Author: davidson200

I have been writing for as long as I can remember...Always losing confidence in my words shortly after they were written - I would soon just give up and set my words aside. I started this blog for two reasons; the first so that I could try to reach other “not so perfect” parents through humor - to share my mistakes and the doubts I felt concerning my ability to parent alone at such a young age. My message is clear - it’s ok to be an imperfect parent! My second reason was to actually share my words with others, something I have never attempted in the past. The positive feedback I have received has given me the courage to continue writing and sharing my story. This blog makes me feel like a writer - finally...

Just Because You Can Doesn’t Mean You Should…

Just for the sake of disclosure, it should be noted that I am not a graceful woman, therefore  – nor was I a graceful child.  I have face planted in the middle of a busy Seattle mall while shopping with my girlfriend Kathryn – bags and limbs flying in all directions, badly skinning both knees on the mall flooring, before she even noticed I was no longer with her.  I recall being splayed out on the floor wondering what had happened when suddenly I saw her face peering down at me:

Kathryn:  “Oh good heavens (she’s British) are you all right?”

Me:     “Do you think anyone noticed?”  (of course this was my first thought!)

We both glanced up at the same time and noted that a small crowd had gathered.  Words alone simply can’t express how mortifying this was – until we looked at each other and started laughing.  She later described the “whooshing”  sound she heard while I was airborne and the entire way home she just kept saying “WHOOSH” and we would dissolve into hysterics.

My husband, after over 20 years of marriage still seems confounded by my clumsiness.  I fall off chairs, trip over air and he still asks “What the hell are you doing?” In the office, no one even bats an eye when they hear a crash and then a barrage of muffled swearing – it is what it is…

It baffles me to this day, that my parents thought it wise to put me in figure skating.  I can only surmise that they assumed if my feet were encased in boots with BLADES (along with deadly toe picks) and I was on a solid and unforgiving ice surface, that somehow I might be transformed into Dorothy Hamill (my mom even attempted to give me her stylish mushroom haircut).  This was pure folly of epic proportions.  I was constantly tripping over my toe picks, skating in the wrong direction, or messing up a routine during a  performance.  I remember one performance in particular where we were all dressed in these little Yankee Doodle costumes.  My mom who was an assistant coach was costumed to resemble an old lady – I believe she was representing Betsy Ross.  We were all supposed to skate in a circle but I tripped on my toe pick (of course)  thus landing on the back of my own blade (much like falling on your own sword!)  which cut deeply through my nude tights and caused a domino effect with all of the skaters behind me also wiping out.  Coincidently (or not) this was the exact moment that the local newspaper decided to take a photograph for their next  edition.  This photo still exists, where I am clearly visible,  sobbing – while clutching my bleeding knee thoroughly unaware of the train wreck I had caused behind me.

When I wasn’t figure skating, I was running around the arena like a lunatic while my brother was playing hockey.  I don’t recall actually ever playing with other kids although I’m sure I probably was.  I had this little navy blue nylon jacket with white faux fur around the hood and I always had my hood on with the chewed up toggle strings held firmly between my teeth.

I remember being in a bathroom stall one day, when I glanced down and noticed that the feet of the woman beside me seemed to be performing some sort of spastic dance.  Now before you judge me, please bear in mind that the information presented to me concerning anything to do with my body or anyone else’s for that matter, was minimal at best.  Against my better judgement – I felt that an appropriate method to investigate this matter would be to slide on my back (with my hood still firmly tied in place) underneath my stall and into hers.  I was ill prepared for what I saw (as was she) and she screamed loudly, while I believe I was going into shock.  Now imagine if you will – you are hovering over the toilet, minding your own business, when a child slides underneath the stall (face up) looking not a little but a LOT like Kenny McCormick from South Park.  In retrospect, I’m unsure what my reaction would have been – It all happened so quickly, but after she screamed, she hit me in the face with her keys.  I told no ONE about this incident – until I choked out the whole sordid tale  a few years ago during a late night sleep over with my daughter – it is unclear if she has recovered yet.

In this circumstance I will be like 85% of the population and blame my parents (you will recall, a randomly chosen percentile with absolutely no scientific data to back it up) for my naivety concerning anything to do with the human anatomy.

As most children are, I was naturally curious (about absolutely everything) and I can only imagine how my constant and relentless probing must have horrified my dignified and private mother.  Rather than have to verbally explain a sensitive topic to me, my mom was more inclined (and comfortable) handing  me a pamphlet.   I assume that before I was old enough to read, she probably just redirected my attention with something like:

Mom:     “Oh look – there’s a unicorn!”

Me:         “I SEE IT TOO!”

I was surrounded by unicorns during this time – along with my (non- anatomically correct) Raggedy Anne and Andy.

Who is This Strange Little Bird?

Since this blog is primarily about me (and my daughter)  I apologize in advance if I  appear narcissistic.  Without mincing words, I’ll just leap right in and admit that I  was a strange child.  I attribute none of this to my being adopted, I just felt more comfortable in my own company.  I attached myself to inanimate objects – books, Raggedy Anne and Andy – and a dogged pursuit to discover Egyptian artifacts in my parent’s back yard.  (Never mind that I lived in Chemainus, British Columbia – not the Valley of the Kings.  My misguided brain asked the question “Why couldn’t”  Egyptian artifacts be found there? Rather than the more obvious ” Why the fuck” would they be there?)  Louis Leakey was my hero, and each morning I would make myself a sandwich, take along a shovel and because my parents lived on over 5 acres, 50% of which was undeveloped, I set off into the bush in search of my tomb.  During the drudgery and disappointment of my “digs” I imagined that one day, my name might be associated with the likes of Howard Carter (another man I hero worshipped).   I dug holes relentlessly throughout our property  until it began to look as though our yard had been attacked by an angry mob of persistent moles.  When I wasn’t dreaming about Dr. Leakey or Howard Carter (or getting into trouble every time someone twisted an ankle in one of my holes), I was reading.  It must have been frustrating for my parents who couldn’t relate to a child who spent so much time trapped in her own head, but I was blissfully unaware that there was anything odd about this.  Raggedy Anne and Andy accompanied me on all of my digs and sometimes when my findings were meager,  they both took turns being buried and then “DISCOVERED” a role I assumed they enjoyed as neither complained.    Raggedy Anne had a pull cord in her chest (right over her candy heart) and she had a specific dialogue that gave me chills.  Raggedy Andy was mute – forever resigned to  the fate of listening to his  female counterpart repeating herself over and over again.  He just kept smiling.

Raggedy Anne:     “See my candy heart?”

Me:                         “YES OH YES – I REALLY CAN SEE IT!”

Raggedy Anne:     “Let’s play together”

Me:                          “I’ll start digging your grave right now – oh what fun we’ll have!”

Raggedy Anne:     “My friend is Raggedy Andy”

Me:                           “I’ll dig his too – I haven’t forgotten about him!”

One summer night I mustered  up all the courage I had and asked if I could sleep outdoors in our pup tent, with only Raggedy Anne and Andy for protection.  Halfway through the night it began raining (translation – I heard a noise and freaked out) and I raced into the house.  The next morning I went outside to take down the tent and gather my cadavers for burial, when I let out a blood curdling scream.  My mom came running outside and sobbing, I passed her my mutilated Raggedy Anne and Andy.  In my haste to get indoors, I had forgotten to bring them inside with me the night before.  Our inbred mutt of a dog had murdered them both, Hannibal Lecter style.  I could only hope they had slept through the slaughter.  My mom gently took the limp bodies downstairs and after a couple of hours returned them to me – I let out an audible squeak as I noted that my beloved dolls now resembled  Frankenstein’s creation and his freakish bride.  My mom, in an effort to soothe my broken heart (performing  an extraordinary repair job in an effort not to have to buy new ones) had stitched the shredded dolls back together with all the precision of a misguided Proctologist attempting a surgery only a Plastic Surgeon should perform. Our dog had also (OH the horror) chewed through Raggedy Anne’s candy heart.  We now had this conversation:

Raggedy Anne:   “Seeeeeeee muuuuyyyyy cannnnndy heeeeaaart”

Me:                        “Your voice is scaring me Anne!”

Raggedy Anne:    “Leeeettttts Puuuullllayyy Tooooogethaaa!

Me:                         ” Oh hell no…”

Backtracking about to begin now…

2-shelley and faryn 86.jpg

Before I delve into all of the reasons I failed as a young and more often than not idiotic single mother – I thought it might be prudent for us to get to know one another.

I suppose I could be like 85% of the population  (a randomly chosen percentile with absolutely no scientific data to back it up) and blame my parents for my confusing jumble of bumbling parental skills.  After all –  they hit me WITH A STRAP, somewhat frequently, and always with a minimum of at least 3 lashes.   My mom had alarming accuracy, able to time and land her lashes on the exact same spot making my bum burn…My dad had subhuman strength – able to wrestle a screaming, wriggling child out from underneath furniture one-handed, with a flourish even, commencing his lashing before you even realized your feet were on the floor.  When the strap was not in use, it sat there, resting above the stove fan appearing menacing in its stillness – mocking me:

Strap:     “If you just behaved yourself we wouldn’t have to keep meeting like this.”

Me:        “I know but I’m small and I keep forgetting.”

Strap:     “That’s ok, I’ll just wait right here until you start to remember.”

This would have been around the late 60’s, into the 70’s.  Did I ever consider calling – oh I don’t know – CHILD PROTECTIVE SERVICES?  No…I didn’t even know what that was when I was young.  This is not to imply that it didn’t exist at the time – I was just unfortunate enough not to be aware of it.  I would just have to call the police on these child abusers – this is what they told me;

Police:     “Police Department, how may I direct your call?”

Me:          “Ummm… I would like to report that my dad just spanked me!”

Police:     (After an excruciatingly long and muffled pause) “Is your dad there right now?”

Me:          “Yes he’s right here; he dialed the phone for me”

Police:     “Could you please put him on the phone?”

Me:          “Ok – but don’t hang up after, I have stuff to tell you.”

My dad had a brief conversation with the police officer, and to my astonishment he even chuckled a few times. Despite my flailing arms grasping for the phone, he held me in place by palming my angry sweaty face with one hand – while hanging up my lifeline with the other.  Obviously the police were not going to be racing over anytime soon to haul my dad away in handcuffs for spanking me – who was I kidding?  I received no justice for my efforts on this day, except for another spanking.

Did I deserve this severe and seemingly subhuman torture?  Of course I did, my parents weren’t barbarians.  Me though, I was going to do things differently if I ever had children of my own (an unlikely prospect).  I would not hit or strap my child, oh no – I would reason with them.  Our conversations over disciplinary matters would commence something like this:

Me:     _______________________ (child has no name yet – insert name of your choosing here)   “…I would like to have a little sit down together so that we might discuss your behaviour of late.”

Unnamed Child:   “Fuck you”

And therefore we most certainly begin to see the problem.  Of course I understand that there will always be “those” people – unwilling or incapable of differentiating between a firm smack on the bum and a UFC takedown.  These angry/unstable individuals should probably not be having children in the first place.  Having said that, I would like to present a pleasing and thoughtful alternative.  Don’t you think it would make sense if you had to apply first in order to become pregnant?  This distinguishes the creation of  life as being a privilege rather than a right.  Much like the process one must endure when adopting a child, or a dog even.  You are married (preferably) but exceptions can be made if you have been in a committed relationship for a minimum of at least 3 years (with of course the same person).  When you decide that you feel ready to start a family – you must first meet with the Baby Board.  You begin your session with an in-depth pre-screening interview.  It commences much like this:

Board:      “So…Mr and Mrs _________________, Mr and Ms ________________, Mr and Mr __________________, Ms and Ms ____________, I see on your completed application that you wish to begin a family – is this correct?”

(At this point the board member who is a much older man with bushy and inexplicably angry-looking eyebrows will allow his glasses to slowly slide down the bridge of his nose, peering at you with a rheumy yet remarkably intense gaze.)

You:   (Snapping to attention)  “Yes – if it pleases the board!”  (You must resist the urge to bob or  curtsy)

Board:     “What qualifies you to think that you will be good parents?”

You:     “Well ________________ and I have been dreaming of starting a family and we have reached a point in our relationship where we really feel that the time is right…”  (You may want to gaze lovingly into each other’s eyes at this point)

Board:     “You do realize that this is NOT just about YOU and what YOU want, don’t you?”

You:     “Errr…”  (You may gaze frantically into each other’s eyes at this point!)

Board:     “This is not like bringing home  a PUPPY – you must care for this child, clothe it and love it, nurture its little mind, body and SOUL.  You must provide a roof over its head, 3 nutritionally balanced meals per day and teach it right from WRONG.  YOU must change its dirty diapers until YOU teach it to properly use the TOILET.  You must wipe its snotty nose when it has a cold or more often even when it DOESN’T.  It will be ungrateful for the care you have provided and will think nothing of blasting feces or urine on your person if you don’t cover its naughty bits with a diaper quickly ENOUGH.  Unable to communicate with you, this child will cry; nonstop at times, for NO apparent REASON.  This may make you want to take that child and just throw it out the window you are so out of your mind with sleep deprivation and sore cracked NIPPLES.  Do you Mr and Mrs ________________, Mr and Ms _______________, Mr and Mr ___________________, or Ms and Ms ___________________ believe that you have the strength, courage, wisdom and moral fortitude to stop yourself from just pitching that screaming child out the window?”

(Our passionate board member has now exhausted himself with this intoxicating speech and is slumped down with his arms crossed.  For all you know he may be napping – or perhaps even dead.  You and your person briefly confer.)

You:     “With all due respect, we would ask that the board allow us to withdraw our application.  We would like to reapply next year.”

Board:    (Without even opening his eyes)  “That would be wise.”