Whatever...Love Is Love (7 page)

“OMG. This kid just nailed me. He called me out on my biggest issue—
not
being the perfect mommy.” And when he persisted with more questions, like “Why don't you dress like the other moms at soccer?” I knew the answer. I am not a perfect mom. I have failed my son in many ways. But I didn't want to get into all that with my six-year-old. Did he really need to find out about his mother's neuroses so soon?

Within seconds I blurted out the only thing I could think of: “Jackson, I'm not like other mommies. I'm a different
kind
of mommy.” He looked at me, and without missing a beat said, “Yeah, I get it.” Then he went back to playing his game with a little smile on his face.

Goddammit! Only six years old, and the little guy had found me out. I'm not like the “other mommies.” Not at all. I am not like the mommy of his friend who has just been away for a week getting breast implants requested by the rich 73-year-old with whom she's having an affair. Or the mommy of his other friend who gets stoned in the morning to face the day, then makes gluten-free buckwheat pancakes for her kids and their friends after another perfect sleepover. I'm not like the mom of his other friend who is kind, loving, and patient and does absolutely everything and anything for her kids. She doesn't go out to dinner with her girlfriends because, as her husband says, “You don't go to dinner because your kids are the most important. Those ‘other' mommies are not good mommies at all.”

No, I'm not like other mommies. And thank God, Jack is not like other kids. As screwed up as I sometimes think I am, Jackson just looks at me, now at 13, with a face that says, “You're crazy, Mom, but pretty cool, too.” And I believe him half the time.

I recently found a letter I wrote to my dad when I was 17. It helped me understand that no matter what I did, Jackson will sometimes feel that I am not a good enough mom. This letter basically pointed out all of my father's character defects, with lines like “You use that tone with me and you've pushed all of us away.” Was my dad a good enough dad then? He made mistakes, as my mother did and as do I. But he also taught me important lessons that made me the woman I am today.

I want my son to want to tell me his secrets. I want him to trust me and know I will always be there for him. And I think he does. Mostly. But when I use “that tone” like my father did with me, I wonder if he believes me when I say that I am the one who loves him most. Am I repeating the very pattern I railed against for so many years? But now I know that my dad was usually just trying to protect me and teach me a lesson when he was harsh with me. Jackson will figure that out about me someday, when he is in therapy talking about how I fucked up. Hopefully he will know deep down that I was the perfect mom for him.

My boy, Jackson Blue McDermott, is smart and funny and caring and is obsessed with soccer and FIFA Xbox games. He has always been an odd, original, wonderful duck. Jack was not your average newborn. We were told that for the first few weeks he would probably sleep on and off for 16 hours a day. Not our baby. Our baby was
awake
for 16 hours a day. He rarely slept because he was constantly interested in his surroundings, inquisitive about stuff only babies can be inquisitive about. He seemed like he wanted to
be
in the world, experience it, eat it up, and not miss a thing.

As my son grew and changed, so did I. We were both in constant periods of transition. I couldn't be a good mom to him if I treated him the same at age 12 as I did when he was 2. He was evolving and I had to evolve with him.

The definition of
transition
is “a period of changing from one state or condition to another.” It can also be called a metamorphosis, or a transformation. The first time I started to understand the term was when I read a book called
Hope for the Flowers
by Trina Paulus. It was published in 1972, and still has a hippie vibe with its cover of yellow and white butterflies. I remember Sister Elizabeth, my second grade teacher, in her black habit and veil with her tiny smiling face popping out, holding up the book while she read it. We sat in our uniforms in the “reading corner” and from the first words, I was riveted.

The book is about two caterpillars: Yellow and Stripe. Though they fall in love, Stripe is obsessed with the mountain of caterpillars that thousands are climbing to reach up to the sky. They have no idea what's on top of this mountain, but everyone seems to want to climb it, so they think there must be a good reason. When Stripe decides to climb, Yellow, his girlfriend, who he has been rolling around in the fields with eating and kissing all day, is bummed. She stays behind while he climbs.

Alone and lonely now, Yellow wanders around trying to figure out what she should do next. When she sees an old caterpillar stuck in a sack in a tree and asks if she can help him get out of what looks like a trap, he says, “No, my dear, I have to do this to become a butterfly.” When she hears that word, her little caterpillar ears perk up. “What is a butterfly?” she asks. The old caterpillar says, “It's what you are meant to become. It flies with beautiful wings and joins the earth with heaven. Without butterflies the earth would soon have no flowers.”

“So, how does one become a butterfly?”

“You must want to fly so much that you are willing to give up being a caterpillar. This is an in-between house where the change takes place. It's a big step because you can never return to caterpillar life.”

She decides to build her cocoon.

Meanwhile, Stripe is all about climbing the pile. He kind of misses Yellow, but is determined to get to the top. He makes sure not to look into the eyes of the other caterpillars. “Kill or be killed” is his driving thought. And he stomps on their heads if he has to. He becomes callous and cool and keeps climbing until he is near the top. “Yes,” he thinks, “I'll show Yellow, and all of those below me, that I got to the top and beat those beneath me who were too insecure or not strong enough to make it.” So he keeps climbing, at one point making it so close to the top that he can look around at all that surrounds him. He sees there are hundreds of caterpillar piles just like the one he is climbing. When Stripe finally makes it to the top, he sees the most beautiful creature flying above the pile. Yellow and kind, she looks in his eyes and he knows. It's Yellow, the hairy caterpillar he left behind.

“Oh no, I've been climbing all this time, killing people, throwing them off of the pile to see
this
? You've got to be kidding me,” he thinks. “All this way and all this work and it was just to see my girlfriend flying, looking all pretty while I'm still a hairy caterpillar?”

So in disgrace, even though he could have held on to her skinny legs and been brought down the caterpillar pile, Stripe starts down alone. Now he doesn't push others aside. He looks them in the eyes and sees the humanity in each one of them. “You are a reflection of me and I am a reflection of you. I am your brother and you are mine.” He feels like an asshole remembering who he was when he was climbing. But he accepts the embarrassment and the pain he has caused others. He owns the desperation that he had felt to get what he thought would make him complete.

In the end, Stripe gets down from the pile and, soundlessly, Yellow gestures for him to build a cocoon. And he does.

Since first hearing this story in second grade, I have remembered Stripe and Yellow's journey. I wondered, even at that young age, if there was something more to life than what I saw in magazines or on television. If there was more to being happy than living in a beautiful home, having fancy cars, and wearing expensive clothes. I could be a butterfly, I thought. I don't want to be a caterpillar.

But I knew that the lesson of Yellow and Stripe was one I wanted to teach my boy. I wanted to show him that he has his own voice and should follow his own path, not to hop on the train with assholes just because they say something is great. I want him to know that all of life is about transitions. It's about learning and becoming the best you are meant to be. But it takes a transition to do so.

When I gave birth to Jack, I
really
understood the word
transition
. In pregnancy terms it is the time between when you are screaming in agony, having contractions at seven centimeters dilated, but not allowed to push. They say it is the most painful part of labor, but also the shortest, anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour and a half. I knew mine would be very short. I had walked every day and spoke to Jack in my tummy and visualized an easy birth. “Transition is a
good
thing,” my midwife said. “It means baby will be coming soon.” And I believed her.

I gave birth in our home on top of Mulholland Drive in Los Angeles. I wanted the kind of “natural” birth my friends and I were so into at the time. We believed, because of our spiritual practices and study of Kundalini yoga, that the best way to give birth was with no drugs, no harsh lights, no hospitals, and no doctors with scalpels who just wanted to cut you open to get the baby out so that they could get home for dinner. We decided that it was best for baby to come out fully undrugged and aware. We wanted to be fully present and not knocked into a state of unconsciousness when our precious ones were born. And so it would be for me. It was a bunch of crap, but I bought into the idea. It is the right thing for some women but for me, not so much.

Dan and I prepared. We took Lamaze classes. I learned hypnotherapy. I even had a mantra: “I am opening. The baby is coming. All is well.” I had a poster board that my sister and girlfriends had painted with calming dolphins and positive messages. I was ready when the time came on March 4, 2001, and I went into labor.

When my water broke, Dan and I went to breakfast at the local diner and down to the beach for a walk. We saw dolphins and knew it was a sign that our little Jackson Blue was on his way. Within an hour I was doubled over in pain at the local mall where I went to find my “delivery” outfit. We ditched the dressing room quickly with the only nightie that fit my 192-pound frame: white jersey with red and pink hearts on it. Why we did that, I have no idea. But Dan indulged me. I needed a “look.” I think I was already out of my mind.

Within two hours we were back at home and a thunderstorm had started outside that matched my insides. I spent 22 hours in that thunderstorm, with only a glass of wine to sedate me and Dan walking me up and down the stairs of our home while the bitchy midwife rolled her eyes in boredom. The candles were lit and Enya was playing. My two dearest girlfriends were there with us. One of them, the most adamant supporter of the natural birth method, made curry soup with garlic for some reason, and I threw up from the smell. By the time my mother arrived, I was 18 hours in. I had been puking and screaming, and was so bloated that she told them straightaway I should go to the emergency room. I didn't want to give up, but I couldn't wait to go into “transition.”

It was perhaps the finest word I have ever heard when it finally came. “You're in transition!” “Thank the fucking Lord!” I screamed. But I remember thinking, “If you don't get this baby out of me soon, I will find the strength to get up and strangle you with the sheets.”

But after an hour and a half of the worst pain of my life, my transition still didn't end. We thought I would have to be rushed to the emergency room after all. Then the midwife told me to put my hand between my legs and feel the baby's head. And I could feel it and immediately felt so much strength that in a moment I dilated fully and could start pushing. I started screaming, “Come on, Buddy, we can do it! Come on, Buddy!” And we did it. Together. I pushed down and he pushed out. And within minutes he was lying on my belly and Dan was cutting the cord. It was the greatest moment of my life. It was also the scariest moment of my life. I was so happy and so present, and so was Jack. He was so aware, so alive. He just looked around the room at my mom and his dad and my friends and me as if to say, “What's up, guys? Why are you all looking at me like that? Did something happen I don't know about?” And we laughed and cried and within an hour, he was swaddled between Dan and me in the dim light of our bedroom and we all fell asleep.

Transition is good. It means the process or a period of changing from one state or condition to another. The transition felt like the worst part when I had Jack—but the worst part led to the best part. It was painful beyond words and I thought it would never end. But it did. And the most wondrous thing happened. My boy. The pain no longer mattered. I think sometimes if I had been in a hospital with an epidural and some Valium, it would have been easier on my son. I definitely have questioned afterward the choices I made. But it was the perfect birth for him and a perfect birth for me.

I've had many instances of becoming a butterfly, but somehow I would always find myself back on the pile with the caterpillars—other mothers who question themselves as well. Some of my fellow mothers, who had been on the pile but now are flying free, have shown me that it's okay to go back and forth from the pile to the sky. To change as your child changes.

During a trip to Hawaii last year, Jack taught me a lesson. He was about to turn 13, so I wanted to do something special with him. I surprised him on New Year's Day.

Clare told him that the exterminators were coming in the morning and he had to get up at 7
A.M.
so we could leave the house. We were going to have breakfast. When he walked outside, all sleepy eyed, he saw that Clare was still in her pj's but I was not. He was a bit confused and asked, “Where are we going for breakfast?” And then I said, “How about Hualalai?” His eyes popped open when we walked outside of the gate and there was a town car waiting with his luggage in it, all packed and ready to go.

Hualalai is a resort on the Big Island of Hawaii that we had gone to many times when he was younger and holds a special place in our memories. One of the first times I was there, I was pregnant with him and swam with dolphins in the open ocean. I have a photo of a mommy and baby dolphin swimming underneath my swollen belly from that day. And after a few days, I decided that Jack and I needed to find the dolphins again. So on the last day, on rough waters off the coast under a stormy sky, we took a boat out to look. After three hours, the captain said, “This never happens. We always see dolphins.” I saw Jack's face drop. He had been so excited, and I felt like a failure that I had built his expectations so high.