Category: Anecdote

He called me young lady

~ Christi ~ 2 Comments

I got pulled over today. We were driving home from Memphis, and I had just taken over at the wheel. Geoff offhandedly mentioned that he had been booking it at about 85 miles an hour on the first leg of the trip. He assured me that he hadn’t seen any cops out this early on a Sunday morning.

So, I admit it, I wasn’t careful. I was zipping along at 83 miles an hour, reaching for a pretzel when Geoff noticed the cop. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have seen the police car at all until it pulled behind me with its lights on. Damn. The worst part is, this exact scenario has happened at least once before, while we were driving through New York years ago. That makes me extra angry, since Geoff will be adding this to his list of stories that display my poor driving skills.

Okay, so the police officer approached the car, and I was ready with the window unrolled, my license and registration in my hand.

“Good morning, young lady,” he boomed through the window.

Wait. Young lady? The officer was markedly older than me. But still. Is “young lady” a term of respect? Was he trying to be endearing, as if he was my dad or my grandpa? What the hell? Should I be relieved that he didn’t call me “M’am”? At least I look young enough to still be called young lady, but I’m not. I’m turning 36 in a few days. I don’t feel like a young lady anymore.

I was polite to the officer, because that’s how I am. A few years ago, I would have been intimidated. Now I was just ready to get back on the road. We still had most of our trip ahead of us, and with all three kids in the car, I was ready to get moving.

Still, that “young lady” stuck with me all day. It really bugged me. And it’s going to cost me $120.

elleroy

Let’s go to the donut shop

~ Christi ~ 18 Comments

“Mom, I’m sweating,” my 5-year old whines. We’re walking through the neighborhood on our weekly trip to the donut shop. It’s about 75 degrees outside.

“It’s hot out,” I tell him, “but there are plenty of shady spots.”

“Noooo!” He screams,”I’m burning! It’s too hot out here. It needs to be air-conditioned!” he demands.

“What, outside?” I laugh.

“Yes!” he screams, puts his hands over his ears, and shrieks at the top of his lungs.

“Listen. If you want to walk all the way to the donut shop, you need to cheer up,” I tell him. “Go ahead, smile.”

He does, grudgingly.

We continue walking in silence for a few minutes. I’m struck by the thought that in a few weeks he will be at school all day, and I won’t have these chances to help him cheer up, to spend time with him, and to teach him how to handle life in the moment. In these last few weeks I want to help him learn to cope with discomfort. It’s super challenging for a five-year old. I mean, it’s hard for me. But this will be an exercise for both of us.

Back before I had kids, when I was pregnant with my daughter, Geoff and I took Bradley method birthing classes. They were a little crunchy granola, but I’m telling you, this works. The Bradley method teaches you how to cope with pain. It teaches you relaxation. It shows you how to stop fighting against the pain and instead let the pain come and go. You learn to focus your attention elsewhere – on a photograph, or a part of your body that is not in pain.

It takes practice. You build up your tolerance to pain months ahead of time, training your mind by squeezing your partner’s hand, then by holding an ice cube, then finally by focusing through your early contractions. Then when you must, you lie down. You relax. You breathe. You feel the pain come and go. You think of your photograph, or of your feet, or whatever you choose, and you remind yourself that you will soon be free of the pain. The discomfort never becomes part of you, it is always separate.

And fighting it? Does that work? No more than my son’s shrieking made him feel better. Relaxing and succumbing to the pain was the only way that I found to get through it. Pain has its own rhythm and pain has its own language. Coping with it demands all of your attention and all of your submission. It doesn’t appreciate snark. It wants to own you; it demands your compliance.

And if you comply? If you ride out the pain? I found that after giving birth, after the pain had passed, I experienced the most profound feeling of happiness that I’ve ever experienced. It is truly spiritual. It’s a time not only for being with your new baby, but for experiencing your body, and the world, anew.

My son and I made it to the donut shop. Along the way we discussed Iron Man and Scooby Doo. We bought donuts and sat outside in the sun to eat them. He took a long time eating his, finally oblivious to the heat and just happy.

I think that we will keep up this weekly trip, even in July and August.

Her talk

~ Christi ~ 13 Comments

She’s at the seminar table, her heart pounding, breath coming in gasps, their eyes on her, when her voice fails her. Her talk on Pynchon all but forgotten, past and future fade into the irony of Mucho Maas and his love for Oedipa as she knows but doesn’t realize just how much more she wants. Her classmates, clueless, stare at her in silence, but for one: “Killer handout,” he tells her.

Did your grandma ever make you rinse with Listerine?

~ Christi ~ 39 Comments

Today I’m going to tell you a story about my grandma. My mom’s mom. She was Jewish, so I called her Bubbie. When I was really young, before I went to school and learned about Jesus and other things that made her uncomfortable, she loved me. She took me places–the bowling alley, the zoo, restaurants, the mall. It’s so easy to love someone who doesn’t yet know her own mind. And I loved her, too. My mom didn’t go out much, so those trips with Bubbie were all the more special.

I used to spend the night at Bubbie’s pretty often. My mom needed the break, I imagine. On one such sleepover, I guess that I was about 10 at the time, Bubbie helped me get ready for bed.

“It’s time for you to rinse with mouthwash,” she announced, pulling out the large bottle of Listerine from under the counter. “You’re old enough.”

Now, let me explain. This was the 80s, and mint-flavored Listerine hadn’t been invented yet. The liquid inside the bottle was an angry amber color, revealing only a hint of the hell it would wreak inside my mouth.

“Okay,” I agreed, cluelessly excited about trying something new for Bubbie.

“Put this into your mouth and swish for one minute,” she directed me, as she poured some into a paper cup.

I gulped it into my mouth, my blind trust about to be shattered. I choked. I cringed as the horrible burning spread through my mouth. What was this feeling? Why would my Bubbie do this to me?

I couldn’t take the pain. Have you ever tasted old-school Listerine? I’ve never tried moonshine, but that Listerine couldn’t have been much worse.

Bubbie saw me struggling. “Come on,” she coaxed, serious. “You can take the pain. You’re a woman.” She sounded certain. I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t spit. I swished through the pain. The minute passed, although it felt like hours.

Finally she let me spit and rinse. The experience was seared into my brain. It took 15 years and a reaming by a hygienist before I tried Listerine again. By that time, the Listerine was minty and more gentle. By then I knew my own mind and my Bubbie hated me.

To this day I think back to that day in my Bubbie’s fancy bathroom. She taught me something about myself: I am strong enough to take it. I’m a woman.

That certainty saw me through three natural births and my grief after my mom died. On a regular basis, it gets me through the day. I have much more to write about my Bubbie, but for today, know this: Even though she died hating me, I love her still.

Pawn shops and positivity

~ Christi ~ 23 Comments

I never met my dad. Have I mentioned that? I can’t remember. He and my mom had a fling, as far as I can tell from her piecemeal stories. They worked together in a pawn shop. Yeah, awesome, I know. I have no idea how long it lasted, only that there was a night with steak and eggs, an emerald ring, and sex.

My dad had two children before me. He was a drinker. His son, age three, was the victim of tragedy. My dad, drunk, backed his car into him. My dad never forgave himself, never got over the loss.

Years later, still long before that fateful night with my mom, his daughter was thrown from a horse and killed. That closed the chapter on parenthood for my dad. Still long before my conception. So, you see, any hope that I had of a relationship with my dad was doomed before I was even an embryo.

Flash forward–I’m seven years old. Like all seven-year olds, I’m a writer. I write letters to friends, to neighbors, to my dad. I wish I had that letter; I would post it here. I asked. Please meet me. I want to meet you.

No answer. Not even a note in reply. How could my seven-year-old self recover from that? She didn’t. She shut out her dad. No dad at all is always better than one who ignores you, right?

Fate was on my side. My dad passed away a year later. The drinking caught up with him. Death sealed the deal. It was a relief, it really was. No longer did I have to tell myself the story that my dad didn’t love me enough to meet me. But it’s true.

I’ll end with this thought: You might think that my dad’s failings damaged me in some way. You’re wrong. My mom loved me enough for two parents. She taught me how to ascertain my worth from within myself. She taught me never to accept less than the best from others, and to block out negativity. And I do.