I started this blog because I watched this chick on Oprah talk about blogging about breast feeding and I thought "Jesus, whose gonna blog about middle-age, older kids, old parents, what it was like before cell phones, blah, blah?"
So, I'm going to speak a bit about motherhood. My son flew off his bike last night on the Chicago bikepath, helmetless of course and broke his thumb and cracked his forehead open. He tried to cover up the whole thing with rubbing alcohol but then woke his Dad up and they spent a long night together in the Northwestern emergency room watching attractive young women puke into trash cans. I received the e-mail this morning from his father and was, of course, grateful. One thing I know for certain, if Luke doesn't make it to my burial, I'll follow him fast.
I absolutely love being alive but that boy has owned me from the minute he drew breath after 72 hours (YES) of hard back labor. He refused to breastfeed, I pumped, I changed every part of myself for him. I was a bolter, a leaver, a dodger and a committmentphobe. But then I became Luke's mother. That was what it said n my t-shirt when I did the Olympic length Triathalon with his father, hoping it would help our marriage. After a mile swim, a 25 mile bike ride on a street bike and a ten k run I was finished but everyone started screaming: "Go Luke's Mom!" and so I ran up the final hill. His dad was nowhere to be seen, eating pierogis.
I stayed in Chicago for him, stayed in a condo attached to his Dad's for him, lived downstairs in a 2-flat from his Dad for him and tolerated his Dad's new girlfriend moving in upstairs for him. When we seperated I spent the evenings alone, took him for video pizza nights at the gym and corrected papers. Took him to Chucky Cheese where I ate sushi (my own) and corrected papers. Took him to the Wisconsin Dells (ugh), every possible thing that could amuse a small boy. I baked all his birthday cakes, planned his Halloween birthdays, bought him hip-hop underwear and rapper shirts and music so bad I still can't believe that boy listened to anything like it. On vacation in Mexico, I let him use a massage he won at casino night with my money even though I had put my back out and he was eight. He went into that spa in a childsize bathrobe acting like it was completely normal.
He went bad briefly, pot, alcohol, a party here while we were out of town. I saw him stoned and it was pretty awful. Why so awful? Maybe because I was a teenage alcoholic and I suffered badly until I finally got help. I thought Luke was going to have a perfect life which is ridiculous on so many levels but then again, motherhood is pretty ridiculous. We all survived. One day he had two friends come over, they were upstairs all evening and then came down in the morning to bowls of cereal and me fussing around with OJ. For some reason I went upstairs, discovered smashed beer cans, evidence of pot smoking etc. I went nuts, called both mothers, tried to understand why my son would have a frat party upstairs while his parents were home.
The first mom arrived, walked up to her kid and started beating him around the head and face. It was horrible, brutal, humiliating and cruel. I went to stop her and she stopped and started screaming. The second mother was throughly trashed, drunk as a skunk at 10am. Later, after it was over, Luke muttered something about my being a "pretty good mom."
I have gone crazy like I once promised myself I never would, promised myself as I witnessed my own mother go crazy and thought-"Jesus Christ, what's wrong with that woman?"
Now I know.


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