My Mother to Brautigan: Peter piper picked a pack of pickled peckers.

Me: Mother he did not pick a pickled pecker.

My Mother: Well what did he pick?

Me: A pepper.

My Mother: Oh.

My mother: ...Well, if he wants to come over to my place and give me a quaalude, I’ll gladly take one. But he’d have to leave me the fuck alone. Me: That’s terrible, Mother. And besides, I don’t believe they even make quaaludes anymore.

My mother: Xanax will work.

Me: Oh boy.

My mother: There’s nothing wrong with a little Xanax every now and then, Jessica.

Me: If you say so.

My mother: Darling, living in a world like this one, I think it’s the right of every human being to take a Xanax if they feel they need one.

Me: Well I think there are more natural ways to calm one’s nerves.

My mother: And I can tell they’re doing wonders for you, my dear.

Me: I’m not taking any, Mother. 

My mother: Well maybe you should.

Me: Actually I was thinking of trying some kava kava.

My mother: Don’t. I read something about kava… it can be very dangerous.

Me: So you’re telling me that kava kava is more dangerous than Xanax?

My mother: Yes, I believe so. Because by the time you take enough kava to calm your nerves, you’ll probably have consumed the entire bottle, where as if I took a single Xanax, I’d be able to sleep the entire night.

Me: Maybe, somehow, you have a point.

My mother: Oh, you are so green.

Me: If you say so, but I’m at the store now, so we’ll have to continue this conversation later.

My mother: Very well. Be careful, darling. 

Me: I will.

Bounce House Hell

It was inevitable. I crossed paths with one of those bouncy houses. Brautigan took one look at it and nearly fell on his knees begging to go. Since he’s only three, there was no way in hell I was going to let him in by himself which meant it was going to be the two of us. We waited in line behind this six-year-old who couldn’t keep his hands to himself, kept ear-muffing the kid next to him with the palms of his hands.

Finally it was our turn. It was no big deal. We bounced for three minutes and it was over. But then he spotted the bouncy house next door. This huge thing with a giant bouncy slide. Brautigan had to go on. There was no changing his mind. So we waited in line. The guy who was supposed to be in charge was flirting with some teenage girl. I asked, ‘Should we go in now,” and he said, ‘Yeah yeah, it’s fine.’

So we crawled along this maze thing until we arrived at a little foam climbing wall. We climbed up without much trouble and slid down this little slide. Not so bad. Then, we crawled along this other maze and arrived at a big climbing wall, like 8 feet tall, and that’s when I said to myself, ‘What the mother fuck was I thinking?’

Brautigan took one look at it and turned around. I said, ‘Where are you going?’ and he said, ‘I’m not doing that.’ Little kids were coming at us, charging up the climbing wall. And I knew we had no choice but to turn around. There was no way I could heave myself and my child up that climbing wall. So we backtracked till we got to the little slide and I hoisted Brautigan up to the top without much problem but then there was me.

I couldn’t climb up. I kept slipping down. I tried again and again all while holding Brautigan steady at the top so that he wouldn’t be trampled by the scores of oblivious kids siding down. Brautigan looked worried. And that’s when I realized I was in a life/death situation. So I made a growling noise and tried once more with all my might to climb up that slippery germ infested foam wall but I still couldn’t do it. Brautigan’s eyes got wide. ‘Can’t you get up, mama?’ he asked. ‘Of course I’m going to get up, my love.’

As a last resort, I dismantled a piece of the velcro foam that held the slide together and finally, heaved myself up. By this time, I was sweating and shaking but I grabbed Brautigan and finally we escaped into the sea of smiling crazed looking children at which point Brautigan saw the giant Bouncy slide again and said, ‘But Mama, I thought you said we could go down the big slide!” Thankfully at that moment an airplane appeared in the sky so I said, ‘Look! A plane!’ and as he said, ‘Oh, wow!’ I picked him up and ran him to the car.

-JLK

My mother: I thought of an idea that you need to write about. Me: What?

My mother: What if… on your birth certificate… it not only stated the day you were born but also the day you will die.

Me: Mother, that’s a terrible idea!

My mother: Why? Don’t you think people would live their lives differently knowing how many days they had left?

Me: I don’t think so. Personally, I’m feeling completely anxious just hearing about your idea.

My mother: Oh Jessica. Is there any thing that doesn’t give you anxiety?

Me: No. Not really.

My mother: Well, you know what should also be written on your birth certificate?

Me: What?

My mother: That you will be anxious every single day of your life. That you will never know what it’s like to wake up in the morning with a sense of well-being and peace. And because you have longevity in your genes, you will be living a longer than usual life with this horrible anxiety encompassing your every single day.

Me: Now, that I could handle.

My mother: Figures. Well, my darling, I need to start heading over to St. Vincent’s DePaul’s before it gets too beastly hot. So go and enjoy your mother’s day. Because you are the world’s most wonderful mother, as well as the world’s most wonderful daughter.

Me: Aw, thank you, Mother.

My mother: Don’t thank me, Jessica. You know how very unfond I am of your thank yous.

Me: Well, Happy Mother’s Day to you too, Mother. I wish we could be together.

My mother: There’s nothing I would want more.

You know what I’m good at? Actually, let me cut the modest crap. You know what I’m a genius at? Getting out of things. I’m not kidding either. Late fees, library fines, parking tickets. Here’s a true story: I’ve had 43 parking tickets dismissed, including four tows to the Brooklyn Navy Yard.  I’ve been getting out of things my whole life, really. Appointments, exercise, meditation, you name it. I think it stems from post-traumatic stress, from being addicted to the feeling of sailing away from something I dread. It makes sense. For most of my life, I never liked being where I was, so I became an escape artist to get out of what felt intolerable. But the trouble is— if you get out of everything, you never really find yourself in a world you’ve gotten into. You just swirl in some ethereal circumference, zoning in and out of the past and dreaming up marvelous futures that somehow never arrive. This all changed though when I had a child. A precious baby boy who was handed to me and placed upon my breast like a little sandbag, forcing me for the first time in my life into the present moment. I think I held him the entire first year of his life. Really, I think I was afraid to put him down. That I’d start running again. And I never ever wanted to run away from my baby. To get out of being a mother.

One of the first things I noticed being present is that most of my moments were filled with this unpleasant sensation like something very wrong was happening but I couldn’t remember what. And I’d have this intense urge to get rid of that feeling. To reach for something chocolate. Something bready. The phone. Amazon.com. Facebook. All the things that pried me out of my moment but left me homeless in a manner of speaking, with only places to feel better or worse inside of, yet none to feel cozy in. But with a sleeping baby in my arms, I couldn’t leave so easily, and slowly, I started to surrender. I’d still feel uncomfortable and reach and pry for a way out, but after the 200th time checking my email, and the 200^th time checking that my son was breathing normally, and the wondering if I’d ever make any of my dreams come true or if it was too late, I’d look at my baby’s sweet face and remember: There’s nowhere to go. And I’d climb into the moment with my child and stay there, and enter a richness that was too fulfilling to leave. And in that moment, my heart felt so full, like it did when I was real little, before I’d been hurt by life. When I used to feel excited to wake up in the morning, not because there was something particular going on, but because I enjoyed the feeling of being alive. And it felt so good to have that feeling back and to share it with my precious child. And I’d pray for the moment to never pass, which of course it always did. But I’d meet up with it again when I surrendered on some other occasion to the seemingly cruel truth that there was no place to go.

I’m still not present all the time. I’m hardly present at all, really. The land of right here/right now is still a tropical island that I only vacation to occasionally when I forget that I don’t need time off or any plane ticket to get there. But I pray to visit more often. Because if I can give my presence to my little boy, then maybe he will feel cozy here and never try to get out of it like I did.

Once upon a time there was an anguished cave mother who finally couldn't take it anymore. Every night, she’d arrive back to her cave after hunting and gathering all day long, ready to fall asleep on her cozy boulder, but every night, without fail, her little ones would insist on a story before bed. And back then, without a book to close, a goodnight story could go on and on until almost dawn.  In fact, it wasn’t uncommon for poor prehistoric mothers to miss out on sleep entirely because of little ones begging and pleading for the thousandth time, “Please Mama, tell us what happened next!!! Please, Please, Please!!” But one day, this particular anguished mother just couldn’t think of what happened next.  “But Mama,” the children cried. “You have to think of something more!!!  We need to hear what happens next so that we can fall asleep!”  And so the mother furrowed her bulging brow and tried to imagine what in the world she was going to say, and a moment later, through her lips, a very hoarse voice uttered:  “What happened next, my precious ones???  They all lived Happily. Ever. After.”

After this, she waited, saying nothing more.  She dared not to move even a finger for fear of stirring these blessed creatures.  She just held her breath and waited.  And waited.  And finally, she heard a snore.  Yes. To her utter amazement, the children were asleep. And she tiptoed with delight back to her boulder and also went to sleep.

Of course, in the back of this mother’s prehistoric brain, she knew very well there was no such thing as Happily Ever After.  All of her other stories confirmed that life wasn’t so simple as to be lived Happily Ever After.  Not even grass lived Happily Ever After.  But instead of feeling guilty, she told herself it was just a story, after all.  And it put the kids to sleep for God’s sake.  And everyone needed some rest.  And so she did it again the next night.  And the next night.  And from then on.  And slowly, this mother’s bright-eyed and bushy tail got the attention of other cave mothers in town.  And so she began to share her success.  And pretty soon the entire village began ending their stories the same way. And pretty soon, all the children were going to sleep at a decent hour.

But… there was a minor problem.

All the kids began believing that everyone was going to get their very own happily ever after, too. And the mothers became anguished once again.  Day after day, they cringed, watching their beloved little ones aspiring to such rubbish, talking to each other about what their happily ever afters were going to look like.  And so these mothers decided to get together at a secret town meeting.  “You know what,” one of the well-rested mamas said. “Maybe these little S.O.B’s really will figure out how to live happily ever after—why should we ruin a good thing??”  And before the meeting was through, all of the other mothers nervously agreed.  And so, it was settled.  Happily Ever After lived Happily Ever After.

And from that day forward, generations upon generations of children continued to regurgitate this very flawed concept to their offspring, without ever even imagining it was just a great big lie to get a poor mother some rest.  Little did those ancient mothers know that one day, the whole globe would be paved, often times burying whatever was already there, by people looking, with bleary-eyed hope, for some semblance of that Happily Ever After they really and truly believed in.  Good night.

by Jessica Kane ©2015

Me: I’m upset.

My Mother: Why?

Me: I’m embarrassed to tell you. But I have to get it out of my head.

My Mother: Go ahead.

Me: I was in Starbucks just before and I used the public bathroom and after I had been in there a minute, I realized that the whole room smelled of vomit and that the floor was wet and now I can’t stop thinking that the person had Ebola and that I’m probably going to get it and give it to Brautigan.

My Mother: (Laughing.)

Me: It’s not funny. My Mother: I know it’s not, Jessica. I’m not laughing at you. I’m just laughing at how fucking hysterical the news is making everyone. It’s not you, ok??

Me: Ok.

My Mother: But I want you to listen very carefully. This is your germaphobe mother speaking.

Me: I know it is, that’s why I called you.

My Mother: You are not in Texas. You do not work in a hospital. You have not been on a plane. It was probably just some bulimic who ate too many pieces of cake.

Me: Ok.

My Mother: And if you really are the sort of person who cannot handle putting themselves into situations that could… not likely, but could potentially make you sick, well, then you do like me and you use the bathroom before you leave home.

Me: Well I live an hour away from civilization.

My Mother: Well, then this is what you will have to do. Go and buy yourself some latex gloves, some really large latex gloves, and every time you go into a public restroom, put one over your head, and don’t forget to cut the thumb off so that you have some air to breathe. What are you laughing at?

Me: I don’t think I’ve laughed this hard in months.

My Mother: I’m not kidding, Jess. In fact, I think you should call Playtex. Well, first get it patented and then call. The thumb could even have a little filter on it with room for a little charcoal tablet. You just have to hope that nobody comes into the bathroom while you’re wearing it.

Me: Thank you, mother.

My Mother: Laughter is the most powerful antioxidant. Never forget that.

Me: I think you’re right.

My Mother: Of course I’m right. I’m always right. Now stop listening to the motherfucking news. And think instead of those poor, poor people in West Africa. I mean, can you fucking imagine??

Me: No.

My Mother: Neither can I. So let’s hope and pray that the angels who are over there risking their fucking lives to transform this fucking hell stay healthy, and let’s hope that all the greedy politicians and profiteers get the hell out of their way and quit convincing themselves they’re doing equally important work. And let’s hope and pray that humanity as a whole will finally realize that until every single human life is valued, there will be no motherfucking peace for any of us. Every human being deserves the right to live a dignified life, don’t you think?

Me: Yes, I do.

My Mother: Of course you do, darling. Now go and bleach your head and call me when you get home.

Me: Ok. Goodbye, Mother.

There’s this man who comes to the local general store as often as I do. I come to write. And he comes to eat, read the newspaper, and talk to people. At first, I dreaded seeing him. He is old. Wears a Veteran’s hat with pins and stripes all over it. And the way he masticates his liverwurst sandwiches is enough to make me, if I didn’t care so much what others thought of me, hurl something at his elderly liver-spotted head. He always forgets his hearing aid and is always talking about the Decline of America in a voice made for at least 30 people to hear. And he licks his finger to turn the page of his newspaper and then touches things I could potentially touch. But it’s funny. As time has passed, seeing him every day, he has become someone familiar. And the something familiar he’s become has become a source of comfort. I’m ashamed to say I used to sneer at him when I’d hear his phlegm-ridden cough with little bits of animal organs flying out in my midst. Now, I feel a softness about him. I hear his stories. Every time I’m in here, a new one. People sit with him to listen to his stories. He’s had a life. A long life. He’s got great grandkids. A dead wife. A government that never appreciated what he’d really wanted to do for his country. He’s real. He’s more than the liverwurst that could have gotten on me.

The people I get along with best are the people I am polite with. Manners almost always ensure a hospitable relationship. I used to be inclined to imagine that good behavior in general was inauthentic. Mostly because of the fact that you can be polite with someone and still despise them in the privacy of your own thoughts. But these days, I think of manners more like posture. A deliberate necessity to avoid offending others with our various forms of slovenliness. The problem though, is how to be on good behavior with someone you live with and conceivably love? It takes a lot to be on good behavior all day, but then to do it all night? When my 3-year-old finally goes to sleep, sometimes all I want to do is blob out all over the place, stand at the counter and shove whatever I can find down my throat, and give anyone who comes near me the finger, especially that son of a bitch I married.

I think that’s why most relationships end. Because most of us, at least me, rarely practice good manners with our spouses. Well, unless we’re around other people. I can understand how it happens. The whole reason I got involved with my husband in the first place is because I wanted to have at least one person in the world I could be myself with. Someone I could share everything with- all my childhood stories, my secret wisdoms, my fears; someone I could feel relaxed with, vulnerable with, comfortable being naked with in every which way. But as you get deeper with someone, how do you put the brakes on before the other person discovers that secret fierce fucking animal within who will shit in your proverbial boots if you fuck with them? I just don’t think it's possible.

You can’t live with someone for any extended period of time without this animal emerging. It’s just what happens when we take off our designer clothing (or in my case my pajamas). When we are naked, it’s inevitable that we will release unthinkable things from our depths. And it probably won’t take long before those things get flung at each other.

I think resentment in relationships probably begins when one person first bears witness to another’s beast within. We think, ‘How could they treat me like that!? Have they no manners? Everyone else gets to see them at his/her best, and I get this… monster?’

My husband and I both know we should behave with dignity towards each other. We have both attended seminars, read brilliant wisdom-filled books and articles about conscious relationships, but our animal sides could give a fat shit. When my animal within sees my husband at night lying on the bed with his computer like a side of butchered beef instead of taking out the garbage or at least asking if I’d like a massage, I’m not thinking not to take him personally. I'm not thinking, "The light within me bows to the light within you." I’m already saying out loud something like, “You are a fucking slob. I can’t believe I married such a lummox!” And then he’ll look up at me and say, “Me? I’m a slob? Let’s not forget when I first met you, you had fleas in your bed!” And I'll say, “Well, isn’t that funny. I didn’t have fleas in my bed until you started sleeping in it!!”

I think my favorite moments with my husband are the ones where we treat each other as strangers. Not passing strangers. But more like two people who maybe have been stationed at the same refugee camp. We are on the same survival team. We have good ideas for how to get things accomplished. We are resilient. We are busy. And can make each other laugh really hard recounting all the trials and tribulations we overcame at the end of a really hard day. It doesn’t happen often, but these are the moments I’d want more of, if I could figure out how to have them. When we are polite enough to give space for the animals that we are to roam peacefully.

Last night, I fell in love with myself for the first time. I’m convinced that this falling in love with myself had to do with a suffering, near-corpse of road kill that I passed by earlier last night.

It was on the Northway, this large black furry object, with a heartbeat so terrified, that it moved the whole furry thing up and down like someone was pumping air in and out of it like a balloon. And my thought about it was sadness. Because I realized that he didn’t want to die. And as cars were roaring past him, laughing, and throwing their McDonalds out their windows, this single creature on earth, on the side of the road, was struggling to survive, to catch his breath, and his life.

And the surge of this something that I was feeling became embedded deep within me. I’m not sure it was embedded physiologically... but certainly into the meat of my spirit. So that perhaps now, I have, as part of my core, the remaining fire of the black-furry-corpse on Interstate 87.

But anyhow, late last night I was in bed when it hit me, this profound experience of falling in love with myself. And it wasn't one of those conceptual experiences that I’ve had while eating chocolate croissants and drinking coffee. It was one of those profound experiences that shifted my perception and the colors of the room. It began with a realization: Oh my God, I’m not going to get to be with me forever!

Previous to this moment of falling in love with myself, I had spent much of my energies hoping other people would take on this vocation. (And spent hundreds of hours shedding tears when I wasn’t successful in these endeavors.) But last night, when I was alone with me (and perhaps the fiery remains of the soul of the large black furry corpse) I realized I had never tried to get me to fall in love with me before… And I had to chuckle.

And it was at that moment that I became to myself like a wife of a soldier going off to war. I wanted to hug myself and appreciate myself and be there for myself before something horrible happened and I’d never get to ever again. And I exclaimed to myself, I love you! Never have I said such a thing! And don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t out loud so that my husband could hear. But I exclaimed it inwardly and felt myself sink down into myself, till we were resting under what felt like an apple tree on a beautiful breezy spring day. And yes, I loved myself. And generously shared space with myself. And I am still sharing that space with myself. At least I think I am… It may have worn off just a bit at the moment… Perhaps because I’ve always kind of thought that to love oneself is a silly and indulgent thing to go on and on about. Better to talk about loving thy neighbor instead. Perhaps, though, this is because I never really understood the importance of loving thy self. But maybe it’s as simple as this: “Love thyself, because one day thoust won’t have a self to love.”

I’m at Starbucks, where I occasionally find myself when my husband has a day off to play with our son. And everything was normal. The air conditioning was on. It was cold. I was working on a section of my book. Trying to get creative assistance from chocolate and almonds and green tea. Basically, I was one of several people doing what we usually do in our status quo Starbucks moments. When all of a sudden, there was a siren. A loud siren. The fire alarm. Suddenly everyone’s realities were interrupted and we all looked around at each other, smiling in a way we wouldn’t have without this sound of emergency. We had curious eyebrows, wondering if it was a test. But the alarm wasn’t going off. And it was loud. Everyone was covering their ears. And then, we were all asked to leave the café right away. And I wondered if this really was an emergency. Immediately I felt more grounded than usual. I imagined this must be common for people when something very important is about to happen. Not important like an email sent on accident or a business opportunity gone awry or a toddler running like crazy instead of sitting still. But really important, like the difference between living and dying. I thought about the man who’d been in front of me in line while I was waiting to order my green tea. He’d been talking to his woman friend in a really serious tone about how the last time he’d been in another Starbucks, there’d been a woman in front of him who’d asked for a ‘medium’ instead of a ‘grande’ and that the barista said to her, “Are you kidding me?” I wondered who this guy would be in a real emergency. If he’d finally have something more substantial to use his seriousness for. I imagined he’d probably be the one covering the small toddlers with his big belly to save them from falling debris. Now we are all outside. The manager is panicked, trying to explain to new customers who want lattes that the Starbucks is temporarily closed. The crowd is growing. People’s conversations are meandering away from this potential emergency and back to real estate, stubborn husbands, and the weather. And now it’s just been confirmed. There is not an emergency. The manager has just explained that one of the baristas accidentally leaned on the fire button when she was reaching to throw away her leftover chai. And that the fire department should be turning off the alarm any… ahh, now it’s off. He has unlocked the door. Everyone is getting up, ready to return to their seats.

Now I’m back in the air conditioning. And I kind of miss the siren. By all means, I’m not saying I wish it had been an actual emergency. It’s just that sometimes, it’s refreshing to imagine being called forth toward a larger purpose than just having a good attitude amidst all this American status quo.

There is no wrath like a mother discovering mouse poo in her child’s car seat. Living in a rural area, having mice in one’s car is nothing unusual. They can fit into a quarter-sized space and can smell a leftover puff or piece of dropped banana a mile away. We used to have all these wonderful owls on our property and I hadn’t had a mouse in my car since before I got pregnant. But for whatever reason, those owls flew the coop and those pesky mice came back. I was so upset when I found the little black dollops of their presence. I shook my head in disgust and my two-and-a-half year old asked if I was sad and I said, “Yes, I am a little sad, my love, because mice were in our car.” “Mice? What did they do in here, Mama?” “Well, if you really must know, darling, they poo poo-ed.” “Poo poo-ed? They should wear diapers!!” “I agree!” Though I have never been a fan of killing my enemies I would have had no problem setting as many traps as could fit in my car, but after some research, I learned that killing mice rarely solves the problem, because there are always more mice. But I learned there is a way to keep them from your car or home: mice despise the scent of peppermint. So, I bought a bottle of peppermint essential oil, dripped some on some cotton balls, scattered them all over the car. The following day, there were only a few drops of poo, by the floor vent in the passenger side of the front seat. And sure enough, the following day, it was the same thing. And I realized that’s where they were coming in! They must have been entering in their usual way, and upon smelling the peppermint, shit their little britches and about-faced! I can’t count too many things that have given me as much satisfaction. And, since then, all I do is dribble some peppermint oil right on that little floor vent, and we have been mouse-free. So far.

Do you ever have one of those moments when you inadvertently disturb your own child? A man at the park gave my two-and-a-half year old a stuffed animal. It was in our small town so nothing disturbing there. Except when we used it a short time later to dry a wet swing and noticed it was missing an eye. My son got so upset and so I said, “I know he only has one eye, but I think that makes him special!” And my son looked at me with curiosity so I continued, “He’s special because he’s got a story to tell! Don’t you want to know what happened to his other eye?” He nodded, still looking curious so I went on and this is what came out of my mouth: “Who knows what happened… maybe a mouse came and ate it!!!” Poor Brautigan, he immediately dropped the toy, held his own eye and looked horrified beyond belief. I tried to tell a better story to fix the first one but nothing redeeming was coming out and I kept laughing at my own stupidity which I’m sure only made the situation even more confusing to my poor boy, but thankfully, a low flying goose came by and I was able to divert his attention.

Mother: (after diatribing for five minutes) …I mean it, Jess, you must cleanse your lymphs… It could be the difference between life and death… And it’s so damn simple. All you do is stand like a scarecrow and flap your arms and… Brautigan: Oh, bother.

Mother: What did he just say?

Me: Tell grand-mère what you said, baby.

Brautigan: (smiling) Oh, bother.

Mother: Well!

MOTHER:  I spent a dollar today. ME: What did you buy?

MOTHER: A china cock.

ME: A china cock?

MOTHER: I believe that is the correct terminology for a male chicken.

ME: You bought a porcelain rooster?

MOTHER: I did. And you should see him, Jess. He’s wearing all hand-tailored clothing.

ME: Sounds interesting.

MOTHER: Very. He’s wearing this wonderful, wonderful pair of overalls that crisscross in the back, and a long-sleeved cotton shirt, with a collar that’s buttoned all the way to that thing… that long red thing that hangs under a cock’s neck… and he’s got a big orange beak and a big red comb on his white china head… and black china talons.

ME: Sounds like a real find.

MOTHER: Don’t knock it.  It is. And I’ve placed him in the most prominent spot of my kitchen. It’s a good day, darling.

ME: Well, that makes me happy, Mother.

MOTHER: It will be in Brautigan’s inheritance.

ME: You know I hate when you speak like that.

MOTHER: Well, I’m not going to be around forever.

ME:  Aww, you know what Brautigan just did?

MOTHER: What?

ME:  Lately he’s been taking my glasses off and putting them on Chris’s face, and he just put them on yours, well, on the telephone!

MOTHER: Poor thing.  When he finally meets me in person, he’s going to be traumatized.  I’ll have to hang a cordless phone around my neck.

Mother:  So how was your visit with your in-laws?

Me: Terrible.

Mother: Oh, no.  What happened?

Me: Well, the trouble started when Chris’s mother attempted to kiss my baby with a gigantic herpe on her lip.

Mother: No!

Me: Yes.  Chris was holding him, and I saw her enter the house with this glistening penny-sized aberration. Immediately, all the blood drained from my body, And then, she made a b-line towards Brautigan and puckered up.

Mother: No.

Me: I practically pole vaulted over the couch to grab him.

Mother: Did she kiss him?

Me: Ahch. It all happened so fast.  All I can tell you is I heard a smooch but I’m almost positive it hit the air next to his cheek.

Mother: Oh, You poor thing. What did chris do?

Me:  He initiated the routine we always have when germs are present.  He said, “Oooh I think someone has a poopy diaper!”  And we whisked Brautigan away to a private room.   Chris was trying to calm me down.  He knows how I get.  He kept saying, “Don’t worry, her lips did-not-make-contact.”  I had him convince me again and again while we scoured Brautigan’s face with wipes and hydrogen peroxide. But I was on herpe patrol for the rest of the day. Do you know how exhausting it is to keep your eye on someone’s herpe for 24 hours?

Mother: Chris should have said something.

Me: He did, and she said, “It’s nothing.  It already has a scab.”

Mother: Gross.

Me: Well, she doesn’t understand.  She had the flu once and told me it was ok for her to be around the baby because she had a flu shot.

Mother: Oh boy.

Me: So needless to say, I didn’t sleep last night.

Mother: Why didn’t you call me?

Me: I was too upset.  I stayed up doing Google searches on every variety of herpes known to man. Did you know that most herpes in the world are contracted before two years old by so-called loved ones?

Mother: No, I did not.

Me: Neither did I. And then I found this terrible study all about the cognitive implications of getting cold sores at a young age. Well it went downhill from there.  All I could do was visualize my beautiful boy 30 years from now, walking around dazed and illiterate with oozing sores all over the place.  I woke Chris up three separate times to divorce him.  And by the third time, he was so tired of me, he thanked me, because he said he didn’t want to have to look at me ever again.

Mother: Jessica… It wasn’t his fault.

Me: I know.  But it gets worse.

Mother: Oh no.

Me: When Brautigan woke up, there was a red mark on the upper left quadrant of his lip...  In the same exact spot as Chris’s mother’s herpe.

Mother: Jessica, please tell me you don’t think Brautigan contracted herpes in 24 hours.

Me:  It’s very rare.  But I found two reported cases that were transmitted over night.

Mother: Jessica, come on

Me: Or, it could be that his fingernails need to be clipped and his fingers were in his mouth teething all night.  But that’s beside the point. Do you have any idea what that was like for me?  And what it was like later on that day to see my son and Chris’s mother posing for a photograph with matching herpes??

Mother: (laughing)

Me:  I’m aging five more years just thinking about it.

Mother: Well, Jessica, perhaps it’s time to stop thinking about it.

Me: In 14 days, after the incubation period, I will stop thinking about it.

Mother: You’re going to make yourself sick.

Me: I can’t help it.

Mother: You need to focus on your logical mind, instead of the prehistoric part of your brain that worries about situations which haven’t yet occurred.

Me: Mother, panic is like a vaccine for me.  If I ingest a bit of doom before doom occurs, my life will become immune to the doom.  Of course now that I just said that, I probably contaminated the whole process.

Mother: That is really sick, Jess.  You can only control so much, darling.  Did you know that some researcher took swabs of shopping carts at a Wal-Mart and found feces and MRSA on nearly every one?

Me: Disgusting.

Mother: Well, my point in telling you is that you can either purchase little gloves and a mask for Brautigan or know that his immune system is very strong and that he will be ok.

Me: That sounds good on paper Mother, but I know you are just as much of a germaphobe as I am.

Mother: I never said there was anything wrong with being a germaphobe.  As long as you’re based in reality.  Remember what happened when I accepted the frozen Ikea meatballs from my neighbor?

Me: Yes.

Mother: Never have I accepted food from anyone, that’s a big no-no for me, but I was hungry and curious because I’d never had them before, and I figured they were fine— after all, they were frozen and unopened. How could I have predicted they’d be recalled the very next day for containing horsemeat?  But I didn’t stay up obsessing.  I gagged my fair share but I knew I was ok and I moved on.

Me: Very well, Mother.

Mother: You need to give yourself a break, Jess.  You are doing a wonderful job raising your son.

Me: You think so?

Mother: Do you hear that?

Me:  What…

Mother: I’m giving you a standing ovation!

Me: Thank you, Mother.

Mother: And I think it’s beautiful that you love your baby as much as you do.

Me: Really?

Mother: Which is almost as much as I love you.

Me: Aw, that was sweet.

Me:   Guess what! Mother:  What…

Me:  Brautigan said Mama! 

Mother:  Oh honey!

Me:  My heart is so warm, like the coziest ski lodge in the whole world!

Mother:  Well, Congratulations darling, you have finally received approval from someone you love!

Mother: So how did Brautigan enjoy the Halloween festival?

Me: He enjoyed it. I’m just glad we made it home alive.

Mother: What kind of parade did you take him to??

Me: I’m not talking about the parade, Mother. Let's just say we had a few incidents.

Mother: What kind of incidents?

Me: Well, it started on our way there, when a black cat leapt out of the brush and ran right in front of the car.

Mother: Did you hit it?

Me: No. But it was as if he'd strategized the whole thing.

Mother: Well, you know, that’s a good omen.

Me: That’s what Chris said, but I’m not sure I buy it.

Mother: Of course you wouldn't.

Me: But that’s not all. Then, we went to the grocery store and guess who we parked next to?

Mother: Who.

Me: The coroner.

Mother: (laughs.) Oh, so what. Even coroners have to eat.

Me: But it gets worse. Then, we were driving home on the Northway and Chris says, “Oh my god, Jess, look!” and right next to us, was the coroner again.

Mother: (laughing)

Me: It’s not funny. And all this on Halloween.

Mother: Well, so what. Be glad you weren't in it.

Me: Poo, poo, poo!

Mother: You’re like a grandmother already, Jessica, you and your trilogy.

Me: I can’t help it. I’ve become very superstitious since I gave birth.

Mother: Well, I’ll tell you something.

Me: What.

Mother: Did you know I hate seeing dead birds?

Me: No, I did not.

Mother: Well, I do. For me, dead birds are a bad omen. And the other day, right in front of my door as I was leaving for St. Vincent DePaul’s, was an injured mourning bird. Well, I looked up to heaven ‘cause really, I just don’t do birds, and on the third ‘fuck me’, I swear to god, Jessica, this bird with a broken wing started shuddering and flapping and right before my eyes, he flew away, and I yelled at the top of my lungs, Praise Jesus!!!

Me: Wow, Mother, that’s a miracle! You healed him!

Mother: I’d like to think so. Either that, or he very badly wanted to get away from me. But the point of my telling you this, is to reiterate what I’ve always told you: Kane women don't accept negatives. Kane women always turn negatives into positives. And Kane women, Jessica, do not sit around wasting brain power with poo, poo, poos. So cut it out.

Me: Very Well.

An old transcribed conversation with my mother. She passed unexpectedly in 2016 and I share these conversations to keep her memory alive.



Me: Aw, I wish you could see Brautigan, Mother.

My Mother: Why, what’s he doing?

Me: He’s clapping his little pudgy hands together!

My Mother: Oh, I like that… So precious! What’s he oooh-ing about?

Me: He sees his container of puffs.

My Mother: His container of pus?

Me: Puffs, Mother.

My Mother: Well, you never know, the way you are. I was just going to take it in stride, while clutching my heart.

Me: Mother, I almost urinated in my pants.

My Mother: Well your phone is muffled… Oh, he sounds like he’s imitating your laugh!

Me: He is!

My Mother: So adorable. He sounds like a baby chimpanzee!

Me: I know!

My Mother: You should play him some monkeys on your computer.

Me: I would never do that, Mother. I don’t want to give him a complex.

My Mother: He’s not going to ever have a chance to get hurt feelings, is he? Someone will make fun of him and he won’t understand.

Me: Good.

My Mother: I remember crying when they sang that awful Lizzie Borden song to me.

Me: I cried when they called me Jessicow.

My Mother: (laughing)

Me: It’s not funny.

My Mother: It’s a little funny.

Me: You know, it’s amazing I made it through my childhood.

My Mother: You had a wonderful first five years, I made sure of it.

Me: Well, thank you for the first five, Mother.

My Mother: You are more than welcome, little girl.

Me: Can you hear that?

My Mother: Sort of.

Me: Brautigan is throwing you kisses.

My Mother: Awww, nothing warms the cockles of my heart more.

-JLK