Mother Woman, Other Woman

Remember how, as a kid, it was almost impossible to think of your Mom and Dad as non-parent type people, with jobs, lives, and loves all different from those you knew?

It was sort of shocking to imagine your Dad kissing another woman, or your Mom cooking Sunday Pot Roast for another man. It seemed wrong and scary somehow...as if that other life could some day come back and reassert itself as the better choice. As if your very existence could be cancelled out by might have beens.

I had forgotten about that.

But of course, having our own children has a way of dredging up all kinds of things that have been lost. It's not only the innocence that leaves, us, but the fear as well. The Big Bad Wolf becomes just another archetypical storybook villain. We no longer believe there are monsters in the closet. And we forget to feel threatened by the other lives that our parents might have lived. Unfortunately, with this, comes the realization that they are not perfect or invinceable.

Perhaps that is what has really frightened us all along. Not the other lives, but the other selves. The non-parent selves, who were mortal, fallible....human.

Today Husband and I took the boys to see the Titanic Exhibit at the Civic Center. On our way back through downtown, we pointed out various places to the boys; places we had once frequented, worked, relaxed. Once upon a time we had both navigated those streets with familiarity and ablomb; nonplussed by the traffic, the drug dealers, the thoroughly ridiculous number of one way streets.

Now it makes us feel all uptight and touristy. Now we have to fake nonchalance.

Husband pointed out the impossibly tall building where he had begun his career. Impressed, the boys craned their necks upward, marvelling at the fact that they couldn't see the top from our vantage point directly below it on the street. They asked about the elevators, the bathrooms (one on every floor, we assured them) and the fire escape plan.

I pointed out the building where I had worked. It's completely mirrored and I explained to the boys that from the inside, it looks as if there are no walls at all. Well, not from my (former) office. It was hidden away in a dark and insignificant corner and smelled like a combination of perspiration and egg salad. But I got to look out those magical windows on my way to the bathroom.

Diminutive One asked me if the floors and ceilings were transparent too. At first this struck me as a thoroughly silly question. But I suppose, in buildings that must have seemed fantastic and surreal to him, transparent floors and ceilings were certainly not outside the realm of possibility. At 8, not much is.

I explained to him that no, of course they weren't. Because what if, above you, there were ladies who were wearing skirts?

At first he was puzzled. But then the dawning realization caused a blush to creep accross his freckled cheeks. Husband quipped that it might not be such a bad idea. The boys guffawed and then looked at me to see if I was going to take offense at such a ribald comment. I rolled my eyes heavenward and declined further comment. The three of them tittered in their shared maleness.

We stopped to lunch at Spaghetti Warehouse, where we had the novely of eating in an honest to goodness boxcar. Cramped, but charming.

And a good time was had by all.

Later that evening, while snuggled up in my bed, both of us with a book in hand, Diminutive One suddenly asked,

"Mom...Do you ever wish you still worked at that place?"

"No." I said emphatically. "I'm happy right here."

"But I don't flush the toilet."

"That's true. You don't."

"I'm always making a mess."

I nodded.

"Mmmmhmm."

"You probably didn't have to clean up poop and stuff at that job, huh?"

I wanted to tell him that there are are all kinds of shit in this world and that I had cleaned up more than my share in that sparkling glass walled prison. I wanted to tell him that poop doesn't matter to me, even though sometimes I stomp around and complain very loudly about it. I wanted to tell him that it was just a job, while he is my heart and my soul. I wanted to tell him that the job might have made me plenty of money, but he makes me a Mother.

I didn't of course. He wouldn't have understood. And besides, we weren't really talking about poop. Or Messes. We were talking about that other self he had glimpsed today; the Me before I was his Mother. We were talking about the other life; the one without him in it, the one he was worried I had maybe liked better.

And I remembered the fear of being cancelled out. Swallowed up. Erased. I remembered being afraid of "might have been".

"Babe...The day I got to quit that job and become a Mom was the happiest day of my life."

"Really?" he asked, concern still wrinkling the brow beneath his unruly curls.

"Really. I knew there would be poop and stuff, but I didn't care. I just wanted to be a Mom. And now I am."

And stuff. We've had a lot of "and stuff" lately. And it's been hard. But as I said those words, it occurred to me that I really and truly meant them. I wouldn't go back to my old life for anything. I couldn't imagine my life without "and stuff".

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to flush the toilet from now on."

"Well that would be nice."

"And lift up the seat every time."

"Well, I do hate sitting in peedle puddles."

"And clean my room every day."

I cocked my head and raised one eyebrow at him. He giggled. Reassured, he snuggled in and closed his eyes.

After he was asleep, I stroked his hair and looked at him, and realized...I get to be invinceable for a few more years.

Whew.