Chapter Seven
1994 – 1995: In which she goes postal and to the ball
Against all odds, despite that Satanic nun in my head, I managed to learn spaed to lwhich way was up. In just a few, short weeks I went from incompetent hell-mother to semi-capable Steven expert. I gained confidence. Things that seemed intimidating in the beginning became second nature to me. The scariest thing wasn’t the physical aspect of looking after him – I soon realised he wasn’t as fragile as he looked and I actually was capable of feeding, bathing and dressing him without causing any lasting damage. It wasn’t even the sheer mind-blowing bizarreness of knowing that I loved someone more than I thought humanly possible, without being a stalker.
No. The most frightening part of it all was making the decisions. That daunting question that demands an answer a thousand times a day: What now?
Dr Spock and Supernanny are all good and well, and they know their stuff, to be sure. However. They are not in the room when your baby goes to sleep ten minutes before you were going to bath him, for example. Nobody is there to tell you whether you should just let him sleep in his dirty clothes and wet nappy, or wake him and risk trying to bath a screechy, slippery bundle of infant fury, then struggle for five hours to get him back to sleep afterwards. What do you do? What do you do if he doesn’t finish his bottle for the third time in a row? Is he terribly ill? Is he just not hungry today? Is he thirsty perhaps? Should I give him some water instead? This book says he can have water, that one says under no circumstances. What if he gets constipated? Or diarrhoea? Is this bit supposed to be that colour? Has the rash got better or worse since we changed the washing powder? Oh my God, is it meningitis?!
How am I supposed to know what to do? The feeling of abject incompetence, while bluffing for the camera, is the loneliest feeling in the world. You think you’re the only one who has no idea what she’s doing, and nobody ever tells you they felt the same way. You have a helpless little person entirely dependant on you and your ability to make the right decisions – to know what decision to make. The pressure is relentless, the constant uncertainty enough to dissolve even the most together mother into a gooey puddle of snot en trane.
But I did it. Somehow. I’m still doing it today. And with each new situation, I’m still utterly clueless. I’ve made hundreds of mistakes (no, I’m not telling), and I’m sure to make plenty more. Hopefully they won’t be big. Okay, maybe one or two big ones. (Talk to Steven’s therapist in twenty years and he should be able to tell you how badly I’ve screwed up.) In the process, I’ve learned a trick or two.
Trick number one: if you’re worrying about whether you’re doing it right, you’re on the right track. You can always tell the parents who believe they’re doing a fantastic job. They’re the ones whose children torture small, fluffy creatures. Sure, the guilt and the voracious monster fear of ruining your child for life gnaws away at your soul until there’s nothing left but a desolate windswept vacuum, but at least it keeps you honest, right? Right?
Trick number two is the easiest way to check your parental aptitude: how many times have you dropped your child onck our chi the head? More than twice and you’re probably screwed. Less than that, you might be okay. Watch for puppy-kicking. Quite simple, really.
Great parenting in two easy steps.
Sooner than I would have thought possible, the day came that I realised I knew my baby better than anyone else. I could comfort him better than anyone, and I was his favourite person in the world. It happens to all mothers. I just didn’t expect it to happen to me.
My life had taken on a routine of mothering, studying, more mothering, compulsive yawning. I was tired all the time. By early afternoon, I’d be barely conscious, operating entirely on autopilot. Steven had heard about sleeping through the night, but this was apparently something that happened to other people. He didn’t see how it applied to him. His daytime naps were short, not long enough to make a snack and sleep, for example – you had to choose. Eat or sleep? Hmmm… dumb question.
Steven was healthy, a sturdy, happy baby who had my whole family wrapped around his chunky little finger. I remember the sheer joy of watching him grow and learn, reaching each milestone on target, or even earlier. The angst-ridden excitement of each new stage, like starting him on solids (apples and pears were his favourite. Do not try the fish and veg variety. Trust me, it’s cat food in a jar. And strained carrots lead to alarmingly orange nappies, which is not a sign of cancer, so don’t stress. I couldn’t wait for him to reach the third stage of Purity – those banana and caramel puddings looked so good. And while we’re on the topic: jelly sniffed up your baby’s nose will melt eventually, and does not pose any threat of suffocation. Don’t panic. Just laugh. Okay, panic a little first. Then laugh.)
Mom was a huge help – she took care of Steven every morning while I studied. Or rather, while I sat at my desk and stared uncomprehendingly at my books, drooling a little. It was hard getting back into the work. My mind was on Steven constantly, and every squeak or cry I heard had me rushing out of my room to see what was up.
Some mornings, I never even made it to my desk. My mom and I would sit in the lounge, drinking gallons of tea and discussing our favourite subject – Steven. We’d analyse his bowel movements, possible teething and strategies for getting him to sleep just five minutes longer. And gushing. We gushed a lot. He was so perfect, so strong and healthy, much more beautiful than any other baby we’d ever seen, of course.
Those mornings brought my mother and me so close. It was wonderful to have someone to share it with, someone who actually got it, and wasn’t just listening to be polite, while furtively scanning the room for a gun to blow their heads off. I’ve seen that glazed look in people’s eyes when I talk about my children. At first I felt bad about it, all awkward and embarrassed to be boring them. Not anymore. These days my approach is: I’ll gush if I want and you just try and stop me. If you don’t like it, please feel free to bugger off. Igger of Hey, two times natural childbirth with zero painkillers – I’ve earned my bragging rights, I’d say. I reckon all mothers should be permitted a certain amount of free swanking about our offspring.
Parental swank should be legalised, of course. But until then, allow me to offer some tips to ensure that you still have one or two friends left by the time your child is out of nappies.
Slightly Yummy Mummy’s Guide to Getting Your Gush On While Steering Clear of Social Suicide
Tip #1 Be cool when talking to other parents. Of course it’s obvious that your baby is the most beautiful, most talented, most intelligent child to ever walk the earth. I know this and you know this – but be aware that every parent believes this about their own children. It’s bad form to argue, so just indulge them. With a perfect child such as your own, you can afford to be magnanimous. Listen to their unlikely stories of how Caitlin (terrible name that, almost as bad as Chelsea) slept through from birth and little Joshua’s advanced speech development. It’s only polite. They should do the same for you.
Tip #2 Among other parents, it’s sometimes a good idea to downplay your own child’s prodigious achievements, while enthusiastically mooing about Joshua/Caitlin’s nonsensical gabbling. This is quite important. Lie if you have to. Whatever you do, for God’s sake, do not point out to Joshua’s/Caitlin’s mother that your child was using two word sentences at that age. This will only piss her off. In extreme cases, bring out the big guns and talk about how worried you are about your child’s delayed crawling/lactose intolerance/refusal to eat anything other than Flings. This will leave the other parent with a warm, fuzzy feeling of parental superiority, which should surely earn you another invitation to tea and cake. But beware. This could easily turn into a deadly game of My Life Sucks More Than Yours. Pitfalls abound as you try to convince your mothers’ group that you have it so much worse than them. They might cluck sympathetically at your dilemmas while feeling better about themselves (10 points); they could start slipping you pamphlets about postnatal depression or s
pecial needs children (0 points), or they could turn on you completely for being a whiny, neurotic, self-absorbed cow (-100 points and definitely no more coffee mornings).
Tip #3 When talking to childless friends, you are permitted to boast with impunity. Two reasons: you’re not going to offend them by implying your child is better than theirs and, more importantly, they don’t know any better. For all they know, it truly is miraculous for a baby to be able to pick up a single Rice Krispie using the two-fingered pincer grip at only six-and-a-half months. The obvious downside here is that they might not give a shit. They might find this whole baby thing terribly dull and start avoiding you anyway. Take time to decide whether you care or not.
Tip #4 A quick word about that other category: Childless People With Dogs. Not just any people with dogs, but Dog People, you understand. There’s just no reasoning with this sort. Their dogs are their babies and they truly believe it’s the same thers the shing. My advice is, back away slowly while smiling and nodding, and you might get out of there alive. You will feel the urge to grab their shoulders and shake them, yelling, “It’s a DOG for God’s sake! It is not a human! It’s a fucking DOG! What’s the matter with you, can’t you see that?” Do not succumb. You’re better than that. Just leave them to their delusion and be on your way. Okay, bring on the hate-mail from the Corgi Club, but let me just say this – I happen to like dogs. Dogs are nice. My doggy is part of my family, while remaining… a dog. It seems obvious to me, but then, I’m not a Dog Person. Clearly I must be missing the point. (Just realised I’m not really a People Person either. Maybe I should take up gardening.)
***
At some point, I stopped consciously thinking of myself as “the pregnant girl”, and simply became a mom. I don’t know exactly when that happened, or how. Just by living it every day, I suppose. I know it took others longer to see me the way I saw myself. To some people I was still “that girl”, and Steven wasn’t a real boy, he was still “The Situation”. It irritated me more than it should have – I’ve always taken things very personally and, dammit, I want people to like me. I needed others to see us the way I did – an ordinary mother and child, mom doing her best, bumbling through like anyone else and getting it right, mostly.
I wanted them to see Steven as the blessing that he was – not a burden, not a mistake, not a Situation. Meant to be. Beyond responsibility, I wanted to do my best for him, to be the best mother I could be. I think I’ve done a good job so far, even though sometimes I don’t know whether it’s been good enough. For one thing, I didn’t give him the father he deserved.
I don’t know how David felt about Steven back then. Did he care about him and not know how to show it? Was he scared and intimidated? When he thought of his son (if he did), what did he feel? Guilt, confusion, any love at all? Did he think it was too late to make it right? I didn’t understand then, and I still don’t. But it’s not for me to understand anymore. It’s between Steven and his father. In some ways that’s a relief, but it’s also scary to let it go. It’s hard to accept that it’s out of my hands now. I’m standing back, leaving my child vulnerable, maybe letting him get hurt, and I can only stand by and watch. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I still don’t know if it’s the right thing.
David visited us in the hospital. He held Steven, brought a present, gave me a hug and went home again. In the very early weeks, he visited fairly often. A few times, for short periods, I attempted to leave father and son alone together, but it was never long before David would call me back in a panic.
Maybe I was expecting too much, maybe my frantic demands for any sign of fatherly love fre">
I remember Sunday evenings spent watching the road, waiting to spot his car approaching. That was supposed to be visiting time, but he hardly ever came. Even though Steven was much too young to understand, each disappointment ate at my guts like battery acid. I was angry for Steven’s sake, heartbroken for his sake that his father didn’t care enough. To me, that’s what it came down to – he didn’t care enough about his child to be there for him when he said he would. I saw him occasionally with his friends or girlfriend. Partying, drinking, doing nineteen-year-old stuff. Except he wasn’t a typical nineteen-year-old any more than I was a typical fifteen-year-old. We were different. I’d accepted that. Why wouldn’t he?
I rarely mentioned money or maintenance. He was a student and I understood that he didn’t have lot of money. And he did bring clothes and toiletries a few times. Cotton-wool balls spring to mind. I like to think I was reasonable on that issue. In fact, I took great pains to be reasonable, so that nobody could ever accuse me of being the money-grubbing ex (at the age of fifteen!).
I wasn’t angry about all the responsibility resting on my shoulders. I didn’t want or need him to help me. All I wanted from him was to be a dad to his child. I don’t think he understood that part. Maybe he (and his family) thought I wanted something more, something for myself. I didn’t. I had the support of my own family. Not to mention the merry little band of alternate personalities in my head cheering me on (or bringing me down). I had my rigid self-discipline to fall back on when I felt shaky.
I didn’t need David. But Steven did. And still does.
I tried so hard to make David see that – too hard. So hard that when he did visit occasionally, we’d always end up fighting. I’d accuse him of being a terrible father, lecture him for being late, skipping visits or not phoning often enough. Realising I wasn’t getting through to him, I’d freak and became even more hostile. He’d get all defensive and we’d end up in I-Said-And-Then-You-Said fights. Never productive.
Still, for someone who doesn’t generally do confrontation, I managed to make myself heard. By the neighbours, too. That would be the night I chased after him when he left in a huff. That was the beginning of the end and I cringe when I think of it. I did everything wrong. (Guilt gland ticking over briskly.) I can’t help wondering how it might have been if I hadn’t lost my temper that night. Would David have stuck around? Would Steven have known his father all these years? The what-ifs keep me awake at night.
The fight probably started with those infamous words, “We need toomaWe ne talk”. Jeez, how many times have I said that in my life? No good ever comes of it, let me tell you. It started off as a standard David/Tracy conversation, but went downhill fast.
Tracy (grimfaced, holding baby in arms): “We need to talk.”
David (warily – he’s been here before): “Yes?”
Tracy (steam visibly beginning to escape from ears): “You said you’d be here at six. It’s after seven.”
David (doesn’t get the big deal): “Yeah, I’m sorry, hey! Couldn’t be helped. It won’t happen again, okay?”
Tracy (cheeks all red and blotchy, fists clenched, top of head unscrewing): “That’s what you said last time. And last week? Where were you? Something better come up? Did your child just slip your mind again? You can’t keep doing this, David. Steven needs you. When are you going to grow up?”
And so it went. Accusation and denial, sarcasm and defensiveness. The usual formula. Only, this time I lost it. I went psycho fishwife on his ass. You should have seen me.
“You don’t deserve to be his father!” I yelled at him. “Steven deserves so much better than you!” I was still holding Steven (holding my child while shouting at his father. Lovely, hey? Somebody, give the woman some curlers and a cigarette. I could be on My Name Is Earl).
I’d pushed him too far.
“I don’t have to take this from you!” he said, angry now. Usually, he just stood there and took it, mumbling the occasional apology. Not this time. He stormed past me, out of Steven’s bedroom, and I chased after him, stopping only to put Steven down on the couch. He was so little, still swaddled in a blanket. I wonder sometimes if he has any memory of that night.
“Where are you going? Running away again?” I shouted from the doorway. He was halfway up the steps and nearly gone. I thought if I let him leave now, Steven would lose h
is dad forever. So I followed him out onto the pavement, and there we stood yelling at each other like Jerry Springer people. Not my finest moment.
But it made no difference. He left and didn’t come back for a long time.
Whenever he did, eventually, it never lasted. The gaps between visits and phone calls would become longer and longer, and eventually stop altogether. For a while. Then the whole cycle would start over, governed, perhaps, by David’s own guilt gland. I was always so grateful when he did come back, that while he behaved, Ipere behav’d forget to be angry. I gave him a thousand second chances, because I didn’t want to be the one who denied Steven the father he needed.
But even a thousand second chances run out sooner or later. Then you have to make a decision.
Around the time of Steven’s first birthday, David announced that he was going to live in Durban with his dad. I became angry all over again. It seemed like he’d finally hatched a plan to escape his responsibilities – to do a runner. At last, the easy way out had presented itself and he grabbed it with both hands. Or so it seemed to me. He left, and for ages I heard nothing from him. I’d like to think it must have been hard for him, too; he’s not a bad guy.
In the end, I think it just became easier to stay away. Once you’ve let things get so bad, maybe you can’t see a way back. Maybe he thought I hated him. Maybe he didn’t understand what I wanted from him. Maybe he didn’t know how. I can say “maybe” until monkeys fly out of my butt – the truth is, David stuffed up. He had a job to do and he didn’t do it. Now, nearly twelve years later, he has a son who lives on the other side of the world, a son he doesn’t know – not really. Not the way a father knows his child. I can’t imagine how hard that must be to live with.
Out of the blue, on his second birthday, Steven received a birthday card from David. I will never forget that card. I was so hopeful when I read those words:
The Girl Who Couldn't Say No: Memoir of a teenage mom Page 11
