We Got This, page 5
“Oh look, Mags, I see them!” I hear the familiar ring of my aunt’s voice travel from the entrance of the store to the rack of clothing where I am holding up a striped tank top against my body. She was one of the first people I told about the real reason I was home. After a month of my parents dodging questions about why Louisa and I were in Maine for such a long visit, she came over for coffee and donuts at the end of March. I sat with Louisa in a chair at the head of the dining table and nervously picked at the donut in front of me. “Aunt Julia, I have to tell you something,” I said, swallowing down the lump in my throat. “The real reason I’m home with Louisa is because I found out Marco was having an affair when Louisa was a few weeks old, and I’ve moved home until I figure out what to do.” I stared into my coffee, and when I looked up my aunt’s face was bright red, tears streaming down her nose and cheeks. She sank into a chair, and for several minutes all she could get out was “What?” over and over. When I saw that she was crying, I let myself cry, too—big, ugly sobs. And then my mom started to cry and hugged my aunt.
“But your wedding was just a few months ago,” my aunt finally said. “I don’t understand.”
“Join the club,” I said with a small smile, drying my eyes with a napkin. I explained the email, the change in personality, his numbness, and the suicide attempt.
I had completely forgotten that when my cousin Luke was a baby, my aunt’s abusive husband had disappeared one day with all their money and had never come back. She had remarried my uncle Sam a few years later, and everyone in our family had buried the first part of her story in a deep hole and thrown twenty years of new memories on top of it. She told me how hard the next few years would be but that I would be OK. “You have to grieve the family and the future you thought you would have. And you have to go through an entire cycle of holidays, birthdays, and seasons before you really stop feeling that raw pain. Even then, all the ‘firsts’ will be hard, the first time she sleeps in her crib, her first word, the first time she walks. But then one day you will wake up and you will be so glad it happened. And that it happened when she was a newborn. You will realize your lives are so, so much better without Marco, if this is really who he is.”
I absorbed her words and stored them away, aware that I would need to draw on them one day.
There must be those among whom we can sit down and weep and still be counted as warriors.
—Adrienne Rich
Raising a Boy without a Man
Kathleen Laccinole
I am a single mother. Fifty percent of us are.
I have a son. Forty-nine-point-two of us do.
When he was born, I was in a quandary.
By month nine of my pregnancy, my baby’s father already had one foot out the door, with the other right behind it. It was obvious I would be doing this solo.
Because nothing else in my I Love Lucy fantasy had actually come to be, I had decided to do the one traditional thing I could and wait to find out the sex of my baby. In my heart of hearts, though, I knew there was a girl curled up inside me, with polished nails, pink tights, and a tiara on her head.
I painted the nursery a soft yellow, an asexual apple tree on the wall. I stenciled a rocking chair in nonpartisan colors, bought pounds of blankets, rompers, and onesies in neutral shades. Still, I had ballet dancer dolls and ruffled socks hidden in a drawer on standby.
It was time. My mom, sister, and BFF held my hand, shouted encouragement, and squealed in delight as my baby, my One Day At a Time fantasy, slipped into the world … and had a penis.
The words fell from my mouth: “What the hell am I going to do with that?”
The doctor held up my son to show me his perfection, and he peed, a fountain of urine shooting from the firm, tiny stump between his slimy legs. Everyone laughed as my doctor pivoted side to side for effect, like the rotating sprinklers I’d run through as a child in my blue nylon bathing suit from Sears.
The nurses did what nurses do when babies are born, then put my son in my arms. He was tiny and funny looking. Precious. I loved him already. I’d name him William, after my grandfather. He was my dream come true. And he was a boy.
What the hell am I going to do?
The ballerina dolls and ruffled socks remained in the drawer. The choo-choo, cowboy, and rocketship everythings came rolling in. I swaddled, cuddled, nursed. We lived in a dreamy world of mother-son bliss. He’d sleep nestled in my armpit. The top of his head smelled like warm, sticky-sweet joy.
But then came the threes. Out went teddy bears and in came trucks, forts, action figures, and anything that could be construed as the forbidden gun: carrots, French fries, sticks, straws, or the good old-fashioned index finger, replete with sound effects masterfully manufactured by his wet, squishy mouth.
I had myself a boy. The type who’d need to wrestle, mud-stomp, play sports, stink, build, fish, invent, and ride rockets to the moon. I couldn’t use a screwdriver. Who would teach my boy to be a man?
What the hell am I going to do?
I tried handymen. They fixed things that subsequently broke again because I didn’t know how to choose handymen (like I couldn’t choose men in general). My son fell in love with them nonetheless, following them around like a hungry puppy, wearing his My First Tool Belt with the plastic hammers and flaccid tape measure. But the jobs would end, and the handymen would leave, back to their own sons, my door still crooked, the sink still clogged, exposed wires calling my son’s name.
I called in the lesbians. They showed up. They smelled good. They fixed things with an eye toward my son’s safety. They taught him to use a real hammer and unplug a toilet. He fell in love. “I want to marry Lynda. But Lynda is married to Kelly.” They loved him back. But they had vaginas, just like me.
What the hell am I going to do?
I tried to find role models on TV. We watched every Andy Griffith Show, then watched them again. When my son asked about sex, I asked myself, What would Andy say to Opie? I told him. He thought it was gross. We went for ice cream.
I hit up the usual suspects: Little League, Boy Scouts, teachers, and coaches. They ruffled his hair when he failed, scolded him when he was lazy, high-fived him when he succeeded. But he was just one of a million boys. Who would teach him the things a mom cannot? With whom could he dude joke, talk about girls, burp and fart, and ponder the universe?
What the hell am I going to do?
That’s when, for lack of an after-school activity, we wandered into Val Surf, our local surf shop. From the moment we pushed through those doors stickered with snowboard, skateboard, and surfboard logos, our lives forever changed. The music blasted, the energy was relaxed, and the air smelled like coconuts. A blond, tan, sales stud welcomed my boy with a casual, “Hey, little man.” My son’s eyes widened, a smile spreading across his face. I’d found my village of father figures.
We’d visit the store once a week to wander the aisles of surfboards, my son touching expressive designs on smooth, cool surfaces, no two alike. We marveled at the ever-changing wall of skateboards, floor-to-ceiling masterpieces, an installation to rival any museum. Balancing on the Indo board was a highlight. “I’m practicing for when I can surf,” he’d say.
The staff helped my son select “cool” shorts and Vans, always in the correct size. When he bought his first skateboard, they told him to wear a helmet: “Be safe, little man.” He learned to ollie, kickflip, and grind—hours and hours in our driveway.
Then it happened. On his thirteenth birthday, these young men taught my boy to surf.
Thanks to surf superstars the likes of Laird Hamilton and Kelly Slater, surf culture had shifted from fringe to clean living. For my son, this meant no drugs, no alcohol, juicing, sunscreen, look out for your bros in the water, and be cool to your mom.
When my son discovered his uncle was a lifelong surfer, the weekly Sunday morning surfs began, topped by evenings barbecuing, sitting in the hot tub, talking about fishing and surfing, and contemplating the universe. Then, my son would be delivered home to me exhausted, full of stories, happy, content.
Among this tribe, my son found a mentor: a wild-haired, surf-loving PhD in environmental health who taught him how to shape surfboards and implanted the importance of higher education. Oh, how I loved our long drives home from the workshop, my boy recounting every beat of the day, every joke, every word—precious time forever ours, forever connecting us in memories.
Now, at fifteen, his once sweet-smelling hair smacks of salt water, his skin brown, his life overflowing with remarkable men he looks up to and who look after him. The men who once called him “little man” and taught him how to be a grown one.
Fifteen years ago, I fancied myself a woman burned, jaded, and scorned. At that moment in time—when I’d lost all respect for 49.2 percent of the human race—I received what I needed most: a boy.
To raise my boy solo, I needed to meet him where he was in his boy-ness, to appreciate our differences, to follow him on his adventures to my bravest ability, and, when he exceeded my reach, to outsource the rest.
In the process, I’ve developed my own sense of confidence— strong enough to stand up to the towering six-foot-two child I am still raising, the child now strong enough to carry me when I break my foot, to fix my broken dryer, and to ease my broken heart with just a smile and a hug.
Somewhere along the way, I learned to respect men again, even admire them—the ones who earn it, at least. I can see the colorful positives in their quirks, foibles, exuberant humor, and, at times, their complete and utter frustrating cluelessness.
More importantly, I see my son’s future as a compassionate, intelligent, hardworking, piss-your-pants funny, willing-to-do-the-dishes man. I see a man of honor. I see the best person I know.
How do you raise a boy without a man? What the hell do you do? You meet him where he is. You keep your eyes open, even when it’s scary, even when it’s under salty sea water. You find role models in unexpected places, in all shapes and sizes. Some may even be tan and blond and smell like coconuts.
September 17
from Operating Instructions
Anne Lamott
We slept for six straight hours and are up nursing now. There is milk everywhere. I go around looking like I’ve got a wet bathing suit on under my clothes. When Sam was six days old, I took him to my little Black church in Marin City, the church where I’ve been hanging out for four years now. I wandered in one day the year before I stopped drinking, because it was right next to the most fabulous flea market on earth, where I liked to spend time when I had terrible hangovers. I got into the habit of stopping by the church on Sundays but staying in the back, in this tense, lurky way, and leaving before the service was over because I didn’t want people to touch me, or hug me, or try to make me feel better about myself. I had always pretty much believed in God, and I just naturally fell into worshiping and singing with them. Then after I got sober and started to feel okay about myself, I could stay to the end and get hugged. Now I show up and position myself near the door, and everyone has to give me a huge hug—it’s like trying to get past the border patrol. Once I asked my priest friend, Bill Rankin, if he really believed in miracles, and he said that all I needed to do was to remember what my life used to be like and what it’s like now. He said he thought I ought to change my name to Exhibit A.
Anyway, the first Sunday after Sam’s birth, I kind of limped in with Peg beside me. I was holding Sam and she was holding my little inflated doughnut seat, and everyone was staring joyfully and almost broken heartedly at us because they love us so much. I walked, like a ship about to go down, to a seat in the back. But the pastor said, Whoa, whoa, not so fast—you come up here and introduce him to his new family. So I limped up to the little communion table in the front of the half circle of folding chairs where we sit, and I turned to face everyone. The pain and joy were just overwhelming. I tried to stammer, “This is my son,” but my lip was trembling, my whole face was trembling, and everyone was crying. When I’d first started coming to the church, I couldn’t even stand up for half the songs because I’d be so sick from cocaine and alcohol that my head would be spinning, but these people were so confused that they’d thought I was a child of God. Now they’ve seen me sober for three years, and they saw me through my pregnancy. Only one (white) man in the whole congregation asked me who the father was. Toward the end of my pregnancy, people were stuffing money into my pockets, even though a lot of them live on welfare and tiny pensions. They’d sidle up to me, slip a twenty into the pocket of my sweater, and dart away.
Anyway, after I introduced Sam to them and sat down on my doughnut seat in the front row with Peg, I really got into the service. The baby was sound asleep in my arms, and I stood for the first hymn feeling very adult—an actual mother, for God’s sake—only to discover that the doughnut seat was stuck to my bottom, and milk was absolutely pouring out of my breasts. I was not yet secure enough to hold the baby with one hand, so I was cradling him in my arms and couldn’t free up either hand to pull the doughnut seat off. So I stood there bent slightly forward, warbling away, with my butt jutting out and ringed by the plastic doughnut.
Prayer
Keetje Kuipers
Perhaps as a child you had the chicken pox
and your mother, to soothe you in your fever
or to help you fall asleep, came into your room
and read to you from some favorite book,
Charlotte’s Web or Little House on the Prairie,
a long story that she quietly took you through
until your eyes became magnets for your shuttering
lids and she saw your breathing go slow. And then
she read on, this time silently and to herself,
not because she didn’t know the story,
it seemed to her that there had never been a time
when she didn’t know this story—the young girl
and her benevolence, the young girl in her sod house—
but because she did not yet want to leave your side
though she knew there was nothing more
she could do for you. And you, not asleep but simply weak,
listened to her turn the pages, still feeling
the lamp warm against one cheek, knowing the shape
of the rocking chair’s shadow as it slid across
your chest. So that now, these many years later,
when you are clenched in the damp fist of a hospital bed,
or signing the papers that say you won’t love him anymore,
when you are bent at your son’s gravesite or haunted
by a war that makes you wake with the gun
cocked in your hand, you would like to believe
that such generosity comes from God, too,
who now, when you have the strength to ask, might begin
the story again, just as your mother would,
from the place where you have both left off.
The Godfather
Margot Kessler
“He’ll be here,” my daughter said. “He texted me and said he was on his way from the airport.”
The rain stopped, and the evening sun glistened on the Hudson River running behind the restaurant my daughter had chosen for her graduation dinner. We took family photos while we waited for him.
“He’s always late,” her sister explained to the other waiting guests. “We’ve named a time zone after him.”
They know their godfather so well. Miss one of their college graduation celebrations? Never. Ever since she and her sister could remember, my dear friend Peter had shown up for ballet and orchestra recitals, school open houses, parents’ days, graduations, and birthday parties.
Peter and I were now the same age my father had been when he first met Peter all those years ago. “Why is he here?” my mother would mutter when Peter showed up during college summers to whisk me off to a concert in his dad’s beat-up convertible. “What’s the point of someone you’re not dating being your date?”
“He’s a good friend,” I told my proper mother.
I had no idea then how good a friend he would become. We make promises to ourselves when we’re younger. We think we know what direction we’re taking. Rarely are we correct. Peter and I told ourselves our friendship would be different. And, in some ways, it has been. Our professional lives had no overlap, yet we stayed in contact. After years on the East Coast with his girlfriend, he moved to California. Then he attended my wedding with his handsome boyfriend. Though it sometimes felt like our past was all we had in common, he was the one I chose to be my children’s godfather.
Several years into my marriage, I realized my husband was an alcoholic and asked Peter’s then-boyfriend and future partner, a life coach, to help me. But Peter’s partner died suddenly of an aneurysm two weeks before we planned to stage an intervention. That year was a bad one for both of us. Peter lost weight and threw himself into caring for his patients and medical research, while I lost weight concentrating on making sure my kids were safe during the messy divorce.
As we each struggled with our separate grief, there was one constant: he was my daughters’ godfather. Busy and overwhelmed, we somehow managed to connect regularly. Peter was always late and then later still to whatever he had planned afterward. A snappy dresser, he used to show up in pressed pants and elegant shoes. After my two-year-old insisted on walking on his feet and sitting on his lap, he learned to wear jeans and older shoes.
People didn’t understand Peter’s connection to my daughters. Why was he on the contact list at their schools? Why was he allowed to show up and whisk them off for an adventure? There were always questions implying unsolicited advice from other parents. Who was he? Did he live with us? Why did the kids call him by his first name? Did I know who he was dating?
Peter was conscientious about not overstepping or trying to parent, but he was always there. He helped my elder child wrench out her wiggly baby tooth in the middle of a Picasso exhibit, while I took her sister to the bathroom. He took both girls prom dress shopping and guided them through several ear piercings. His approval, like his taste in clothes (clothes I never would have purchased for my tween or teen girls), is open-minded and unerring. He allowed my soon-to-be pre-med daughter to work in his laboratory for the summer and get a firsthand glimpse at medical research. He became the girls’ permission slip, sounding board, and cheerleader. In the wake of their father’s erratic communication, disappearances, and disappointments, Peter was consistent, present, and uniquely himself.
