Losing My Family, Keeping My Home

I’m not going anywhere. Unless you push me.

Growing up, I didn’t have the best dad. And, by saying that, I mean he just wasn’t really around, and when he was there I walked on eggshells. His presence was large and frightening, so I tried my best to stay out of his way. I spent a lot of time in my room reading Francine Pascal, V.C. Andrews, Judy Blume and R.L. Stine, writing wistful poetry, listening to depressing music, watching Nick-at-Nite and eating Doritos and Pop-Tarts. Anything to self-soothe.

My parents never had a stable marriage. It was riddled with addictions, domestic violence, cheating, and well, all the awful stuff you see on Lifetime and Dateline. When I was nine, I vowed to never be in a relationship like theirs. And, we all know how promises like that turn out. I attracted every man who drank too much, shot himself up with steroids, punched me in the face, was married or lied just for the hell of it. And maybe, I even sought them out.

And then, when I was 24, I discovered my dad’s affair. Torn, but my mom being my best friend, I ratted him out. And, she torn as well – I’m sure – kicked him out, and then took him back. Dad was never mad at me, but I couldn’t handle it. I had interfered in my parents’ marriage. I had called my dad’s girlfriend. Maybe even threatened her, who can remember? And, I had broken my mom’s heart. Oh, and I had gone against my brother and sister’s wishes: they wanted me to keep the secret. I had caused major distress in our family.

So, I ran away.

Phoenix seemed like a plausible choice. I had family here: Uncle G, Aunt J and two cousins, S and B – both around my age. They would take me in and help me start a new life. Also, they weren’t fucked up, like my family. I could learn important life skills from them. Things I missed out on amidst the chaos.

And, I did. I learned how to host dinner parties, make small talk, carry myself like a lady, treat a man right, color block and accessorize, order a vodka soda and swill wine. But most importantly, as a lady, I learned how I should be treated.

After 45 years of marriage, G heavily doted on J. He would toss his arm around her shoulders, drop her off at the door when it was raining, buy her jewelry, lavish her with compliments and just overall spoil her. He was visibly and excessively in love with her. I loved watching it – mostly because it was so novel to me.

Over the years we all became very close. They treated me as their own. They were my people. I was over at G and J’s every weekend for family dinners and I spent holidays, birthdays and vacations with them. I was in on family jokes, family gossip, family secrets and family fights.

I felt particularly close to and was very fond of G. I slipped and called him ‘Dad.’

G was a real man. He co-founded a bank when he was young and became insanely successful and admired. G had a soft spot for dogs and horses and wept during sappy movies and sad stories. He wore an apron in the kitchen and the finest suits to work. He played golf at Firerock Country Club and had a voice that rivaled Tony Bennett. He had impeccable taste and loved taking us to places like Nobu, Binkley’s and The Italian Restaurant; yet knew how to enjoy a brat at a Diamondbacks game. He got manicures, wore a mustache and threw a more spectacular temper tantrum than a two-year-old getting his Legos taken away.

The Grand Canyon couldn’t contain G’s personality – or his generosity. The moment I’d walk through the front door, I’d get a whiff of his cologne. It made me smile, but his smile, when I’d tell him how good he smelled, made me smile more. There would always be a drink waiting for me and Norah Jones playing – he knew she was one of my favorites. But, before I’d even drive over to G and J’s house on Lakeview, I’d study the news because I’d want to have something topical in my arsenal, so we could banter. G was intimidatingly brilliant and had no qualms in showing off.

Last year, unexpectedly, G got very ill.

It was bizarre seeing him so weak, because he’d been such a force his whole life. G was in ICU for a few days before he passed away. He died a week before his 66th birthday. The devastation of his death was collective and overwhelming. G’s employees and friends were overcome with grief. And his family, his family was shattered and shocked. G was the patriarch of the family and without him, they felt lost.

Death does weird things to people. It causes them to act out in strange ways. This situation is not out of the ordinary. After the funeral, my aunt and cousins distanced themselves from me. I was excluded from things, from events, from grieving together. Not only had I lost G that month, but I lost the rest of my family, too. I was alone in the desert.

I wanted to run away, again. It would be the easy and natural thing to do. The emptiness was consuming and the aching relentless. So, I prepared to go to the only place I knew bigger than my heartache: Texas. My brother was there and I could purge my pain into the Rio Grande or maybe just coat it in queso.

I sold my condo in Old Town and rented an apartment in Midtown. My job was a contract position, so essentially I had no commitments. Nothing was tying me to Phoenix. But as much as I’ve snubbed commitment in the past, I quickly discovered how deeply I was committed to The Valley.

I didn’t want to move.

Arizona was home. I worked hard to create a life here and didn’t want to abandon it. I thought about everything keeping me here: my friends – whom I love greatly, the mountains I hike weekly, the kids at Chrysalis where I volunteer and the arts community I’m involved in. Even the monsoons, haboobs and driving in traffic when it’s raining hold a special place in my heart. And, I met someone. Someone eerily reminiscent of G. So a piece of me stayed for the unknown.

Ultimately, I’m home. Savoring old memories and creating new ones.

In My Day, We Were Defriended by Taking Back BFF Necklaces

Will you wear it? Will you wear it forever?

When I was 10, my dad yanked out my tooth. It was loose, but was one of those stubborn ones that just wouldn’t come out, no matter how much I wiggled it. He had me lie on the living room floor, facing my open bedroom door, while he tied one end of a string around my tooth and the other around the doorknob. Then he slammed the door shut as hard as he could. My tooth ripped from its roots and flew out of my mouth, hitting a wall, never to be seen again.

We assumed it fell behind the sofa, but could never find it. Even after inching it away from the wall and peeking behind, picking it up and scooting it across the room, and finally selling it moving out of the house. Dad was proud. I was traumatized.

He was obsessed with teeth and had serious regrets about not being a dentist. He would make toothpaste out of baking soda and hydrogen peroxide, claiming it would whiten, brighten and clean better than Crest. And, he’d stand in front of his bathroom mirror – wearing nothing but pajama bottoms – flossing his teeth, every morning and night, until he’d flung out every piece of debris that may have potentially rotted his teeth. He even went as far as to buy actual dental instruments.

I’m not sure where along the way he manifested this obsession. Dad always had nice, straight teeth. But, maybe this happens a lot. Along with so-called perfect things we’re given, comes a fear of losing them. So we latch on tightly and nurture them, and in some instances, fixate on them.

My tooth is the first thing I remember losing in life; maybe because it was both a little traumatic and a little funny. Some might argue it was taken from me, but whatever, either way it’s gone. I never did develop a tooth obsession like my dad, but I did pick up a few of my own.

Three years later, after the tooth incident, I was really into those Best Friend Forever necklaces that Claire’s sold. Two or three necklaces came in a package, letters divvied up on each pendant, spelling out the words, “Best Friends” when pieced together, like a puzzle. That particular year, I had two best friends, so we bought the necklaces made for three.

You never really hear about good things coming in threes. Conversely, there’s that saying that terrible things happen in threes. You know, you sprain your ankle, your dog runs away and then you…wait. Because there has to be one more horrendous event coming your way. So, you wait to get fired from your job. You wait to get served divorce papers. You wait to get a call from your doctor, diagnosing you with an incurable disease. You wait to get mugged in the parking lot of Target. And, when you get tired of waiting, you create something.

Now pairs on the other hand. Amazing things happen in pairs. Like, peanut butter and chocolate, a hammer and nail, cookies and milk, shoes and socks, wine and cheese and so on. But, it seems the only thing that happens in threes, is trouble. (Exception to the rule: Three’s Company.) And, that’s what happened with H, K and me. Someone always ended up feeling left out. And by someone, I mean me.

My parents were busy and heavily involved in their own shit, teeth and otherwise, so I didn’t know the first thing about making and maintaining friends. Everything I learned, I learned from Sweet Valley Twins, Laverne & Shirley, Nancy Drew, The Munsters and The Brady Bunch.

And, because I was surrounded by so much chaos and commotion at home, I shrouded myself in a world of fantasy in an effort to escape, in an effort to belong – to something, somewhere. I wanted to be a part of something more than just a Nick-at-Nite marathon of Alfred Hitchcock Presents. I wanted to belong to something more tangible than The V.C. Andrews Fan Club. I wanted to open myself up to more than a box of Twinkies and Capri-Sun.

I wanted to be loved and admired and one way to get that, I thought, was to run my own little “Unicorn Club,” just like Jessica Wakefield. So I maneuvered it so the BFF pendant with the letters “es ie” dangled around my neck, making me the middle piece of our friendship, the glue holding the three of us together. Without me, there would be no “us.”

If K and H did something without me, it felt like cheating, so I rarely allowed it. One Saturday morning, while I was at Hy-Vee getting groceries with my mom, I ran into H. While we were chatting, she let it slip that she and K were going rollerblading later that afternoon. I panicked. Why wasn’t I invited? Would they talk about me behind my back? Was this some sort of a ploy to kick me out of the group? So naturally I replied, “Oh yeah, sure I can make it,” as if I’d just been invited, and then hurried away before I could be ‘uninvited.’

And then, one day, I did get invited – to H’s house. This was over 20 years ago, so I don’t remember our exact conversation. But, I do remember that she didn’t exactly invite me into her house. H’s slight body blocked the doorway, hands on hips. So, I got into a defensive stance as well, folding my arms across my chest. This pissed H off because, she said, I had no right to be mad. She was mad first and, you know how teenage girls are; only one can be mad at a time. In short, I was kicked out of my first and only threesome.

Then, the door slammed in my face. And, even though there was no piece of string tied to the end of it, it felt like I’d just had another tooth ripped from my mouth. Only this time it wasn’t the least bit funny. This time it really, really hurt.

 

Mo’ Mullet, No Problem

Her limp hand lay in mine, her head turned to the left, disgusted. Well, as much as an 8-year-old could look disgusted. I, on the other hand, two years younger, would have picked no other place to be. The two of us, my sister and me, were punished to six minutes of hand holding in the oversized brown chair in our family room. This was Mom’s way of disciplining us, after we fought, which we often did.

There were – still are –far too many fights to recall each one. Like trying to read the last few letters on a Snellen chart, our fights all sort of blur together. But, what stands out are the rare moments of alliance and coveted snippets of affection.  

Like the time I was eight and N let me cuddle up to her while she read chapter after chapter from The Boxcar Children, after my aunt gave me a terrible haircut. Let me preface this story with a couple of important facts: N despises reading and writing. Really, the English language, in general – she prefers French. Also, hair disasters don’t faze me – not now. It just took me a few years to break my attachment to the stuff.

When I was 14, I waxed off half of my right eyebrow and didn’t blink an eye. I had meaty, unmanageable brows that wanted desperately to meld into one. Of course, I wanted to put a stop to it. Every other Saturday I watched my mom wax the little space in between hers, along with her upper lip. So, I thought I’d try my hand at it. But, I’m a little clumsy and wax is a little messy. All in all, I stopped a unibrow from coming in, but also half of my right eyebrow – for about three months. Thankfully, it was the nineties and big hair was a thing, so my bangs did some damage control, but mostly I laughed at myself, along with everyone else.

But in the meantime, it took the mullet episode before I could handle hair loss so gracefully and maturely. Mom convinced her sister, who was a hairstylist at the time, that she should give me “this darling” haircut she’d seen in a magazine. My aunt, 16 years younger than my mom, argued the cut might not be considered darling to someone my age. My mom is stubborn and the older of the two, so my hair was cut.

Let me tell you what my mom defines as a darling haircut: a mullet. Yes, a mullet. I looked like Joe Dirt (minus the sideburns and mustache) in my second grade school pictures. I was inconsolable. Like most little girls, I coveted long hair. The kind princesses had in Disney movies. Curls like Pollyanna, a mane like Marcia Brady, braids like Laura Ingles Wilder.

When I was five or so, I’d wear my pajama bottoms on my head, twirling my head just so, so the legs would linger on either one of my shoulders, allowing me to sassily brush them off as if they were long strands of hair getting in my way. When I was seven, my hair had finally grown out to the length of a princess and people would comment on how long it had gotten. I’d respond, “Thank you.” Because, I thought it was a compliment, as if I’d done something extraordinary, like win a spelling bee.

In a way, I had accomplished something. Having the courage to grow long hair was quite a feat in our household. Mom was never one to mess around with the stuff. She hated styling it, which is probably why she always had hers cut into a short bob, off of her face. I’d ask her to braid my hair for school, and quickly regret it. She’d jerk my head around like she was shifting gears at NASCAR. By the time she was finished with my hair, one of us was crying or giving the other the silent treatment or both. And, instead of walking onto the school bus looking like I was fresh out of a salon, I walked on looking like I was fresh out of a car wash.

So it made sense that she’d want me to have as little hair as possible – nothing to fuss over. Looking back, I’m fortunate I was given a mullet and not a bowl cut or a flattop. Either way, a little hug and well-read chapters from someone I craved attention from more than long hair, helped me forget about the disaster I was wearing on my head and made things okay, in that moment. And soon, my tears dried, second grade turned into third and my mullet grew out.

Maybe that was the year I learned pain was temporary. Maybe that was the year I learned people you least expect will be there when you need them. Or maybe that was the year I learned the mullet was way better than princess hair.

A Whole Jugga Woman

That reminds me, I need tampons.

Nicknames are like big hugs. Everyone deserves one. Everyone. When you get crowned with a nickname, it means you’re in. Like, people really, really like you. You know this – and everyone else knows this – because time was devoted for the specific purpose of creating a clever moniker, just for you.

Bono is a perfect example. His given name is Paul, but in high school his buds dubbed him ‘Bono Vox’ for obvious reasons: it means ‘good voice’ in Latin. And, Miley Cyrus’ birth certificate actually reads ‘Destiny Hope’, but because the pop star was such a smiley little thing, people called her ‘Smiley’. And, because that’s super long and cumbersome to say, it was quickly shortened to ‘Miley’.

Of course, not everyone is the creative type, which is why we have generic nicknames. They’re based off a person’s attribute or characteristic and tossed around like glitter at gay pride. I’m sure you all know an ‘Einstein’, ‘Moneybags’, ‘Ginger’ or ‘Brown Eyes’. And, then there are those Sad Sacks who give themselves a nickname. Pathetic, isn’t it? You’re not supposed to give yourself a nickname. It’s like giving yourself a massage, pat on the back, or blowjob. It just doesn’t feel as good as when someone else does it.

I know. In 7^th grade, I nicknamed myself ‘Woman’.

It was my first year of junior high and I’d been answering to Meghan or Megs for 13 years. ‘Woman’ came to me, in a bathroom stall, in between science and gym class. Sort of like how the dead just come to the Long Island Medium. I was sitting on the toilet, doing what I always do when I pee: staring down at my panties, like I’m ashamed or something. I just want the experience over as fast as possible. But, really, where else are you supposed to look? Either way, I noticed the daisies on my yellow cotton briefs were no longer white, but crimson.

I got my period! And I was welcoming it, with open legs. Finally, there was nothing setting me apart from my mom and older sister. We were all the same. Well, at least once a month we were. I tore some toilet paper off the roll and carefully placed it over the stained daisies. Then I waddled to the nurse’s office to call my mom. I had to blab the good news to someone; excitement was bubbling all over me. Plus, I needed instructions on what to do next.

Mom didn’t “know what in the hell” I was so excited about, but brought me a couple of maxi pads anyway.  She gave me a short tutorial before saying, “Goodbye Meghan,” which I seized as an opportunity to correct her. “Mom, I’m a woman now. Call me Woman.” Word quickly spread and my family humored me for several months. And when I say humored, I mean made fun of, because come on, that’s just par for the course when someone nicknames themselves.

I’d like to point out that this whole friggin’ mess could have been avoided had my mom slapped me upside the head with Judy Blume’s, Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. Either way, ‘Woman’ stuck to me about as good as those damn maxi pads. But, not to worry.  One year later I was nicknamed again – by someone else.

Periods and breasts go together like mustaches and weirdos. So, you can guess what happened next: I sprouted a pair. But, not just a couple of bumps like the rest of the girls in my class. My chest was like the blueberry inflation scene in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. Practically overnight, my breasts had developed to a D. For some of you, that may not sound that large. Let me remind you, I was 14 and a smidgen over 5 feet. I was grossly disproportionate. Like almost as disproportionate as a toddler’s head to its body.

My mom hooked me up with a minimizer bra and cocoa butter to slather on the fresh stretch marks that were strewn over my breasts like silly string. Meanwhile my classmate, C, hooked me up with the nickname, ‘Jugs’. Charming, I know.

When C announced my nickname in the crowded hallway of Humboldt Junior High, he wasn’t being malicious. C and I had a good relationship, and even dated at one time. He was a jokester, the class clown, the kid who liked everyone and everyone liked back. C even had his own nickname: ‘Funny Man’. And, things could have been so much worse. C could have decreed me something really vulgar, like ‘Fun Bags’ or ‘Meat Puppets’. So for that, I am grateful.

Either way, ‘Jugs’ deflated shortly thereafter.  But, still, each time I pick up a jug of milk from the cooler in Safeway, I’m reminded to buy tampons.

Home is Where the Broken Heart Goes

…and voila, it’s as good as new!

Sometimes I’m overcome with an intense urge to break shit. Like, when I’m turning off the bathroom faucet. At times, I want to keep pulling and twisting the glass knob – long after the water has stopped flowing – just to see what would happen. And, then there are the times when I’m strolling through the aisles of West Elm and experience a sudden desire to thrash about the home décor until it all disintegrates like it was branded with an IKEA label. Of course, I have enough impulse control to behave myself, but still, breaking is on my mind.

Mostly, I notice, when I’m feeling broken. You know, misery loves company. Well, that’s what they say anyway. Which is to say, I want to take the faucet and half of West Elm down with me? Better than taking out an entire population, I suppose. Regardless, when I’m submerged in this feeling, I retreat to the most familiar place I know: Home.

I’m not even sure how accurate that noun is, since I’m not referring to my home. I’m speaking more loosely; talking about the place I grew up, which is technically someone else’s home now. Either way, my mom and sister’s family live in Iowa, where I spent the majority of my childhood and teen years before a force, known as ‘a dry heat’ pulled me in its general direction. But, I can’t really have two homes, can I? Especially if home is where the heart is, like they say. Because, come on, I don’t have multiple hearts, like a cephalopod. I’ve got just one beating inside me, which is more than enough to manage, thank you very much.

So it makes sense to carry it with me as I go about my business, at my house, because, well, I need it. But, even though I’m a big girl with a mortgage and all, I’ve never been good at home repairs. Yeah, yeah, I’ve got a tool kit and a plunger, but they’re more for decoration and really just to say I have them. Kind of like security. A pretty, pink hammer only pushes a nail in so deep, you know. Eventually, I end up calling in backup: My cousin’s husband, a burly neighbor, or good friend’s fiancé.

Much is the same in the manner in which I handle the matters of my heart. When it gets crushed like a Diet Coke can alongside Steve-O’s head, I let the experts deal with it. And, they are experts because they’re back home. They know their way around my heart because they’re quite familiar with it. That’s just what happens when you’re around something so much; you get to know it – like it or not. Similar to driving in snowy conditions or using tampons. Neither particularly enjoyable tasks, but the more you perform them, the more versed you become.

The last time my heart fell apart, about seven months ago, I flew back to Iowa – with the intent of letting the rest of me fall apart, too. Really, I had visions of reviving Miss Hannigan. I was gonna binge on gin. I was gonna dress like Lindsay Lohan was my stylist. I was gonna throw myself at inappropriate men. I was gonna eat nachos and cake batter. I had a plan. But, it was ruined by the people who love me. Because when you’re surrounded by the people you love most in this world, the thrill of making an ass of yourself shrivels up like a penis that’s been exposed to Octomom porn.

I’m an aunt, a daughter, and a sister. Not a professor of self-destruction.  I want my 7-year-old niece to remember giving me makeovers that made me look like Kesha, not act like her. I want my mom to hold her head high when she’s with me, not steady mine in the toilet. I want my sister to entrust her kids to me at Chuck E. Cheese’s. Okay, maybe that’s asking too much.

Regardless, as cliché as it sounds, loving people makes you want to be better – mostly for them, but a little for yourself, too. So, when your heart shatters, gets pummeled, or just cracks a bit, take it home. It’s where the broken heart goes. Just make sure to bring your laundry and appetite, because it just makes sense.

So What If No One Calls Me “Mom”, I Need Child Support For My Emotions

That's Meghan, with a 'h'.

My mom called me a baby the other day, and I didn’t even sass her back. Mainly, because I agree. I’m used to everyone taking care of me, and honestly I’ve grown to like it. It’s really not my fault though. If my mom would have popped me out before my sister, maybe I’d be the overbearing, frenzied one sweating through life, like a time bomb was strapped to my ass. But alas, I came out second. So really, who’s to blame?

My sister just took care of me. That’s what older sisters do, right? Well, besides beating the shit out of you every once in a while. From consoling me – with a bedtime story – about a God-awful haircut, to shaming me from wearing fishnet stockings to church, my big sister had her eye out for me. And, so that’s the role I fell into, even with my friends: the puerile one.  It didn’t help that I was the youngest in my class, either.

Either way, my friends have protected and rescued me from many a dangerous situation. Really, had they not been looking out for me, I’d probably be known as Betsy’s Bitch from cell block B, or missing a precious body part or valuable organ. But, that was back then. Now, I’m a big girl, taking care of myself, all by myself. Well, I’m trying my damnedest. This adult thing is way harder than it looks. Back in my Nickelodeon days, I thought being a grown-ass woman would be as easy as Laverne and Shirley made it look. Except for the creepy guy and beer part, I was wrong.

Like a lot of people, there are times I want to wave a white flag high in the air. But, then I hear the whisper of my grandpa’s voice telling me I can do this. I know I can, Grandpa, but I don’t wanna! I want a big sister, any big sister, to swoop in and read me a bedtime story, or at the very least, do my laundry.

At work, I meet a lot of patients, tirelessly fighting for child support from deadbeat parents. And, I feel a sort of alliance. Well, in the respect that I, too, am fighting for some kind of support – for myself. Because, really, supporting oneself is totally overrated. You will not find me in the club, throwing my hands up to Destiny’s Child’s “Independent Women”.  Yeah, the shoes on my feet, I bought ‘em. And, the house I live in and the car I’m driving? Yup, bought those too. So, I can get down like that. Big deal.

Being financially supported is not what I’m getting at here. As mentioned, I’ve got that covered. What I’m after, rather, is a pair of crutches for my emotions because supporting yourself emotionally is utterly exhausting – and often times, humiliating. I’m not saying that I don’t have a support system; I’ve actually got some of the best in my arsenal. But, I’m not foolish enough to think I’m the only person they’re backing. And, so for the most part, I feel most comfortable relying on myself.

Like the time I graduated from my master’s program. I didn’t want to inconvenience everyone by walking at my ceremony – even I knew I was not worth a six-hour car ride back and forth to Minneapolis.  So I settled for a private (using that word makes it sound elite) celebration in my sister’s backyard, with the guest of honor donning a cap and gown. I’m not made of complete humility though; I wanted to make my town aware of my accomplishment. Knowing that I was the one who waited tables in my family’s restaurant, in a black, leather halter top and the one who got pulled over for “dragging Main” with my shirt off, should make you understand why this was important to me. And so I posted an announcement in our local paper – under an assumed name, of course.

And, that time I tried to publish a book, like right now. I am totally, shamelessly, pimping myself out. I’ve written a letter to the editor of my hometown newspaper, passed out countless flyers around my neighborhood, pestered everyone on my social media pages, and contacted local news stations about my endeavor. I feel like I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. Maybe after thirty-three years of making an ass of myself, I’ve come to terms with it. Anyway, since my boobs are too real (read: small and saggy) to have a reality TV show, the window of opportunity on being molested has surely passed, and I’m not in rehab, I haven’t been offered a book deal. So I’m going the route of social media publishing.  This method requires me to get 1,000 people to preorder my book in 120 days (as of press time, I have 27 supporters and only 107 days left). If I succeed, I’m published (yay!) and if I fail, well, we all know what that means. I get a boob job.

You can help me by going here and preordering for just $10! If I don’t reach my goal, you don’t get charged. If I do reach my goal, you get my book and a needy child gets a book too. No worries, though, not my book. So, really, there’s no gamble. It’s a win-win situation!

My Kid Would Sell For Lots And Lots of Blow, Not A Damn Gram Of Heroin

That's how much my baby goes for.

Yes, I know I’m 33-and-a-half and my uterus has carried less than the gay guy you asked to help you move. But, believe me; I do have that motherly instinct. Remember that time I was a Big Sister?And, next week I’m playing mommy to my nephew, R. So what if he’s 17-years-old? I still think of him how I left him: a doughy faced 9-year-old who strictly ate mashed potatoes. From the start, I could never keep my hands off the kid. I’d wake R up from naps, cuddle him, and kiss him incessantly.  R, on the other hand, wanted no part of it. While I dove into his face and splashed it with kisses; he’d respond by biting my lips.

Even from a toothless infant, rejection hurt.   It’s hard to believe that toothless infant is now a muscular, young dude. Either way, he’s still fighting off the ladies. They grow up so fast, don’t they? See, I’ve got this mom thing down. Well, I think I do.

R is only going to be staying with me for one week. That’s miniscule in parent time. I mean, from what I hear and what I see, parenting is fucking stressful. Why do you think my uterus is vacant? I don’t know how many coffee shops my writing group has had to abandon due to screaming toddlers, or how many Xanax I’ve had to pop on plane rides because of crying babies. The only silver lining in those situations is that I was not the one those snot-faced kids were bawling for. I was free. Free as a freshly cut toenail.

This role I’ve got as aunt is pretty comparable to getting the lead in the school play. It totally rocks. I get to give the kid back without looking like a complete asshole. When I send R back to Iowa in a couple of weeks, it’s not going to be to get “rid” of him. It’s simply going to be because it’s time for him to go back. He belongs with his parents. The two people who created him and love him more than anyone else on earth. That’s the way it should be, right? Well, you’d think.

Yesterday, I met with a patient who shared a disturbing detail from his childhood with me. Not that all my patients don’t have disturbing childhood recollections, but I’ve become a little desensitized. Well, I’m trying to be. Last month, I had to leave my office because I got tearful when my 56-year-old female patient began regressing back to the time she was violently sexually assaulted. Side note: Do I really need to preface ‘sexual assault’ with ‘violent’? Hopefully, that’s understood.  Regardless, I excused my weepy self, telling her I was getting her a glass of water as I softly patted her shoulder. I really did get her some water. I just wiped my eyes and blew my nose first.

Anyway, back to yesterday’s patient. S was my about age, but had clearly lived a rough life, just being released from prison and all. It was clear S had not been studying to be the jailhouse lawyer while he was doing his time. No, all this guy’s time was spent in the weight room. If I hadn’t known better I would have thought dude was on ‘roids. Seriously, if The Rock had starred in the movie Twins, S would have been his Danny DeVito.  Either way, I dug the dude. What can I say, criminals are charming.

S and I chatted at length before he divulged “where it all began” for him. S’s parents were dragon chasers. They were so preoccupied with heroin; they paid little attention to their children. Well, until they had that moment of clarity when they realized their children were worth something – to someone else. You see, S’s parents had friends. Infertile friends who wanted a boy. What a coinkidink – S’s parents had a boy they didn’t want. But, as we all know, a kid just can’t be given away, especially when someone wants him. And so, and arrangement was made.

I’m not sure what a kid goes for nowadays. But, 32 years ago, 12-year-old boys went for a gram of heroin. That breaks down to about $120. Not sure how drug inflation works, so don’t quote me on that number. So, yeah, S’s parents sold him for one gram of heroin. What the fuck? No, wonder he wound up in my office, right? At least S had the insight to see where his troubles began. I guess the slammer did allow for a little time to sort things out. S told me that he’s moved passed the anger and bitterness and has forgiven his junkie parents.

Pretty sure I wouldn’t get over being sold for a bag of dope. If my parents had ever sold me and wanted a shot at a family reunion, I had better of at least been worth a few million kilos of coke. I know my future kid will be.

I Will Be Your Big Sister and You Will Love Me, Or Else…

Now, say you love me like you really mean it.

My mom was visiting from out-of-state this week, and like most people do when they’re on vacation, she got in the sauce.  The first night she was here, the woman put away more wine than Kathy Lee Gifford. I hauled her ass back to my place and she immediately face planted onto my bed. Unfortunately, she didn’t just pass out. Repressed feelings usually surface during drunken stupors; must be all the acid that forces them out. A lot of time would be saved if only therapists would give their patients a cocktail and a few minutes, but I guess that’s not very good for business.  Anyway, as my mom laid there, nose smashed into the pillow, she did her best to string a sentence together. It sounded a little like this, “Yous, yous, yous n-n-n-eva, gonna haf any kids.” I’m fluent in drunklish and knew what she meant, but I also knew better than to question this announcement. I learned my lesson during her last visit. So I kept quiet, thinking: Who the fuck does she think she is, Miss Cleo?  In any event, her proclamation was sobering.

Granted, I’m 33 and without child. But, let me explain. For starters, I see a lot of girls during my day job, and on Dr. Phil, making babies with the explanation, “I just wanted someone to love me.”  You don’t have to be familiar with Lifetime movies to know how this story ends. The teenybopper mom feels enormously overwhelmed and offers the gas station attendant a bowl of weed in exchange for “just a few minutes” of babysitting. Meanwhile, mommy of the year takes a breather on the sidewalk outside, sucking a baby bottle filled with vodka and OJ, thinking about how having another baby would improve her current situation. Eventually, all six of her kids wind up in child protective custody, she’s put on probation, and Dr. Phil gets a topic for a new show.

So, you see, I was just trying to keep myself off of probation. Well, there’s that and the fact that I use to judge these chicks like Michele Bachmann doesn’t judge gays. But, then I started to feel like one of these love-starved girls. I mean, there was a time when I craved a so-called “little bundle of joy” like I crave chocolate chip cookie dough. But, I’ve had enough experiences with cookie dough cravings to know that after that compulsive binge, comes regret. This cycle is not only applicable to food; it pertains to children as well. I know; I tested a kid out one time. It didn’t work out and I had to get rid of her. Sort of like kidulimia.

I was a Big Sister to a girl I’ll call C. It was when I first moved to Arizona, 1,500 miles away from my family, including my little nephews and niece. I was lonely. I had plenty of friends, but there was something missing. I wanted to recreate what I had back in Iowa. I wanted to have Friday night sleepovers filled with silly movies and pizza. I wanted someone to bake cupcakes with on Saturday morning. I wanted someone to fly into my arms after they went down a slide or jumped off a diving board. I just wanted someone to love me. So, in lieu of morning sickness and an episiotomy, I went through an intensive screening and placement process to determine my motives and suitability. I passed and was matched with 9-year-old C.

C’s mom was a junkie and MIA, and her dad was in prison so C lived with her grandma – her very physically ill grandma. I first met C at her home, which looked like a house you’d see on Hoarders. The dingy carpet was covered in cats; papers and boxes were stacked on the kitchen table and a dust buster hadn’t been through that place in about eight years. Although lacking in the housekeeping area, C’s grandma seemed like a sweet old lady. She explained that she wanted C in the Big Brothers Big Sisters Program because she wasn’t physically able to do “kid things” with C. She wanted C to have the things she couldn’t give her. Well then, I thought, this would be the perfect relationship, because I wanted C to give me the things I didn’t have either.

I agreed to see C bimonthly, like my paychecks. There was awkwardness at first; sort of like that feeling you get on a first date. I’m sure C was terrified and I was like, okay, now what do I do with this kid? Thank God for Christmas. We made a gingerbread house, decorated my Christmas tree and ordered pizza. Later on, I got to show C things she’d never been exposed to, like Fashion Square Mall. Seriously, the girl had never set foot in the notorious mall. I was beside myself. We had a helluva time at Sephora, making her look like one of those girls from Toddlers & Tiaras and I got to do my best impersonation of a stage mom.

Speaking of dressing up, around Halloween time, C begged me to take her to a haunted house. The girl had never experienced the joy of having Freddy Krueger chase her down a dark hallway, so of course I bought us tickets.  We drove to The Nest, in the middle of the desert, and before we even passed the pumpkin patch, C freaked out. She was sobbing like I’d smacked her across the face with Krueger’s gloved hand. Reason number 93 why I wouldn’t be a good parent: I was more worried about not getting to get the shit scared out of me than about C being terrified. In fact, I was annoyed with her. She was acting like a baby. Waaait, she was a baby. I thought about ditching C by the chili stand, while I went into the haunted house, but then I thought about having a criminal record. We went home that night, un-haunted.

And all returned to normal, until a few months later when C’s dad was released from prison. He settled down with his new baby mama and her four kids, in my neck of the woods. Other than the fact of this speaking about the kind of neighborhood I live in, I was stoked. Since C would be spending the majority of her time there, it meant I would get to see her more.

But, it didn’t.

C’s dad was a dick. I mean, he didn’t want me to be part of her life, so I was slowly weeded out. I suppose the man felt a little threatened or whatever. And I can understand him wanting his family without some crazy, single chick butting her nose in. So, I didn’t make a stink and turned into a deadbeat big sister.

I was sad to leave C that way and did drive-bys of her house for awhile afterward. I still think of her often and hope she doesn’t grow up to be one of those girls who just wants someone to love her.