There was this letter that I wrote to my daughter when she was about 6 months old, which I sealed in an envelope and planned to present to her at some point in the future. While I didn’t realize it at the time, it was basically “birth control” in an envelope, written on stationary I must have had since I was about 10 years old. In retrospect, I wonder if I was attempting to immortalize a moment in time (admittedly a rather shitty one) while she was in her playpen playing with the lids from a couple of pots (possibly the only two that I owned) and I was grappling with all the guilt I was feeling while being in school fulltime and then working evenings eventually, just to make ends meet. It was an embarrassing and rambling affair, striving towards, however never quite reaching, any sort of point at all. I do recall reverently placing it into its matching envelope and feeling as though I had somehow captured this important moment in our lives for posterity, and that someday she would open it up like a time capsule, read it and be filled with joy and admiration for the young and loving mother that I was. Well…I found the letter when she was about 17, and I handed it to her one afternoon as she was disappearing upstairs into her room. So there I was, nervously seated on the stairs, wringing my hands as I waited for her to come bounding out of her room, with tears streaming down her face – moved by my profound and important message. Crickets… I finally went into her room and she was lying on her bed watching TV. We had the following conversation:
Faryn: “You seriously let me play with the lids from pots?”
I guess I should have waited a few more years (or perhaps never) to share this sad and moving chapter in our lives. I snatched back the letter and hung onto it until she was in her late 20’s. We sat down one night and read it together and well… We literally pissed ourselves laughing – times had indeed changed.
Being a fulltime single parent means that you have exactly 50% less ammunition in your parental arsenal. It also means that you do not get every other weekend (and perhaps one week night) off, nor do you receive any sort of child support – particularly if you’re stupid like I was and refuse to fight for any. I thought I was being noble and besides, if I asked for nothing, my daughter would never have to be disappointed by the one person who had the ability to hurt her the most.
During the first 2 years of my post secondary program (and later on, an additional 5 years – which we will discuss in a future post) while I was in full on survival mode, the one and only thing that got us through it all was: The Sound of Music. Since this was my all time favorite movie, and because I was the proud owner of the VHS boxed set which consisted of two tapes – this movie literally saved my life. While I ground my way through hours of homework, I would plunk Faryn down in front of the TV and she would be captivated, right from the opening sequence where Maria begins to twirl like a lunatic at the peak of a beautiful mountain – advising us all that the “the hills were indeed alive – with the sound of music.” I am constantly reminded that I am to blame for the musical loving dork my daughter has become, as I had subjected her to them since she was still in the womb. Is it my fault that she drives around listening to show tunes in her vehicle? I personally prefer to listen to audio books while driving – to each his own.
A number of years ago, Faryn reminded me of an incident that occurred one night while I was sleeping. It should be noted that I have some sort of deep rooted weirdness when it comes to my feet. I never go barefoot, nor do I want anyone to touch them, including my husband. While I recognize that this is irrational, it still took me almost 45 years to allow someone else to give me a pedicure. I even sleep with my feet exposed as I can’t even bear to have the covers touching them. Faryn is and always was a nocturnal creature – and she habitually crawled into bed with me at some point during the night. Most mornings I would wake up to find her breathing in my general direction like a rabid dog, or have to reposition her because she had her legs, arms or even her bum in my face. As the story goes, she woke up one night and wandered into my dark bedroom, feeling her way along the walls as she proceeded towards my bed. As she was fumbling her way around, her icy little fingers made contact with my sensitive and forbidden foot and in a knee jerk reaction (please forgive me – I WAS sleeping) I hauled out and kicked her, right between the eyes. I woke up to find her crumpled on the floor like a broken little doll – wailing. For weeks afterwards, she told EVERYONE she encountered that “mommy kicked me in face, but it’s ok because she said she was sleeping when she did it”. I WAS SLEEPING WHEN I DID IT! Lovely…
While there were plenty of times that I wanted to wring my daughter’s neck, there were also some extraordinary moments where I experienced love in its purest form (yes of course for HER) and a number of these moments had absolutely nothing to do with me, and everything to do with the beautiful person who was hiding inside that tiny body.
One day, we were once again in the line up at the grocery store when I saw a man glance over at us and then quickly look away. I sucked in my breath when I noticed that one side of his face was severely burnt and scarred. The side facing us was also scarred, but it appeared that some areas had been spared. I immediately began to panic as I was sure that Faryn would notice and blurt out some sort of inappropriate comment. She possessed two volumes at this point – mute or maximum. Because the man was directly in front of us, I tried to distract her with the National Enquirer, and when that didn’t work, I grabbed anything I could get my hands on within our confined space. I froze when I realized she had spotted him…I saw her tilt her head, gazing up at him while taking in both sides of his face. I was momentarily paralyzed with fear…What she did next completely shocked and amazed me – she held out her arms and asked him to pick her up. I didn’t know what to do – he glanced over at me, silently seeking permission and I nodded my head – “yes”. I was shaking so hard I couldn’t even respond to him. As he held her, she reached up and touched the scarred side of his face with her fingertips, gently tracing the haphazard series of lines and scar tissue. She then stroked the less scarred side, running her fingers along the small areas of smoothness that remained. Then she did the most incredible thing – she leaned up and kissed the scarred side of his face. The man looked at me with tears streaming down his face and said:
Beautiful man: “Thank you – I can’t remember the last time someone touched me. Children are usually afraid of me” (Oh…by all means bring on the ugly crying)
He handed my daughter back to me after hugging her close and I wondered – how did she know that he needed this so much? At this point the cashier was sobbing, as were the couple behind me. This moment remains one of the purest and most beautiful things my daughter ever did as a child.
But then of course, the angel closes her eyes, tucks away her wings and the familiar tiny monster once again reappears. This time, we were on the sky train – packed in like sardines and so I had Faryn seated on my lap. A young Asian man sat down next to me and I couldn’t help noticing that his face was severely pock marked. You could tell by the way he kept his head down that he was extremely self conscious and his obvious discomfort made my heart hurt. Out of the corner of my eye – I could see a tiny finger moving swiftly towards this young man’s face. I was able to quickly grab it before she could make contact, and then casually tried to palm her little face towards me, all the while gripping her probing fingers with my other hand. Since I wasn’t in possession of a third arm, this of course left her mouth unattended and she inquired at MAXIMUM volume:
Faryn: “WHY DO YOU HAVE ALL THOSE HOLES IN YOUR FACE?”
Me: “Oh my GOD – I’m so SORRY”
I cannot even begin to express how completely horrific this moment was. The young man bolted out the door at the next stop, which probably wasn’t even his, while I sat there crying and everyone within our general vicinity glared at me. Of course my child just sat there, oblivious to the train wreck she had unwittingly caused.
Faryn: “WHY ARE YOU CRYING?” (What I couldn’t say was “because you’re an ASSHOLE.” She was after all just a curious child, thoroughly incapable of comprehending the magnitude of this moment)
After we got off the skytrain, I sat her down and tried to explain to her exactly why she shouldn’t have said what she had. That words can and do hurt and that the pock marks on this young man’s face were something he couldn’t change. I tried to convey to her that it simply wasn’t polite or acceptable to ask, touch or stare. I reminded her about the scarred man and how she had been so kind to him – yet still she asked:
Faryn: “But why was it ok for me to touch the other man’s face?” (Indeed this was a good question)
Really, how do you explain the difference between empathy and intrusively offensive probing – to a child? I grappled with this conundrum for years.
The Accidental Parent 
Another great slice of life. While reading this one, though, the tears were quiet, marvelling at the poignancy of these moments. I am glad you have chosen to remember them in such detail, with such emotion, and now share them with others.
Ideally, I would hope that we could engage in talking to people who look and
are less than perfect and speak to them openly, with empathy about their imperfections.
I’m not sure that questions about acne, burns, tattoos, amputations, paralysis, are “intrusively offensive”….at least they shouldn’t be. We would not think twice about commenting about someone’s beautiful violet eyes or auburn hair. By NOT looking at the imperfect ones, ultimately results in them being shunned, which is not a good space for anyone. Asking about the pocked skin is a doorway to discovering the beauty of that person……anyway, I’m blathering on. Keep up the blog, I very much enjoy reading it. I find your writing style to be ‘everyday’ talk, the kind that runs through our heads and, so, is easy to connect to
LikeLiked by 1 person
I agree Wiesia…it’s difficult to find that delicate balance with children.
LikeLike