OK, so I wrote this story and it turned out to be a longer post than I usually write. So then I was all . . . Well, I guess I could split it up into 2 or 3 posts.
Except there is not much in this world I hate more than a To Be Continued notification at the bottom of a page.
So fuck it . . . I have faith in your ability to read more than a thousand words at a time.
The other morning, I went to visit Maj’s various teachers for conferences. Maj is brilliant. Maj is engaged. Maj is articulate. Maj advocates for herself. Maj is a joy to have in class. Maj is doing spectacularly.
I was feeling pretty damn pleased with this Maj of whom they spoke.
“Hey, Maj?”
“What?”
“I was thinking that since you are home for the day, maybe we could go out and get you some shoes. You have been telling me you need some shoes. How’s that sound?”
“I don’t need shoes, Mother. I need boots. Not rain boots, either. Cool boots.”
“Whatever. You want to go shopping?”
“Just the two of us?”
“I was going to ask Daddy if he wants to come with us, but he may be busy with work.”
“OK, where are we going?”
“I don’t know. The mall? Target? Payless?”
“I hate Target.”
“Fine. Not Target.”
“And Payless? They don’t sell the boots I want and the things they do sell are all dis-gus-ting.”
“Alright, then. Not Payless. How about the mall?”
“You know I hate crowds and people, Mother. Where would we go in the mall, exactly?”
“I don’t know . . . the places that sell boots.”
“That sounds fraught with problems.”
“OK, how about the outlet stores?”
“ARE YOU INSANE?”
“OK, how about Burlington Coat Factory?”
“Why on earth would I go to a coat-making factory? This is not a field trip, Mother, this is a boot errand.”
“Geez, we haven’t even left the house and I am already annoyed. Burlington Coat Factory has a stupid name, but they are not actually a factory and they sell stuff other than coats.”
“Yeah, that seems doubtful.”
“Whatever.”
“Why are you so crabby?”
“Alright, Maj. Let’s do it this way instead. I am offering to take you to buy a pair of boots. Where would you like to go to find these boots?”
“HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW WHERE I WANT TO GO?”
“Alright. How about you give me some details of the kinds of boots you are hoping to buy, and I will try to narrow down the possible mall stores.”
“MOTHER, I WILL KNOW THE BOOTS WHEN I SEE THEM. HOW CAN I TELL YOU WHERE THEY ARE LOCATED WHEN I DO NOT IN FACT KNOW WHERE THEY ARE LOCATED?”
“OK, do you want to go shopping or not? I am trying to be nice here.”
“Are you, Mother? Because all I hear is you telling me to lead the way to the boots. Mothers lead the way, Mother! HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW THIS? MOTHERS LEAD THE WAY.”
“OK, forget the whole thing.”
“Wait. What do you mean?”
“I mean I have better things to do than to be spoken to rudely by the person for whom I am trying to do a favor.”
“Shoes are a favor, Mother? It is just out of the goodness of your favor-granting heart that I am not barefoot through my days?”
“That is correct, Maj.”
“Huh. Having you as a mother is difficult. Other people get boots without having to be pleasant. Hmmph. OK, maybe I was hasty in my loudness. Please can we go shopping?”
“Babe, right now I am all annoyed at you. Why don’t we take a half-hour break and then discuss this again?”
“I DON’T NEED A HALF HOUR TO CALM DOWN!”
“Yeah, right.”
“I DO NOT NEED A HALF HOUR!”
“Try that again.”
“I do not need a half hour. I am calm.”
“Listen, I would like to take you shopping, but you need to get a grip. So why don’t you make yourself some lunch and then we will try again.”
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME, MOTHER? IT IS 11:20 AM! NOBODY EATS LUNCH AT 11:20 AM!”
“You want to try that again?”
“What?”
“Do . . . you . . . want . . . to . . . try . . . that . . . again?”
“Oh. Ummm . . . how about if I go make myself some early lunch and then we can talk about maybe going shopping?”
“That sounds perfect.”
And then Maj narrates her way through her search for lunch . . .
“Make my own lunch. She is insane. I have the day off of school and how do I spend it? Making my own lunch, that’s how. Some people do not understand about tending to the needs of others. Some people just sit on their computers and type and ignore the fact that children are starving in this house. We have nothing to eat. WE HAVE NOTHING TO EAT AND SO THAT YOU KNOW THAT THIS IS A FACT OF TRUTH I AM GOING TO LIST FOR YOU THE THINGS THAT ARE NOT REASONABLY AVAILABLE FOR EATING. Leftover chicken nuggets taste like cold lumps of fat unless you heat them up and if I heat them after thinking about the cold lumps of fat I will just be overly aware of the warm fat that used to be lumpy cold and so obviously chicken nuggets are out. Top Ramen is a possibility except I eat Top Ramen all the time and the noodles are beginning to look like parasite worms which is probably my Science teacher’s fault but wherever the fault lies I cannot eat worms. I would have a sandwich but all we have are the ends of the bread and I AM NOT EATING A BUTT-CRUST SANDWICH nobody should be expected to eat a butt-crust sandwich. There are bagels but bagels are inappropriate . . . obviously. Cereal is for breakfast and the meal that needs to be formed is called lunch so cereal would just confuse the day. I would have cous-cous BUT SOMEONE HAS NOT GONE SHOPPING LATELY and I don’t care how many times you tell me quinoa is basically the same it is not the same because if one thing tastes delicious and the other tastes like dirt those two things are not the same and also quinoa has a Q in it so . . . duh. There are a few cans of soup but they all seem to have noodles and that brings up the parasite issue again because what if they come to life and then wiggle around inside of me and then when I go to the bathroom IT IS TOO HORRIFIC TO IMAGINE so no noodles. THAT LEAVES ME WITH NOTHING. THERE IS NOTHING TO EAT.”
“Maj, I am not even getting up to help you. Figure out some lunch and then eat it.”
“Way to care, Mother. WAY . . . TO . . . CARE.”
“I have faith in you, Maj.”
“Well, that’s just insanity.”
“Find something to eat, Maj. We have lots of stuff.”
“Fine. I will eat this can of soup. Cream of Chicken.”
“Fine.”
“Although I am already troubled by the name. Who wants a chicken creamed?”
“It just means it is a thicker soup . . . more than a broth.”
“Mother, a condensed version of a book is a shorter version that leaves out lots of details and stuff, right?”
“Yup.”
“OK, then I am not eating this. Who wants a meal that leaves out all of the interesting details?”
“Condensed soup just means that they extracted the excess liquid. You have to add water.”
“So all that’s missing from this soup is water?”
“Yeah, just add a can of water and stir it up as you heat it.”
“So I will just open up this can and . . . AIEIEIEIIEIEEEE!”
“What seems to be the trouble, Maj?”
“This is a can of chicken pudding, Mother! I cannot be expected to eat chicken pudding.”
“Just scoop it into a pan and add a can of water. It will be fine.”
“It smells terrible. I am going to barf. Oh my god . . . this is like scooping loose poo pudding. This is nightmare soup!”
“OK, Maj. Get a can of water.”
“Cold water?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“OK, so I will just use hot water and get this soup-making thing going. Look at me, says the soup, I am about to be deluded!”
“Diluted, Maj. Deluded is another word that means something else entirely.”
“Whatever, Mother. AIEIEIEIEIEIEIEEE! The can is hot! OW! The can is hot!”
“I am going to guess you are filling the can with water from the instant hot water dispenser?”
“EEK! I am burned I am burned I am burned! Who would have guessed that boiling water would heat the can so . . . thoroughly? No way I could have seen that coming. OW OW OW OW . . . there! Boiling water upon your head, Mr. Chicken Pudding Glob! Commence soupification! Wait. Where’s the spoon?”
“You lost a spoon?”
“It was an inappropriately sized spoon, apparently, and I think . . . yes . . . the chicken pudding monster ate my spoon! Well, no matter. The spoon can just cook with the pudding.”
“Get the spoon out of the soup, Maj.”
“Way to be arbitrary, Mother. Why do you care about whether I cook a spoon?”
“Just get it out of the soup. Get a bigger spoon and take out the smaller spoon.”
“Weird the things that catch your interest, Mother. A moment ago, I was scandalously burned and not a peep out of you. But a drowning spoon? CALL IN THE PARAMEDICS! 911 and cause a fuss! Save my spoon!”
I listen as Maj talks her way through the soup heating . . .
“Why do I have to eat so early? Something wrong with a family where a girl is forced to eat before noon. Condensed soup . . . who ever heard of having to add water to make a soup? This is like that book Stone Soup. I am adding all of the things that are required to make this soup. Some lunatic homeless man shows up and throws some sloppy pudding in a pot and then starts asking me for the things that will turn that gloppy mess into something edible. Water? Why yes, I have some water . . . Oh look with the addition of my water it has become soup! It is like a homeless miracle except for the fact that I am homed. IF I WASN’T HOMED I COULD BE A HOMELESS MIRACLE WORKER, MOTHER!”
“Maj, it’s probably done.”
“Ta dah! Who says the Maj can’t cook?”
“So proud, babe.”
“OK, let me just pour it into a bowl, and UGHGHGHGHGH . . . there is fur in this soup! Mother, there is fur in this soup! What if it is chicken hair? I CANNOT EAT CHICKEN HAIR!”
“Chickens do not have hair, babe.”
“What are these little lumps? ARE THOSE BITS OF CHICKEN? IS THAT WHAT CREAMED MEANS? CHICKEN BEATEN AND SMOOTHED INTO BITS?”
“Pretty much.”
“OK, I need to strain this soup . . . this is like death soup . . . I need to strain out the bits of dead body and just have the death broth.”
“Maj, eat the soup or don’t eat the soup. Stop calling it death broth.”
“Fine. Let me just taste it. OW! It’s too hot!”
“Let it sit for a few minutes.”
“OW! I burned myself!”
“Maj, stop eating the soup if it’s too hot. Let it cool off.”
“I burned myself again! OW!”
“Seriously, Maj?”
“I AM BURNED AGAIN! I am not that smart and I am eating hot soup completely unsupervised . . . Bad parenting, Mother! Bad parenting!”
“Maj, you make me tired.”
“How do you think I feel, Mother? I’m the one who has to be me. Also, guess what?”
“What?”
“I hate this soup. There is no way this lunch can go on.”
Mark walks into the kitchen, “Why are you eating so early, Maj?”
“An excellent question, Daddy. Ask HER.”
Without getting up from my desk, I explain about the offer to go shopping for boots and the rudeness and how it turned out Maj needed some time to calm down and how Maj is using that time to make her own lunch and then we are going to talk again and head out if Maj can keep it under control.
Mark starts rummaging through the refrigerator, “I have some free time. I’ll come with you. Let me just find something to eat for lunch first.”
Maj is annoyed, “Are you kidding me? Now I have to wait for you to finish eating before we can get going? ARE YOU KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW? Where were you when we were . . .”
I interrupt her, “Listen, Maj. You rejected the soup after just a few tiny bites. You still have to find something to eat. Daddy is not behind schedule. He’s fine.”
“Hmmph. Daddy, eat quickly because once I find some lunch we are out of here. Do you hear me? EAT QUICKLY, DADDY. I HAVE BOOTS TO BUY.”
Mark pulls a frozen cheesesteak out of the freezer and microwaves it, “You want one of these, Maj?”
“Daddy, NO. Those are the most disgusting things I have ever eaten in my entire life except for cream of chicken soup. We have nothing to eat. We LITERALLY have nothing to eat in this house. I will die!”
Mark unwraps his heated sandwich and takes a bite, “How about you have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”
“Daddy, I cannot touch butt-crust to the lips of Maj. No way do my lips touch butt-crust. NO WAY. Hurry up and eat, Daddy. You do not have time to talk to me of useless suggestions. I am not even going to wait for you. Know that, young man. I am not waiting for you.”
Mark leans to catch my eye as I type furiously, “Maj is in a great mood, babe. This shopping trip is going to go spectacularly.”
Maj grabs some sandwich meat and some cheese and eats them without bread, “I would have a kiwi, but there does not appear to be anyone willing to cut the fuzzy outside off of the kiwi for me. I can’t eat the outside or my lips and my tongue will be numb and then I won’t be able to talk and no one wants that.”
Snicker.
“I SAID NO ONE WANTS THAT!”
“Hold on, Maj. I’ll cut you a kiwi.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
Mark finishes his sandwich and then pulls out a chocolate pudding cup. He peels the top off as I giggle. I giggle because the night before, Mark announced his latest money-making scheme . . .
“They need to make bigger puddings. These things are tiny and ridiculous. I need a man pudding! Yes, that’s what they should call them . . . Man Puddings. Fuck the snack pack . . . what I want is a Man Pudding.”
And then I laughed until I cried.
So Mark watches me as he peels his pudding top, and then he sings out, “How do you handle a hungry man?”
Maj is confused, “What?”
“MAN PUDDING!”
Maj stares at the two of us, “Daddy, what was that about? What on earth is wrong with you, Mother? Are you laughing AND crying? Oh my. Please get it under control immediately, Mother. You are going to need to be a grown-up when we go shopping.”
Mark sings happily, “How do you handle a hungry mannnnn? MAN PUDDING!”
Maj turns back to Mark, “Please behave! What is wrong with you two? Oh my god . . . Mother, was that a hiccup?”
“HICCUP . . . Oops. Sorry, Maj. I have giggled myself into hiccups.”
“Oh well that’s just great. Get rid of the hiccups before you shame me! And Daddy? Stop making Mother laugh.”
“Don’t mind me,” says Mark as he licks his spoon, “I’ll just be here eating my pud.”
I cannot even breathe, “HICCUP . . . Your pud?”
“WHY CAN’T THIS FAMILY BE NORMAL?”
HICCUP
Mark gestures thoughtfully with his spoon, “You know who might have the boots Maj wants? Sears.”
Maj stomps her foot, “I suppose next you will be telling me that Harbor Freight Tools has cool boots as well. This shopping trip is NOT ABOUT YOU, DADDY. Do not turn this trip into a quest for tools. I will NOT HAVE IT. Do you hear me, Daddy? If you want to come with us you are to behave and you are to be quiet and you are to STOP MAKING SELFISH SUGGESTIONS THAT WILL ONLY SERVE TO KEEP ME FROM MY BELOVED BOOTS.”
HICCUP
Maj glares at me, “Stop shaming me with your gas eruptions!”
Mark scrapes out the bottom of his pudding cup, “They really should make these bigger.”
“Daddy, instead of dreaming of Man Pudding, why don’t you BE THE MAN WHO GETS HIMSELF ANOTHER PUDDING?”
Mark stares at her, “Well, I guess you told me. Hey, Maj?”
“What?”
“Run downstairs and get me another pudding from the pantry.”
“AUGH!” She stomps off.
HICCUP
Mark walks to hug me, “So this shopping trip is going to be big fun.”
HICCUP
Maj reappears and hands the pudding cup to Mark, “Eat this pudding like a man, Daddy. That means no singing about handling a hungry man with man pudding. Meanwhile, I am going to eat sandwich meat without bread and also a cup of yogurt. Mother, make a note that sandwich meat is supposed to be on un-butt-crusty bread, but I will manage because I am the Maj. Daddy, make a note that however I may feel about the size of this cup of yogurt, I am keeping my thoughts in my head because not every thought has to be spoken.”
I giggle, “Maj, seriously? You are HICCUP lecturing us about how HICCUP not every thought has to be spoken?”
“What’s your point, Mother? In other news, someone has to rinse the sink out because I dumped the soup and now the sink smells like cream of bird death OK and now I am thinking of Bird Flu and so where is the hand sanitizer please someone clear the creamed death before I LITERALLY die and Mother if you are going to hiccup all day I am going to be annoyed with you GET IT UNDER CONTROL, WOMAN!”
HICCUP
Off we went.
Approximately two hours later, after visiting several stores in which Maj rejects about 8 billion pairs of boots, we pull up in front of Sears. As we walk into the store, Mark mutters something about tools and disappears. Maj stands in the shoe section, her hands on her hips, “Alright, I feel that my boot babies are in this store somewhere. I feel them, Mother. Why didn’t we come to Sears in the first place?”
“I do not even HICCUP know, Maj. We are idiots, apparently.”
“Mother, at some point you are going to have to stop hiccupping.”
“Do not speak to me as though I am HICCUP choosing to have the hiccups for the whole day.”
“You don’t have to be so testy, Mother. How am I supposed to shop for boots when I have your testy all over me . . . pressing me down and thwarting my boot-baby dreams?”
“Seriously, Maj . . . stop calling them boot babies. It is weird and annoying. I promised to HICCUP buy you boots, not boot babies.”
“Mother, I cannot function with this level of stress. Do not un-name the boot babies!”
“Oh my HICCUP god. I am going to wander around the store for a bit. You see what you can find, but this is the last store we are visiting. Your boots are either in this store or we leave this shopping for another HICCUP day.”
“Mother, try not to shame me as you walk around hiccupping.”
I glare at her and then I point to her and speak loudly, “THIS BOOT-BABY SEEKING CHILD IS ALL MINE, PEOPLE. I KNOW YOU ARE ALL JEALOUS, BECAUSE SHE IS ALL MINE. I AM HER MOTHER HICCUP AND I WILL NOW BE WALKING AROUND THE STORE ON A CLOUD OF HICCUP PRIDE. FEEL FREE TO STOP ME FOR AN AUTOGRAPH BECAUSE YOU RARELY SEE THIS SORT OF HICCUP QUALITY MOTHERING. PEOPLE, I AM WORTHY OF HICCUP ADORATION.”
“Well, you have just decided to be insane.”
“Maj, do not speak to me HICCUP as though this is a choice I have made. Insanity has HICCUP been MAJJED UPON ME.”
Maj turns and heads into the rack of shoes and boots. I hiccup a few more times and then wander away. I don’t want to buy anything for myself and I am not in the mood to do any Christmas shopping, so I just wander. I ride the escalator up and then back down and then wander slowly back to the shoe department. I find Maj sitting on the floor surrounded by perhaps 13 opened boxes of boots.
She looks up at me, “I can’t decide.”
I sigh and try to stifle a hiccup, “OK, babe . . . point to a single pair of boots that you know you do NOT want.”
She points, and I collect that pair of boots and replace them in their box and then put them back on the shelf, “OK, eliminate one more pair.”
She does. Together, we work to put back ten of the boxes of boots. Which leaves her with three pairs of boots, all of the same style but in different colors. “Maj, now all you have to HICCUP do is decide what color you like best . . . black, brown, or HICCUP gray . . . personally, I am a fan of HICCUP the black.”
Maj erupts in anger, “Mother, I did not ask you for your opinion! Now I am all pressured to buy the black ones and my brain thinks the black ones are the ones you want me to get but I am not sure, Mother! I am not even sure these are the right style of boots! You maybe made me put back the ones I was meant to love! Why are you pressuring me into buying boots I hate, Mother?”
“Why do I keep forgetting to get high before I shop with you? This would be so much more HICCUP fun if I was high.”
“DRUG JOKES, MOTHER? INSANITY!” She turns back to the boots and picks up the brown pair, “Are you my boot babies? Well? ARE YOU?”
I wander away again.
When I return, Maj has settled on the brown boots and she is hugging them close, “I want the brown ones but I’m just not sure, Mother. What if the black ones are better? There’s no way to be sure. How about I buy two pairs of boots?”
“Did you bring your money?”
“What? No, I meant how about you buy me two pairs of boots?”
“Hmmm . . . HICCUP . . . nope.”
“Alright, then. I want these brown boot babies.”
“YAY! OK, so let me just grab a pair for Kallan.”
“WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?”
I reach for a size-5 box, “There. Kallan will like these.”
“I MUST BE DREAMING NOW. YOU ARE BUYING KALLAN THOSE BOOTS?”
“What’s the problem?”
“No one said anything about buying Kallan boots.”
“Yeah, well . . . I was going to take her out separately but you have exhausted my willingness to shop. So I am just going to choose some for her. She’ll like these.”
“Mother, you cannot do this to me!”
“What are you talking about?”
“What if I like the boots you got her better? What if every day when I see her boots, I am tortured by the knowledge that I could have had those boots?”
I extend the box to her, “You want to trade? I’m sure Kallan will HICCUP like the ones you’re holding just as much.”
“DO NOT DARE TO COME BETWEEN ME AND MY BOOT BABIES!”
“Alrighty, then. Let’s find HICCUP Daddy and get HICCUP out of here.”
Maj runs ahead to tell on me, “Daddy, we came here to buy me boots and now Mother is buying Kallan boots! How is that fair? This day is supposed to be all about me. I WANT THIS TO BE ALL ABOUT ME! THIS SHOULD BE ALL ABOUT ME!”
I have just had it, “This is not a Make-A-Wish shopping trip, Maj.”
Maj glares at me, “What does that even mean, Mother? What does that even mean?”
“Although come to think of it, you may be closer to death than you imagine.”
“WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?”
We pay for the boots and it turns out Maj’s boots are $5.00 cheaper than we thought. As we walk out of the store, Maj turns to Mark, “So you owe me $5.00.”
I hold my breath to keep from saying what I am tempted to say.
I hold my breath for as long as I can.
And still?
HICCUP
“Mother, more hiccuping? This day has been filled with shame for me. You have shamed me, Mother.”
HICCUP
“Thank you for the boots, though. I do like shopping.”
“You’re HICCUP welcome.”
“Seriously? You can’t even do two words without hiccuping?”
“Be quiet.”
“Well done, Mother! Oh . . . you mean for me to be quiet. Geez, Mother. Why are you so crabby? This was a hugely successful shopping day!”
“Shhhhhh.”
“Fine.”
HICCUP
“Really, Mother? It’s like you have no self-control at all.”
Sigh.
