’s no other way to express it. Grace, as usual, took a seemingly innocent conversation and transformed it into a one-sentence evaluation of my parenting performance over the past five-and-a-half-years of her life and it wasn’t good. Really, it’s about as bad as you can feel, especially when you stay at home full-time with your children. Like, “You’re here all the time, and you still suck.”
It made me realize a few things, but in the immediate moment I just felt a need for action. And, you know, what can repair the motherless void that a little girl feels? Target. So I dragged my near-hemoglobinless body, the one with muscles that throb at a different rhythm and rate than my pulsing temples, and flung Grace and myself, complete with twisted sister ovaries into the car. We drove in a blinding rain to Target.
It’s a trip that I had originally planned for a drier day, so that we could buy some gear for Grace’s impending dance classes. But now I felt such an urgency to spend this one-on-one time with her, because I’m the worst mother in the world. I mean, she’s right. We don’t do many things, just the two of us. We picked out some leotards and tights. She shook me down for Hello Kitty underwear and chocolate popsicles. I watched her as she tried on different accessories and purses and she asked my opinion on what suited her the best. And it was in that moment that I confirmed two things: 1) She is no longer a baby or a toddler. She’s a girl who cares about handbags and necklaces. 2) She has never met a sequin she didn’t like which provides more scientific proof that she is my daughter than if I had her DNA tested.
Eventually, we had to leave. She kept begging for more girl time, but Target was spinning around and around and I was leaning against displays of Aussie hair products to keep from dying. I was dangerously close to going into a grape-scented coma. Once I reminded her of the chocolate popsicles that were rapidly melting, I was able to get her in the car. I didn’t even get a Starbucks iced coffee, so that she would know that our time was truly just about her.
The next day was “Bus Orientation Day.” I remember when I started Kindergarten. The bus rolled up to my house, I got on the bus wearing a dress that can only be described at Heidi meets the Swiss Miss Girl after they both dropped acid at Studio 54, and a pink and white, gingham-check metal lunchbox. We didn’t have a “Bus Orientation Day.” My introduction into the world of school transit existed of walking up four steps and sitting in a seat. Alas, it is 2010 and every aspect of our children’s educational experience requires a meeting.
This was the first year that our school district attempted this Bus Orientation fuckery, and it showed. The 18 billion parents and five-year-olds were herded past the two bright yellow school buses of which they were promised a ride, and into a non-airconditioned cafeteria for a 45-minute lecture on bus safety. Informative for parents; torture for writhing, sweaty Kindergartners-in-waiting. I will say that the “No kissing on the bus” portion of the diatribe did catch the attention of my deflated daughter.
Finally the time came and we piled onto the bus to take a practice run, so that the kids would know what to expect on their first day. Grace insisted on the window seat and immediately began waving. And wave she did, for the entire ten minutes, as if we were in the Popemobile. She marveled at those who waved back, and didn’t let the non-reciprocators dissuade her, whatsoever. I got high off diesel fumes.
As if that wasn’t enough “Have we had enough quality, girl-time yet? girl time”, that night we, yet again, went out to get her hair cut in anticipation of the beginning of her school career. She was very specific about wanting long layers and that’s exactly what she got. I took lots of pictures of her, and with each snap she got more and more annoyed. Tough break, honey. Mommy is a blogger. A blogger who clearly needs to start collecting more photographic evidence to prove to you that we do, indeed, spend time together.
My plan is to cram as much additional together time down her throat, until she wonders why she ever pointed out this deficiency in our relationship in the first place. She’s going to have mother-daughter unity coming out of her pores. I will not stop until she begs to be left alone and even then, I will photograph and document every moment of her being alone. I think it’s what a good mother, a better mother than I, would do.
Tags: girl time, Grace, hair cut, school bus, time
