Choices

I wake before she does, eyes pried open early by a phantom alarm. Usually when this happens I look at the clock, realize I have a few more minutes and promptly turn over to wait for the real thing, but not today.
She’s curled around her pillow, as far from my side of the queen size bed as she can get. She’s more than familiar with my violent sleeping habits, my snoring and my talking. Yet every time she visits, she still throws her overnight bag on my bedroom floor as if there is no guest room. I suppose to her there isn’t. We’ve been sharing the same bed since we were toddlers and, at almost 27, it doesn’t feel right to change now.

Last night we lay still in the dark, talking about random things and laughing. That’s my favorite thing about our relationship – the laughter. We’ve had fights I wasn’t sure we could recover from, months of silent anger, and personal tragedies that therapists salivate over. But no matter how bad it’s been, no matter how ugly the situation, we always laugh. And it’s not fake or hesitant or forced – it’s usually loud and obnoxious and over something everyone else in the world would find horrifically inappropriate or, simply not funny at all.

I need to get up and get in the shower, but I lay thinking and watching her instead. I always go first because it takes me longer. I’ve never quite figured out how she manages to bathe, put on makeup and blow-dry that horse’s mane of hers so fast. But she does nearly everything at warp speed and she does it hard, barreling through life like it’s a race. She works hard, plays hard, falls hard and, when she gets back up, she takes off running as hard and as fast as she can, determined to make up ground.

And me? I don’t run. I amble around looking at all the pretty colors, possibly jogging if I see something I really want in the distance, but rarely going fast enough to fall too hard. And if I do fall, I spend more time looking for detours to take my mind off the scrapes than accomplishing much forward motion. If “Doing Things Half-ass” was a highway, I’d Forest Gump that bitch on a regular basis.

We’ve a few things in common, of course. Some, I imagine, are due to being blood related and brought up in the same environment. Some are due to our age. And some, like the reason she’s here for this visit, are by chance and a choice.

She came to me because she knew I wouldn’t judge. How could I? There are three paths that fork off from this scenario, three possible choices, and I’ve taken two and walked a few steps down the third. She came to me because the choice she’s made can be intimidating – not just mentally and physically, but socially. We each have issues with worrying about what other people think, everyone does, and in this particular area, she’s the worrier and I’m the one telling people, “If you don’t like it, you can go fuck yourself”. She knows what she wants; she just needs me to support her. To hold her hand, make her laugh and drive her home.

I finally get up, get ready and pack the necessities: cookies, GPS, books and an attitude. I’ve been to these places a few times and protesters are always a possibility. I respect the right to say what you think and do what you want, but I don’t appreciate it being said or done with malice and a megaphone next to my ear. It’s possible to have an opinion and voice it without being a fanatic.

And this is how it’s done: If you want to save kids, go help a few already born and starving ones instead of wasting your time in a parking lot judging me. If you’d rather stand in the parking lot judging, then have at it, but don’t be surprised when the only difference you make is raising my blood pressure and my middle finger. That’s my opinion. I don’t shout it in anyone’s face and I generally only give it if I’m directly asked.

*****

We’re ready early and I’m ok with that. My mother has been asking questions and giving us suspicious looks. We expected it, prepared for it with a story only slightly more plausible than the one we fed her before we took this trip as teenagers.

The first half of the drive is mainly country highways – long stretches of peach trees sprouting pink blooms and white clapboard roadside stands waiting to be filled. We talk about the peaches, we talk about summer and we talk about the father. She cares for him, but doesn’t love him. He’s comfortable and irritatingly doting, a good friend that she occasionally sleeps with that has much, much stronger feelings for her.

Listening to her describe their relationship is difficult. When I knew him only as the guy that’s obsessed with her, that she keeps telling it isn’t going to happen, it was much easier to make fun of him. Now, though, he just sounds pitiful and desperate...in love with someone that uses him without even fully realizing that’s what she’s doing. Now he just sounds like me, in the not so distant past. You can tell someone it isn’t going to happen all day long, but why should they believe you if you keep saying it with your pants down?

We attempt to lighten the mood as we transition from spring soaked countryside to busy highway. I tell her about an interesting message I received from an old flame and she tells me something similar, but in the end there’s no avoiding the subject at hand. The best we can do is make fun of it.

“Do you know what I hate”, she says. “I hate that pregnancy tests are so fucking happy. If it’s positive, you get a smiley face or a pink plus sign or, in my case, a giant YES with an exclamation mark. Don’t they think about the fact that half the people taking those tests don’t want exclamation marks?”

“Exactly”, I reply, laughing in agreement, remembering that there was no exclamation mark after the “No” the last time I’d peed on one of those blasted sticks. And I certainly felt like there should have been because I was so happy I nearly died.

It’s been a long time, yet the moment I take the exit ramp the scenery is so familiar I could’ve driven by just yesterday. As we approach the next stoplight she points. “You’ll need to turn there.”

“I remember”, I say, as the computerized voice from the GPS chimes in.

Our destination sits in the middle of a sort of business park, the buildings meant to look more like brick townhouses. It’s unassuming, the small white sign barely visible from the street and the tiny parking lot empty except for one other car. We pull to the left of the front stoop and sit, staring at the steps as though they might suddenly fill with protesting people.

They don’t, thankfully, but the owners of the other car do. It’s a couple, about our age, with a little girl. She can’t be more than two years old, toddling around their legs as he says goodbye to the woman, and she walks inside alone.

“Are you sure”, I ask, for the last time.

She watches the little girl wander up and down the stairs, around and around the parked car, braids bouncing as she attempts to shake off her adult follower. I wonder for a moment what kind of idiot would bring a small child here, of all places. Then it crosses my mind that maybe it’s a staged performance, a different, quieter, and even cruel for many, sort of protest. I think perhaps it would be a more effective endeavor than waving signs, in general. But not against someone like me.

“I’m sure”, she finally says. And her eyes confirm it. Staged or not, the show hasn’t worked on her either.

*****

Several hours later, we’re home again.

We lay in the same positions as we did last night and this morning, as we always do, with only a few differences. Neither of us sleeps or talks. I read quietly, stretched out on my stomach, and she half watches TV, curled up on her side. From the other room come the slightly muffled sounds of cartoons and my daughter’s unintelligible jabbering. You’d never know, unless you looked very hard or knew us very well, that there’s yet another difference in our positions.

Hidden in the valley between our bodies, nearly concealed by the tangled mess and bright pattern of the quilt, two hands grasp each other tightly – connected by the past, compelled by the present and trying, for now in vain, to bridge the gap of very different futures.

I'd forgotten how smart fat kids are

Last Sunday afternoon found me frustrated, sitting on the couch and attempting to tug the fifth or so pair of jeans over my child’s behind.

My mother sat on the opposite couch and as I yanked on the belt loops, jiggling my already jiggling child up and down, our eyes met over her head. Had anyone been looking they would have seen our faces, uncannily similar, struggling to settle on one expression – dismay, amusement, defiance – it was anyone’s game at that point.

I finally turned her around to face mom and raised my eyebrows. “She can’t wear any of these”, I said unnecessarily. Hannah’s underwear stuck out three inches above the straining waistband of a pair of jeans I’d purchased only a little over six months ago, the pockets resting below the curve of a rear I’ve never seen the likes of on any five year old white girl. “These are an 8, mom. An 8!”

She bit her lip and nodded. “We’ll have to go look in the...”

“Don’t say it...”

“Girls plus section”, she said, covering up a snort of laughter with a cough. I couldn’t help it, I wailed. And in between wailing, I let out a few stray hysterical giggles.

“Mom”, the kid whined, “these are too tight.” I peeled the pants from her round legs and watched her galumph away, completely oblivious. “She’s solid”, I said.

It’s what I’d been telling myself and everyone that looked at her for the past few years. She was just a large girl – solid and tall like her father. Thick, like a gymnast. But somehow, in between the time it was true and now, she’d gotten just a bit more than solid. I sighed. “She jiggles.”

Mom, who is always so eloquent, said, “Must be jelly ‘cause jam don’t shake like that.” She used to say the very same thing to me. Because in our world, in order to deal with fat, you made fun of fat. It had always worked for us before, but this was different. I’d been that jiggly child that had to make fun of myself in order to stay sane, to seem like I didn’t care, to verbally punch myself before anyone else got there first. But this was my kid.

I alternately blamed myself and my mother, Jesus and the Pope, the makers of Scooby Doo “fruit” snacks and the woman that handed out cookies in the grocery store.

“It’s because I made fun of Air Hose. Its karma – because I laughed at that gigantic ball of fluff with no neck, my child is on her way to being her twin.”

Then: “It’s your fault”, I hissed at mom, “You give her whatever she wants to eat! Sure, honey! Have another damn Cheeto! Have the whole effing bag! You’re so cute!”

And still more: “Have you ever seen an ass like that on a five year old? Her dad has a lot of Indian blood in him...do they have ghetto asses? Is it hereditary? My ass is flat.”

“She has your hips”, mom said, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did.

I spent the next few days trying to monitor what the kid ate, to see what changes we could make to her diet. It did not go over very well. My suggestions that we eat carrots or celery were met with shock, horror, and several attempted murders – though I can’t really prove anything. I found that altering the eating habits of a five year old is damn near impossible, especially around Halloween.

On Tuesday I had my first PTA meeting, directly followed by something called “Kindergarten/Family night”. In a characteristic moment of shrewdness, I insisted that mom accompany me. We could sit next to each other, make fun of the other parents behind their backs, and avoid lengthy conversations with any overly enthusiastic teachers. I may have pitched it to her a bit differently, though.

I wasn’t sure what to expect with the meeting. Would I have to talk? Would they ask me to vote on anything? Could I pop outside for a smoke break? Would there be a snack table I’d have to drag my salivating child away from?

As it turned out, I needn’t have worried so much. We sat in the rather full auditorium and listened to the principal and a few faculty members talk about PTA fees and a fundraiser. Then we spent the next 10 minutes watching a rather pointless display on how to operate their new website. And when I say “listened” and “watched”, what I really mean is we sat there and looked around at everyone else trying to control their children and chatting amongst themselves. Then it was off to the Kindergarten hall for family fun night and a book fair.

There were germ breeders everywhere – running, squealing, knocking into the backs of my knees. I had to push down the urge to swipe at them like an angry bear. I stood in line to sign the attendance form and pick up an information packet, occasionally tossing mom looks of loathing since she was positioned by the wall and out of the line of fire.

Packet secured, I returned to her side and the three of us poured over the pages. It was filled with various “fun” activities to choose from. The parent/child team would move from classroom to classroom, participating in any of the “skill building” (etc) activities they wanted. Looking around at the chaos, I couldn’t imagine anything I’d rather do less.

My general idea of parent/child fun activities are: A) beating her in Monopoly (and various other board games), B) a rousing game of hide and seek (where she usually ends up spending more time in the closet than she bargained for), C) allowing her to help clean my room, and D) playing the quiet game. D is my favorite by far, but A is a damn close second. I do love to win.

We started in her classroom, making a beeline for an activity table with one empty chair left. As Hannah settled herself, I started eyeballing the other families. At first I was just checking to see what everyone else was doing and if I could possibly get away with standing there unobtrusively. Then I noticed one family in particular. The parents were standing across from me behind their son’s chair. Or rather, I assume he was sitting on a chair. He was so large that his bottom seemed to droop on either side of where the chair was supposedly hidden underneath him, like the dough of a pizza about to be tossed in the air. His father was a beefy man in work boots, with a mustache that curled more than is strictly necessary, and his mother had a long, plain face that greatly resembled a donkey.

Mom kicked my foot, obviously noticing them at the same time, and I kicked her back, coughing to cover up a snicker. I tried to keep my eyes averted while I helped the kid place balls of cotton on her paper sheep, but it became increasingly difficult when Dough Boy let out a wail and demanded they move on to the “snack” game immediately. Apparently he’d just realized the cotton balls weren’t actually edible.

Awhile later, after we’d gotten safely away, I looked down at my daughter. “Hey, kid. Who was that boy at the sheep table?”

“Which one”, she asked.

“The really fat one.”

“Oh. That’s Christopher. He’s in my class. He gets two snack packs in his lunchbox”, she declared pointedly.

“Hmm”, I said absentmindedly. If she wanted an extra snack pack, she was just going to have to sneak them like I did at that age.

I was feeling a little better about the size of my kid at that point (not to mention her behavior). She wasn’t sloppy and snack crazed like her classmate. So what if she had a J-Lo booty? I hadn't exactly been the poster child for healthy choices and look at me now - fit as a fiddle...ish.

When we sat down at the “snack activity” table, the boy and his unfortunate parents were long gone. Amazingly there were still edible materials left. While Hannah sat in her chair, I leaned over and instructed. Take two Ritz crackers and spread them with chocolate icing. Then press eight straight pretzel sticks into the icing on one cracker, four on each side. Place the other cracker on top, closing it all in. Dab two small dots of icing on top and stick a raisin on each one. Ta-Da! You now have a Spider snack.

There were plenty of other activities to do, but once we’d spent almost 15 minutes coloring pieces of a dog and sticking them on a brown paper bag to make a puppet, I decided to call it a night. Mom had driven separately so Hannah and I walked off in the opposite direction.

Reaching the car, I buckled her in and attempted to hand her the plate with her spider snack.

“I don’t want that”, she said.

“Ok.” I climbed into the front seat, placed the plate on the passenger side, and drove away. Every now and then I’d glance over at the chocolate smeared mess. I love pretzels and chocolate together so it was more than just a little tempting.

“Hey, kid, you aren’t going to eat this thing”, I asked, holding up the plate.

“No. I don’t like it.”

“So can I have it?”

She was silent for a long moment. I glanced at her in my rearview. She was staring at me thoughtfully, her head tilted to one side, her stubby fingers drumming the armrest of her seat. Finally she answered, in a completely serious tone.

“I don’t know, mom. Don’t you think you should have a nice carrot instead?”