Loaning & Lurching

I have not written in a while. One of my children has been experiencing technical difficulties. I have been in the bizarre position of going to work every day and traipsing the earth, feigning health and humor while one of my children has been ‘having a hard time’. Why so cryptic, you may wonder. Why not lay out the whole monstrosity of the problem? Well it's my prerogative to say whaddevah the hell I want to, but it is not my prerogative to do so in relation to the topic of my children's lives. Because they’re not really mine, goddammit. It’s like that Sweet Honey and The Rock song which is probably quoting the Bible or some version of it, about how your children are not your children but they’re on loan from someone like Mother Nature or Joni Mitchell. It is quite shabby of my progeny to become independent beings whom I must respect in regard to their personal lives. It was simpler when I could rail on about the poop leaking out of a diaper without any concern at all that I might embarrass someone. I could discuss every detail of nursing without worrying - Boopy never minded if I detailed the amount of milk sucked out my left tit, and the subsequent soreness left because of my unremitting love and all-natural maternal instinct. And now they want to be individuals. That’s a kick in the ass.

My children are utterly separate from me. They breathe on their own, they eat, occasionally with utensils, and they seem to have relationships that do not include me! It's humiliating and fundamentally wrong. Who are these people for whom I shop, worry, and listen, as they analyze the tiniest flaws in my character? Is there not some faint whiff of loyalty that requires them to ask my permission for, like, having their own opinions? Especially when their opinions are so immature. What child of mine would ever reject a slice of apple pie, call “Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret “ boring and old-fashioned, or reject the all-American blue-jean as uncomfortable? What kind of judgment is that? And I nevvuh, evvuh, gave my permission to be so casual about both burping and farting. Farting? Passing gas? I could hardly admit such a thing existed until I was 27 and about to give birth. And it was not an admission I gave willingly.

There are a number of other liberties "my" children have taken in the past, and at this particular juncture, I am drawing a line, holding up my middle-aged hand, hollering out: no way, you ingrates. I say enough meaningful bonds with other adults - whaddevah happened to the mother-child connection? No more opinions about politics, ethics, etc. If I want to call a person a dumbass, and then smile sweetly when I see her, I feel I have the right to my hypocrisy. Who needs a personal critic? And if I ask my child, my flesh and blood, to please do me a favor and get me something from the kitchen, like a cookie - hypothetically, of course - I expect a little service. That’s right, service. I didn’t pop those people out and fawn over them for years just so they could leave me in the lurch. They may want to pursue the devolution of their dependence on me, but I am holding firm. No. More. Growing. I cannot reveal my methods, but I will keep my readers - you over there, and my dog - posted.