Chicken Soup for Every Mom's Soul (20 page)

Reprinted by permission of Mark Parisi. ©2000.

Momma’s Little Surprise

I got a call from a friend the other day, asking me if 7:00 A.M. is too early to start drinking when one must try on mail-order bathing suits. I said, “Hell,
no!
And if I were you, I would start slamming down the tequila an hour prior to ripping into the first plastic bag.”

She thanked me and said she knew she could count on my support. “No problem,” I replied; we women need to stick together.

Her phone call sent me into shock as it reminded me it was that time of year again and somehow I had forgotten to go on a diet. I’m not vain; I’m fat. Over the past sixteen years, my husband and I gained seventy-five pounds collectively. Sadly, our accountant rolled his eyes at us when we asked if we could claim our girth as a new dependant. I said, “Come on! We’ve gained the equivalent of a fourth-grader; that’s gotta count for something.” His answer was a firm
no
.

At any rate, it is time for my annual disrobing and a chance to see what one more year has done to my body.

Worse, by far though, is that this year I need to buy a new bathing suit, and the thought gives me tremors, especially because of what happened the last time I bought a new suit.

I forked over eighty bucks for a catalog swimsuit that promised I would look slimmer, trimmer and younger. Yeah, I know I foolhardily bought into the propaganda, but at this point in my life, I would try voodoo if I thought it would work.

I decided on the black mock tankini that came equipped with a shelf bra and the promise that the steel-enforced fabric would tuck my tummy and firm my fanny. It arrived the day we left for vacation, so I threw it in my suitcase and headed for the beach.

I tugged, I pulled, I sweated. An hour later, the suit was on and, oh boy, did I feel fabulously firm. I walked to the full-length mirror and let out a scream so primal that my kids banged on the bedroom door, asking if they should call an ambulance. I told them no, but then said that maybe they could call the local butcher and ask if he’s interested in buying a human sausage link.

The shelf bra worked its magic. It coaxed my normally low-hanging breasts up to my earlobes. I now had what looked like a horrible case of the mumps. Not only that, but some of the flesh decided it did not want to meet my neck and would rather hang out elsewhere. If I didn’t know better, I would have sworn someone shoved hotdog rolls under my armpits.

As for the tummy tucker, well there is a little known scientific fact that states, “What gets smushed in, also gets smushed out.”

Sure, I had a flat tummy but that’s because all the subcutaneous fat pushed itself down and out of the bottom of the suit. I had a sorry case of frontal butt cheeks.

After that, I swore I’d never purchase another swimsuit again until I lost weight, but like I said, somehow dieting slipped my mind. This year, I am trying a new approach to the swimsuit fiasco. I told my husband and children that for Mother’s Day I would rather have a gift certificate to the local sporting goods store, instead of the usual dinner out. When they asked me why, I said, “It’s a surprise.”

This summer, I’m gonna buy me a full-length wetsuit. Whadda ya think about that? Creative huh? No more crying or screaming for me. No siree, this year, I’ll be tucked and smooth from neck to ankles.

I’ve decided against the flippers, though. I do have long, slim toes that I want to accentuate with pink, Day-Glo toenail polish. As for the goggles, I’m still not sure. My impeccable fashion sense tells me that would be overdoing it.

Golly, I just had a fabulous thought. My thirteen-year-old daughter finds my mere presence on this earth an embarrassment to her. Wait until she gets a load of my new beachwear.

Susan Krushenick

Look at Me

“Look at me, Mum.”

Jason’s shrill voice skimmed across the water. Jen grunted and went on dipping out leaves, jabbing angrily at the water. She had had enough.

It wasn’t Jason’s fault. Of course he had lots of energy— he was a boy. She just wished he wasn’t so constantly demanding. It had been Jen’s idea to work from home— she’d done it when Callista was tiny. They just couldn’t afford for her not to work at all.

“Look, Mum.”

“I’m looking,” Jen growled, regretting it instantly. She hunched over, feeling guilty, glaring at the water.

“You’re not watching, Mum.”

“Okay.”

She smiled at him, wiping her hands on her long cotton sundress. He was kneeling up on his little inflatable boat. He couldn’t swim properly but he had floaties on his arms, and Jen made sure he stayed at the shallow end where he could stand. The boat was cute—it had a funnel and ropes around it. He could hang on to it and float all round the pool if she was with him.

“Whee!!” Jason leapt and splashed into the water. He paddled around, whooping breathlessly, until he could grab hold of the boat.

“Good, darling. Really good.”

Jen went back to scooping. It was partly her husband, Andrew’s, fault. He had promised that if they had another he would stay home. Why should it be her? Why should she have to give up all her chances? There had been the big promotion opportunity—his, of course—and the pay raise they couldn’t afford to miss. She would never have agreed to another child if she’d known.

Jen had enjoyed Callista’s company so much that she almost missed her when she slept. For three blissful years, from the time Callista learned to walk until the time she went to kindergarten, they did everything together. While Jen worked, Callista would look at books or draw pictures or help in her own way with the housework; they would shop together with endless discussions about what to buy. Callista would tell her when the postman had come, remind her to buy food for the cat, give her a hug when she felt a little low—somehow Callista always knew, even when she tried to hide it.

“Look, Mum! I’m gonna do it again.”

“I’m busy.”

Jason couldn’t have been more different. She couldn’t talk to anyone anymore; she couldn’t read a book. He was there, constantly demanding her attention, testing her. Nothing seemed to keep him occupied more than a few minutes, and then he was at her again. Why couldn’t he entertain himself? Why couldn’t he invent something to do? Her attempts at work were an agony, and in the end she always had to do it at night when Andrew was there and she wanted to relax. It just wasn’t fair, and the worst of it was that Andrew hated her mentioning it. Jason was always half-asleep by the time he came home. Sometimes she just wanted to go away and leave them all to it. Go away and never come back.

It was the silence that made her look up.

The first thing she saw was the boat. For a moment she thought it was empty, then she realized that Jason’s feet were still in it, tucked under the rope. The rest of him was in the water, upside-down. The floaties were stopping his weight from tipping the boat but his head was under.

With a cry, Jen flung herself into the pool. She was a terrible swimmer and hated the water, but in a flash she was tearing toward the boat, not even feeling her long dress around her ankles. As she reached the boat she ducked under. She could see his little face through the water, with his arms waving helplessly. She grabbed him and hauled him free of the boat. She could stand easily here so she picked him up and carried him, coughing and spluttering, to the edge.

She sat clutching him tightly, her mind an utter blank, so scared she couldn’t think at all. He was clamped to her and seemed stunned by what had happened, but she could feel that he was breathing normally. With the shock, though, Jen was frozen.

“Mum?” His voice sounded a little strange. “Mum, you’re hurting me.”

Suddenly she realized she was holding him so tight he could hardly get a breath. Tears rushed down her cheeks at the thought of what had nearly happened. She looked at his bewildered face and suddenly, in a moment, she understood that this little life was the most precious thing she had ever held in her hands.

“Mum,” Jason said, frowning slightly. “Why are you crying?”

She smiled at him through her tears.

“Because . . .” she sobbed. “Because you did your biggest trick of the afternoon and . . . I nearly missed it.”

He put his arms around her wet dress and gave her a strong hug.

“Don’t worry, Mum,” he said. “You can look at me again tomorrow.”

Jaie Ouens

Mother Love

I tickled his tummy and kissed his sweet toes;

I powdered his bottom and wiped his wee nose.

I raced him and chased him

(and once I misplaced him!)

I rubbed and I scrubbed

(’til I nearly erased him!)

I shook from his pockets things living and dead;

I entered his room with a shudder of dread.

I tended him and mended him

(and always defended him!)

I begged and I bribed

(when I should have rear-ended him!)

Oh, where is my baby? Which way did he run?

He’s now a teen monster at six-foot-and-one!

Carol McAdoo Rehme

The Last Rebellion—Weddings

M
y mother had a great deal of trouble with me
but I think she enjoyed it.

Mark Twain

My son, now an eminent professional approaching midlife, has been mostly successful in cutting that infamous umbilical cord after a lifetime of passionate battles beginning in the playpen. For him, the phrase
guilt trip
was routine vocabulary when he was barely out of diapers.

“Finish your broccoli; they’re starving in Biafra,” I’d cry.

“You’re trying to give me a guilt trip,” he’d reply.

A product of the rebellious ’60s and ’70s, he caused episodic disharmony in our home as he fended off legendary guilt trips, while challenging established attitudes toward sex and marriage, money, religion, recreation, music, food or appearance. Like my mother before me, I was an overprotective and controlling parent. My son taught me “esoteric” philosophy: holding my tongue and walking on eggs. His battles for independence waged and won, some resentments lingered. The last arena of rebellion and confrontation: wedding celebrations.

Halfway into his twenties, David arrived from his home out of state to attend the wedding of my friend’s daughter and asked if I would hem his new “wedding pants.” I was relieved—and delighted to do so. The invitation had read, “black-tie optional,” and I was skeptical about his owning appropriate clothing. My husband and I wanted to buy him an outfit, but fearful of suggesting anything that could be construed as an assault upon his personhood, we remained silent.

The “wedding pants” turned out to be khaki cotton chinos! I do not attribute his choice to rebellion—not that day. Perhaps he was merely ignorant of wedding garb outside his circle of friends who were marrying on the beach, in the woods or on a mountaintop and to whom a new pair of khaki chinos would have been akin to formal attire.

“I see you want to be comfortable, but since this is a dress-up affair, chinos are inappropriate. The choice is yours of course; think about it.”

Having incorporated the walking-on-eggs philosophy, that is what I could have said, what I should have said, what I didn’t say.

Instead, I roared, “You can’t wear those pants to a wedding.”

“I can wear whatever I wish,” he roared back. “You are trying to give me a guilt trip.” The ensuing battle of wills and words was not a tribute to either his maturity or mine. He declined subsequent black-tie invitations from friends and family alike.

When it was his turn to walk down the aisle, acceding to his fiancé’s wishes, he prepared himself for an extravaganza crammed with preceremony rehearsals, luncheons and dinners, which relegated black-tie optional to the insignificant. Searching through flea markets and used clothing stores, he found a frayed but dashing Victorian cutaway that assuaged his need for nonconformity. Nevertheless, his marriage began to disintegrate, even before he chimed “I do,” during those days preceding the huge gala, as his resentments against pomp and tradition mounted. I believe the wedding gestalt contributed to his divorce not many years afterward.

“Love is nature’s second sun,” so it was not surprising when, after five years of bachelorhood, his cutaway hanging expectantly in the closet, David declared his intention to marry again.

“The wedding will be small, it will take place outdoors, and the guest list will include intimate friends and immediate relatives only,” he informed me. He wanted the most “harmonious vibes.” I nodded my head to everything, in total blissful agreement. What occasion in life is more joyful than a child’s marriage?

I then learned that a street minister, colorfully attired and barefooted, would conduct the ceremony. David was bored with ritual ceremony, a ceremony with religious and spiritual significance to me. I was distressed, but having at long last mastered the technique of addressing sensitive subjects, I quietly told him how I felt.

“Distressed?” he bellowed. “You cannot feel distressed. It is my wedding and my choice as to who performs the ceremony.”