Behind me, the noise of daily life…the coffee table which doubles as a race track, the kitchen sink that I could swear was empty a few minutes ago, and is now full of dishes…and the laundry, don’t forget the laundry. It all dissolves as I close the sliding glass door. “I should really scrub that wall,” I said out loud as I sipped my coffee. Abruptly, I corrected myself, “Who in the hell am I kidding? I’m not scrubbing shit. You wall, can stay dirty.” Yes, I was talking to the wall and no, I’m not the least bit worried about it. I did what every good mother does when she sees something that needs to be cleaned, I looked somewhere else.
I focused my attention on the nature preserve behind my apartment. It was this view that sold me on the place. The inside might have looked like a 1970’s porn movie set, alright, it definitely looked like a porn set, but it didn’t matter. There is no hint of civilization from this angle, not one glimpse of parking lot or swimming pool, just trees and big fucking spiders. The spiders and I have an agreement, as long as they stay on the other side of the screen- I won’t kill them. For a few seconds I was lost in the gentle motion of the branches swaying in the breeze and the chatter of the squirrels. This feeling was fleeting…chaos is now old enough to open the door. ”Look, those little bastards ate all the Cheerios,” came wafting over my shoulder. I had company, an invasion of the short, car enthusiast variety. He and my boyfriend had set out some cereal for the squirrels a few days earlier. He was right, the little bastards did eat the Cheerios. It’s hard to get mad at him when he uses the words in the right context. He knows he’s not supposed to say things like this, but he also knows that he’s not supposed to run around screaming without his pants on and a bucket on his head…so…there’s that.
I woke up in a particularly shitty mood, it wasn’t getting any better. My next door neighbors have three children under the age of five, this alone makes me question their sanity. Kids are loud, it’s what they do. I understand and accept this. The neighbors and their children were involved in their regular early morning stampede, on a good day I can sleep right through this. Saturday was apparently not a good day. The pitter patter of little feet coming through the walls of my master bedroom had awoken me…and I was pissed. All I wanted to do was sleep past 7-fucking-30. That’s it. I wasn’t looking for a unicorn to bring me a breakfast of fresh fruit, bagels and neatly folded twenty dollar bills. I just wanted to sleep in. It was too much to ask. I tried the ol’ pillow over the ear trick, but there was no muting the little curmudgeons or their disagreement. I have no idea what the argument was about, it was in Spanish. Everything said in Spanish around me before 8 a.m. sounds like someone is asking for directions to the library, or whatever incredibly useful phrases I learned in my 10th grade Spanish class. “Juan es muy guapo,” I mumbled, to keep myself from wishing them dead out loud. If I can hear them, they can hear me. They’re actually nice folks, I don’t really want them dead…I just want them quiet.
I had the usual weekend errands to run, I wanted to get them out of the way early so I wasn’t scrambling on Sunday night to get prepared for the week. I should have been thanking them for rousing me, but “thank” is not the term I was putting in front of the word “you” at that particular moment. I know planning is the responsible thing to do, but I sometimes resent it. I am aware that there’s really no way around it once you breed. I held out for a long time, I was the anti-planner. I guess I assumed that it was the gateway behavior to chin length haircuts, book clubs, minivans, and checking to see if my son’s pants were roomy enough in the crotch…in public.
Instead of openly embracing the morning and scooting over to the grocery store, I went out on the balcony to brood. “My son is down there with his shotgun. He’s driving his black Dodge Ram and shooting bears. See?” the boy said, trying to get me to peer over the side of the building and down towards the ground. I looked, there weren’t any bears, trucks, or guns. Yes, I am a grandmother and sometimes, depending on the mood, a great-grandmother. I don’t know exactly when this happened. Chronologically speaking, if you ask my son, my grandson and great-grandson were born in 2006. This is puzzling to me, since I vividly remember the day in 2007 when my son entered the world. “My son Jack is six and his son Schmootchu is six, too,” the boy will tell you if you ask him…and also, if you don’t. Even though they are imaginary, we talk about them all the time. He’ll even whip out his fake cell phone and show me pictures of them, while bragging about their accomplishments. Jack has quite a few trucks, he’ll rattle off a list of the vehicles Jack owns on the way to wherever we’re going. I’m not sure where he gets the money, I think he might be into something illegal. I never ask, though.
Apparently there is no Department of Imaginary Children and Families to keep them from driving motor vehicles or using firearms without a permit. The boy claims that his son Jack was named after his grandfather on his mother’s side. I happen to know that my father’s name is not and has never been Jack. Infact, no one on my side of the family is named Jack…or John…or Robert…or Roberto…or…Jacktholomew. His grandson’s name “was found on babynames.com,” just in case you were wondering. No, I don’t know where he comes up with this stuff either. He’s too young to being ingesting acid, so this must just be the way his little brain works. The mothers aren’t in the picture, they have been forbidden from any contact with their figmental offspring because I am told, “girls are stupid, except for you, Mom.” Can’t argue with that.
The other day, while I was cooking dinner the boy announced that Schmootchu was no longer with us. I was secretly pretty happy about that, because saying the name Schmootchu in public just makes me feel like an asshole. I prepared myself for a conversation about imaginary death and feelings. I was relieved when I didn’t have to go into that, though. My son went on to say that Jack sold his beloved Schmootchu to buy a new truck. Mystery solved, Jack makes his money in human trafficking. After the laughing stopped, the boyfriend tried to explain that you’re not supposed to sell your children. Although the boy said he understood, I’m not sure that he did. I’m pretty sure there’s going to be a note coming home from school asking me to speak to my son and inform him that the correct term for a squirrel is not “little bastard,” and it is in poor form to pedal his classmates for material goods. I can’t wait. At least Schmootchu is gone, for now.
