How Not to Calm a Child on a Plane (36 page)

*
Look. I know that writing about my own death is foolhardy at the worst, and just plain bad form at best. Not only am I “courting” the devil; I'm also courting the devil's children, i.e., Internet jagoffs, those delightful vermin. I can hear the online comments now, “Thank GOD she's ded! Good riddince to that Moe-ron! She can suk it!—Sincerely,
[email protected]
.” On the other hand, I believe firmly in mentally tracking a horrible idea to its logical, horrible conclusion, thereby guaranteeing that it NEVER HAPPENS. And so, by this reasoning I have just guaranteed myself immortality. That's science.

*
About big stuff. Little stuff—well, please see previous chapter.

^†
As is reflected in Chapter 10 (“My Bodies, Myself”), a true story, BTW, and one that I tell at the drop of a hat, so be sure to invite me to your next cocktail gathering. Or you could just reread that chapter. But invite me to your cocktail party anyway.

^‡
I want to be dressed in my flesh-colored Lycra bodysuit, the one with the fake nipples and pubic hair attached (you'll find it with all my other sewing stuff). I want a big jazz band, the kind they have in New Orleans. And a parade. Also, I want my friends, the ones who have stopped talking to each other—and whose feud makes brunch planning particularly difficult—to be forced to hug. For an excruciatingly long time. Also, there should be pie.

^§
This may be moot, as I believe I've already established my intention to remain immortal.

twenty-five

THE BEGINNING OF THE END

T
he Road to Parenthood is littered with tired clichés that crawl up my rectum, fuse my spine, and embarrass me on behalf of normal-brained humans everywhere.

“Cherish every moment.”

This out-of-touch phrase is often uttered by the type of person who, when you dated them back in college, insisted on saving every birthday card, restaurant receipt, movie ticket, and used condom.

“You'll never know love until you have a child.”

This speaker achieves the impressive feat of offending (a) anyone who doesn't have a child and (b) all of the
other people in his or her life that aren't his or her child.

“Parenthood is the toughest job you'll ever love.”

This saying has actually been co-opted from the Peace Corps, so unless you're quoting this line while tilling a rice paddy in Myanmar, you'd best be advised to shut your First World trap.

“Enjoy it. It goes so fast.”

This is the in-bred granddaddy of all parenting clichés, the one that fails to acknowledge all those painfully tedious moments of parenthood in which time is not speeding but dragging like a garden slug that has just slithered through a puddle of tequila-infused molasses.

Like sitting with your child as she takes ten minutes to sound out “Thhhhhhaaaat fffffffaaaaaaaaaat rrrrrrrraaaaaaaaat sssssssssaaaaaaaat oooooooooooooonnnnnnn thhhhhhhhhhhhhhe mmmmmmmaaaaaaaaaat . . .” (which, while an important part of a strong educational foundation, is also recognized by the CIA as a legitimate alternative to waterboarding). Or when your kid begs you to press play on her
Nursery Rhymes Set to '80s Death Metal!
CD over and over and over and over until you start wondering what it would feel like to ram your car into the side of that building right there. Or when your kid is having trouble putting on her G.D. shoes but refuses to let you help her even though you're already forty-five minutes late for a playdate at the park where the first thing she's going to do is take off her G.D. shoes. Or
when your kid loses/breaks/destroys something of yours that is special and irreplaceable.
^*

Bottom line is, being a parent is not all sunshine and lollipops. Sometimes it's sun damage and diabetes.

It's the first day of kindergarten. While the other parents assembled in this tiny classroom are struggling to cover their tears, I'm fighting to hide my glee.

The past five years—watching that squirming, screaming little squid blossom into a fully formed human—have been an amazing ride. But I'd be lying if I said that I haven't been eagerly awaiting this day and this new chapter, this chance to watch her slowly gain independence as I greedily take back some of my own.

No longer must I fake the stomach flu just to get a precious few minutes in the bathroom alone . . . No more will I have to argue over who gets to walk the dog (“It's my turn! Give me that friggin leash!”), or fight over whose turn it is to go grocery shopping (“You're damn right I'm going to the store right now. We're out of Herbes de Provence!”). Deep down in my soul lives a tiny Mel Gibson, his weird face covered in blue, his cries of “FREEEEEDOOOOM!” echoing in my head.

Though he's trying hard not to show it, the husband is something of a wreck. He's always been very protective of the child, whereas I am a dedicated follower of the Cult of Benign Neglect. He still cuts her grapes into sixteenths and drenches her in sunblock with an SPF of 15,000, sunblock that is so thick, it leaves her looking like a silent-film star. Right now he is hovering over the kid and cycling through his Kindergarten Preparedness Checklist for the twentieth time today, “Do you have your hat? Are you warm enough? Do you need to pee? Where's your hand sanitizer?”

Finally, he releases her from his clutches. The kid stares nervously in the direction of the play area, then at us. Though every instinct is telling me to “LEAVE! FLEE! YOU'VE GOT SIX HOURS OF FREEDOM AND TIME'S A-WASTING!” I cool my jets and stand my ground, then dig into my purse, where I find an old napkin balled up at the bottom; I hold it at the ready to dry her tears. Then the kid fakes us out with a quick “BUH-BYE!” and disappears into a tiny pretend kitchen.

Having fulfilled my duty, I make my way (trying hard not to giggle and/or skip) through the sea of still-clinging parents. One mother is weeping and squeezing her son so tightly, it seems she's auditioning for Meryl Streep's role in the remake of
Sophie's Choice
.

Standing in the doorway is our daughter's new kindergarten teacher, who looks like she's probably a very nice lady, but at the moment her polite smile is doing very little to hide her inner monologue, which I'm guessing sounds like “Hello, nice to meet you all. Now
get the hell out of my classroom, you child-suffocating messes.”

I give the teacher a quick wink-nod combo, as if to say, “Can you believe these poor saps?” She gives me a look back as if to say, “You can get the hell out too,” so I squeeze past her and the rest of the still-weeping/ loitering throng and then notice I've lost the husband. He's back near the tiny kitchen, running through Kindergarten Preparedness Checklist #21 with the kid. Clearly, he needs a few more minutes—but me, I'm out.

I exit the classroom and head out to the empty playground, where I sit at the bottom of the slide and revel in the glory of this moment.

I've always thought of the job of being a parent as something between a Sherpa and a good party host; that my job is to guide her (Follow me up the mountain/to the hors d'oeuvres table), point out the sights (Look, an eagle!/the dance floor!), warn her of the dangers (Beware, that ledge/that guy is slippery/a douche), and to just try to show her a good time while not letting her fall off the mountain/get drunk and pass out on some weird dude's lap.

Still, I can't help feeling that it's a near miracle we've made it this far, considering the multitude of ways that things could have gone spectacularly wrong during her upbringing
^*
—yet there she is, starting kindergarten like the normal, undamaged person that we have somehow managed to raise.

And though this moment represents just how far we've come, as I close my eyes and lay back against the smooth, sun-warmed, and vaguely pee-smelling slide, my mind wanders along the path of “firsts” that are still yet to come:

Today she'll make a best friend, a sweet little girl who is polite and shy
. . .
and then one day she'll have her first best-friend breakup, with that same little girl whom I've always secretly hated and thought was a sneaky and manipulative little creep
.

Then will come the first sleepover away from home, where she'll stay up past midnight giggling and sneaking snacks, and where she'll discover that not all mothers stay up late squeezing their chest pimples, Googling their ex-boyfriends, and gorging on Duncan Hines frosting from the can
.

Then will come middle school, makeup, shoplifting, and puberty—not necessarily in that order—and the first time she screams “IHATEYOURFRIGGINGUTS!” and really, truly means it
.