The Crazy Lady

I am an orphan, a recent one
I didn’t have a Dad, but my Mom doubled
She was better at it than I am
Yes, I am superstitious in grief
I tag the words my kids speak
No negativity allowed, and
None of these words:
“Dead”, “put down”, “done”,  —-
Instead, I insist on substitutes
“Recharge”, “lay gently”, “complete” —-
Some losses and love make you insane,
I see it, the craziness, in the mirror.
My hair more grey, the lines stay, no miracle cream would budge ’em….I dare them!

(Someone take that dare FFS – for fucks sakes).

What will the Fates do with today?
I insist, tell my children to message me –
Every minute they have free
Of course constriction,
Dictates they do the opposite.
They say, “One day people will laugh….”
And point, “Look at that crazy lady….!”
My daughter laughs, it is funny…to her,
“They do already!” They fist pump each other. A little hurt, but more perplexed, I ask “Do they?” Then that look that passes between them, one they’ve practiced in the womb.

At 22, my son’s beard surpasses his Dad’s. Not that I’ve seen his Dad in years. Sunglass clad, lean and healthy – perfect. His barber makes him sleek, chin straps gorgeous with stubble – grooming that costs more than anything I’ve ever paid for a hair cut.
“Can’t you see I’m not a baby…?” He smirks…….and I say, “No, no – no!! That’s just hair. My baby is under there!” But, only in my head. I control my mania.
But, I – tic, tic…tic….
His latest conquest stands, bored. She must be broken, because she cannot stand up straight. She leans into everything, mostly, my son. All long hair, breasts and obvious g-string, the prerequisite sunglasses used as a tie-back.
I want to say, “Where is your Mother…..and who dressed you?” Tic, tic – I smother words, bite my tongue.
He kisses me goodbye. On the forehead, like that crazy old lady, pacified.
Starts the car. Clutch control – proud of his prowess. In and out.
With slippers, I’m outside, waving.
“Drive carefully! I trust you. It’s the other drivers I’m worried about sweetheart!!” I shout at the receding car, it slipped out.
I think he shakes his head, just before he turns the bend.

Next up, my little girl. She dresses well, I think. Gets it from me. Got it from me? But, don’t say I said so (constrictions equal opposites etc). Daughters are more cruel, I think. They see themselves as a reflection of the Mother, in twenty years time; and it terrifies them. Yes cruelly, they take digs. Like some school yard bully, who kicks you as he helps you up. Because by age 17 they kinda accept that they are not, in fact, the Princess their Dads have lied and said they are. Just before said Daddy fucked off, to another continent where he now rears a brand new family! Oh well, try and try again. However, this done just as said Princess turned 13 and decided Mommy should pay for Daddy’s lies. So……she says, “Are you gonna wear THAT dress..??” Uhm….no, not now!
Or, she switches her phone off. Passive aggressively taunting me. Making me shrewish. My voice an octave higher than ever in my life, higher than Primary school choir, before I even looked at a cigarette; I screech, “How hard can it be? Just text me!” She says, “I’m sorry Mom…but gee, I’m 17, I can take care of myself!” Was that meant to reassure, 17 and out of reach? That’s it? That’s all? After 6 hours of my life just spent in a loop: stoep, gate….inside staring out the window, dial her number – beep, beep. Stoep, gate….looking left and right and back to staring out the window, dial her number – beep, beep. Screeching becomes a shriek,”Are you fucking serious? One thing!! Just one thing…..sms me!! Answer the fucking phone! Go to your room!” My imagination finally simmering to a boil. Heart rate slowly back to whatever passes for normal these days. And, let’s face it: going to her room is no punishment. Punishment? WTF is that? See, I know the slang. What the fuck is that… much healthier! Instead, she screams back, “Stop swearing! Why must you have such a gutter mouth?” She’s right, you know. Do not ask me when it became not only acceptable, but essential to cuss like a sailor….IDK. Yes, means I don’t fucking know! Puberty. Not mine, theirs! I’m in the kitchen, fuming. Same slippers on. Shit, guess I’ve been wearing a nightie all day as well. Doubt I brushed my hair, too. Saw the grey while brushing my teeth and got the fuck outta there. Still, she is right. She never swears. Does not smoke or drink. Her hair is stunning, it tumbles in waves down her back. Keep in mind though, her hair products, combined, cost more than my cigarettes. And, that’s saying a LOT these days!. She’s bronzed from Summer and lazy days. Her boobs are perky! Her boyfriend adores her. She does not lay on her bed….she reclines (maybe a bit Princessy after all?). I’ve tried to tell her the “boy who cried wolf” story. You know, so she will understand the importance of keeping her phone on? I get it wrong, muddled. In my version the wolf wins. I say, “No wait, that’s wrong..” But, her eyes have already rolled so far back in her head, I’m afraid of… I mean, for her. I back out, slowly. And, 10 minutes later, in the sweetest voice imaginable, “Mommy…..please can I have some Milo?” I stop everything I’m doing. Wait. There it comes. “Mommy….please? ‘Cos you make it the best…out of anyone in the whole world.” That includes above-mentioned Daddy, right? Right??

What’s that? Well, yes of course I made my baby girl her Milo. And, I tucked her in.

And, my son did sms me.
“Hey Mom, I’m ok. Don’t worry. Party’s cool. Guys are all here. Lexi’s a bit of a bitch tho. Tell u l8r. Love U”


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. Melissa
    Feb 01, 2014 @ 01:50:41

    OMW – I don’t have a daughter, I do have 3 sons! You are lucky to get even 1 sms! Lol Really enjoyed the truth behind this!


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: