The Rabbi, My Mother and the Bag of Crap
Buster is one month old today.
And I think I am finally ready to tell the story about the rabbi, my estranged mother and a bag of shit, and how this only partially holy trinity converged at my Koreatown home one Tuesday afternoon.
When Buster was eight days old, we invited a rabbi over to circumcise the kid. My husband – not a Jew – was okay with the snip snip but thought it was creepy to turn the whole situation into a party. Fair enough. So it was going to be just the two of us, until he started suggesting it might be nice to have my mom there, my mom who I haven’t talked to in about a year.
Just before the baby was born, a package arrived addressed to the unborn child from “Grandma Strasser.” Inside were a hand-knit orange stuffed dinosaur, a tiny sweater with pockets and a hood, and a powder blue blanket. Though she hadn’t called me since my brother told her I was pregnant, it looked as though she had been knitting ever since.
There was a note to the baby that simply said, “Grandma can’t wait to meet you.”
I cried my fucking eyes out with that orange dinosaur in my hand because I was hormonal, and it was a week before my baby was due, and my mother was reaching out in her own stilted way and while it would be nice if she could say “sorry” or “I miss you,” I stood on my stoop fully aware that some people speak with yarn.
That woman let me down in such a profound way that just the sound of her clearing her throat too loudly makes me want to toss her purse out of a moving car. Try as I may, I haven’t been able to process the backlog of anger at her even after all these years, which has made me an inpatient, puerile, irrational daughter. Yes, the woman put me on many a Greyhound bus when I was in elementary school, but I don’t know how to stop making her pay, so I just stop talking to her.
It’s kind of a mom sabbatical. I take one every few years or so.
Somehow, between the extinct knit creature’s baleful look and the post C-section narcotics, my husband convinced me that we should invite my mom to the bris.
Also, when we went to the rabbi’s website, there was a check list of things we needed for the procedure, gauze pads, kosher wine, ointment and other items the acquisition of which would have been impossible as I could still barely get up and down and my husband couldn’t leave me alone with the baby. I was a mommy and I needed my mommy. I really needed my mommy.
My husband called her for me, and as he predicted, she accepted the invite on very short notice, offered to pick up everything we needed plus a platter of bagels and lox. I could hear her voice over the phone, and the tone conjured something like enthusiasm, maybe even chirpiness. It heartened me that my chronically depressed mom would not only sound psyched, but also drive five hours from Vegas to see her new grandson at the drop of a yarmulke, salve in hand.
So, with the rabbi and my mother heading our way for the afternoon ceremony, my bowels decide, after having been removed and put back into place during surgery, to finally work after several days.
The resulting poop clogs the decrepit toilet in our old house.
At this point, I can’t bend, lift or twist. So, I sit there on the potty with my head in my hands just trying to think my way out of this mess. The rabbi and my mother are arriving in half an hour, my one-week old son is stirring in the next room with his dad, and I am both hovering over – and up – Shit’s Creek.
I am not now nor have I ever been one of those women who impress guys by being really open and carefree about their gas and bodily functions. Even writing this makes me vaguely uncomfortable. I wish I was that fart-in-your-face girl sometimes (I honestly hate even typing the word F-A-R-T), but there came a point in my 20s when I realized two things: I don’t dance and never will, and I don’t enjoy talking about gas or bowel movements, and never will. When I embraced being fundamentally inhibited, it changed my life. I am not the girl pretending to think gas is funny or grimacing my way through the Conga line at a wedding. I’m the one that insists she doesn’t poop, but instead excretes waste through her skin, like a frog. I’m the one finishing off your dinner roll and wine while YOU dance at the wedding, because YOU enjoy it. In summary, while I don’t relish being a pooper, being a “party pooper” suits me just fine. While I have few, if any, emotional boundaries, I make up for it by being private, almost proper, about the physical realm.
Never have I indicated in any way to husband, up until this moment, that anything noxious ever comes out of my ass, but now I’m fucked.
“Baby,” I yell, sheepishly, “I have a problem.” That’s when my husband rushes to the bathroom door. I start sobbing because I’m freaked out and exhausted and I don’t want this magical Jewish ritual to be marred by the smell of feces wafting through the house, my feces, and I certainly don’t want my husband seeing, smelling or experiencing my waste in any way, but I’m out of options. I scrub my hands like I can cleanse myself of this whole situation.
He hands me the baby, and runs to the garage for some sort of drain “snake.” I try to place my thoughts elsewhere, so that I can easily delete this memory in the future. I bounce the boy and look out the window at Koreatown.
There is some running back and forth from the garage to the front door, to the bathroom in back. I hear him call the plumber, who can’t make it until tomorrow. He calls the hardware store to see if they have a larger snake; they do not. I bounce the boy and watch the clock. Fifteen minutes to go.
It is at this moment that I glance outside the window again and see my husband running gingerly along the side of the house holding a bag of shit.
It takes my mind a moment to register the image (again, drugs, lack of sleep, major surgery, sudden life-changing transition to motherhood, heavy emotional family issues about to be addressed, impending removal of my baby’s foreskin).
There it is. My husband walk-running around the side of the house carrying – as one might a goldfish won from a county fair – a bag of toilet water and the offending, drain-clogging crap that he had somehow liberated from the bowel.
Nothing says your life has crossed over like seeing your husband carry a bag of your shit.
If one could die of cringing, I would have.
This is all my fault, I tell myself, for not better orchestrating my life, for having a breech baby and a C-section, for moving to this old house just weeks before the baby’s birth because I couldn’t make up my mind any sooner, for all the chaos of unpacked boxes and curtains not hung. I want everything to be slender and clean and tucked away and predictable, but I can’t go back and I smell Buster’s fuzzy head just to get a hit of the good stuff.
This, too, shall pass, I tell myself, just as that poop did through my colon.
Until now, I didn’t even discuss going number one with my husband and now I’m anxiously running to the front door to find out how it went when he hand-delivered a bag of number two to the trash can out front.
“No big deal,” he says, trying to pass it off. “All fixed.”
A tacit agreement that this didn’t happen is made.
Before the rabbi arrives, a bearded man right out of Central Casting, my mom shows up. She has been driving for hours, so her lime green linen shirt is a bit rumpled, but I can tell she has dressed up. She is carrying a plastic platter of bagels, cream cheese and lox for fifteen, as well as a bag with doubles and triples of all the items on the rabbi’s list. When she opens the door, I hug her and point to the baby, sleeping in his bouncy seat perched on the sofa. She strains to keep a neutral expression on her face, but tears are landing on her shirt. She doesn’t make a move to wipe them away, because her face is still trying to say, “This is no big deal.” I hand her the baby and she cries right onto his blankie, which she must have recognized from her months of knitting it.
“He’s beautiful,” she says. And she manages to sound a way she never has before. Maternal.
And just like that, we make small talk about Buster, his dimples, will his eye color change, did he know what terrible thing was about to happen to his pee-pee. We have a nosh. Like the unspoken agreement never to discuss the contents of the bag, my mother and I silently conspire to act as though the past year, and many of the years before that, have not been crap.
The rabbi arrives, and dips a cloth into some wine while gathering the four of us to talk about the “covenant” and the idea that a circumcision happens on the baby’s eighth day, because there is no eighth day of the week and so the concept is to transcend the earthly plane – or something like that. I don’t know. Anything a guy with a long beard who has done 15,000 snips has to say seems deep. And we give the child a Hebrew name – David – because my stepfather’s last name was Davidson and I know this will make my mom happy. When my stepfather was around, I could deal with my mother. He was a buffer, like the baby will be.
The rabbi asks my mom to hold the baby and let him suck on the wine-soaked corner of a cloth. This is anesthesia, old school style. The baby is sucking on that Manischewitz rag like maybe his gentile half is taking over, which gives us an easy laugh.
After looking around, the rabbi sets up shop on my desk, because that’s where the sunlight filters in and he wants a clear view. My husband holds the cloth in the baby’s mouth as the rabbi does his thing. Thirty seconds later, with barely a peep from the boy, it’s all over.
The rabbi gives us instructions on how and when to apply the ointment and tells us to bury the foreskin in the dirt to show God we are earthy. It feels like I’ve been sucking on a wine cloth of my own, but I’m just tipsy with a double shot of relief and gratitude; my husband not only fixed the toilet, but he at least duct-taped over the mom problem, which can never be truly repaired but can at least be patched and re-patched. Now, she isn’t just my mother, but my son’s grandmother, and I would be an asshole to rob my son of his grandma because I can’t forgive her.
The rabbi was a man gifted with babies.
He told us to stay calm, always calm, so your baby will do the same. This isn’t always easy for me, because I love that little fucker so much that the idea of making a mistake, of not knowing what he needs or failing him, the worry that something may be broken in his body or mind that I can’t fix, the idea that I don’t have the patience or sweetness or wisdom to deserve him, well, that is the big bag of shit my soul carries around.
The rabbi leaves. My mom heads back to Vegas. Later that night, I send her a photo my husband took of her holding Buster, tears dotting her green shirt, mouth slightly turned down at the corners, staring down at her first grandchild. She emails back, “Please keep the pictures coming, love Grandma.” And we bury the foreskin in the front yard.
What a beautiful post – funny and moving – I’m sitting here crying.
I’m a sucker for family reunions and while I only know bits and pieces of your situation from what you have shared (i’m sure I’ve missed some sharing), I’m so glad you were able to share this day with your mom, Buster’s grandma.
I don’t have to tell you the crazy rollercoaster of emotions having a baby brings, not to mention how it makes you think of your own parents.
I hope Buster continues to be a bridge with your mother, however it makes sense for you and your family.
Just loved it so much. I’ve been with you since ACS and the awkward win a date shows and T’s V jokes, and I’m so happy that you’ve got a baby and a man! Keep the columns coming.
Your stories are always so funny, and so real.
Thank you so much for letting us have a look into your every day life. Again, congratulations, and please keep the posts coming. I look forward to reading them, and I look forward to hearing you again on the Carolla podcasts. I’m a grown-up, but you set a great example for me! Keep it up!
Your candidness hits me like a brick. While there is so much to say about this post, the only thing I can think of is: your husband is an amazing man. It’s easy to feel loved in romantic-type moments. But true love is shown in really ugly moments. For me, it was when I lost one of my front teeth in Vegas (long, drunken story), and my husband (then boyfriend) had to take me to a dentist 30 miles off the strip, on a Saturday, and sit with me for 5 hours while I bawled my eyes out. In that moment I knew, he really loved me.
Your poop in a bag story just shows what a stand up and loving guy you have. And he also orchestrated your reunion with your mom? That’s a real man.
I love this!
Man I miss you T. I have given up on Adam’s podcast, but I check this pregnancy blog for new posts everyday. Your posts are routinely the funniest, and most insightful, things that I come across in a particular day or week. Thank you.
LOVE your writing! Could read it forever. Thanks for sharing so much with us.
i love how you are so honest about your relationship with your mom. My brother and I have not spoken for 5 months. I’m not sure what happened but everything with my family went a bit wacky once I announced I was pregnant and then had my son. I have this feeling that the boundaries get shifted when you create a new family and somehow everything falls into its rightful place..I just hope that happens sooner rather than later – because even on my best day I miss the family I once had (as dysfunctional as we might have been!)
I look forward to reading more! I think you have a book and a movie here!
T,
I clogged the toilet with my first poop after my c-section too!!! I was mortified!! To make matters worse, it was the only bathroom in my two bedroom apartment, and my in-laws were staying with us. Luckily, they were out running an errand when the deed occurred, so my amazing husband checked out the situation, determined he did not have the correct tools to remedy the situation and told his parents that HE clogged the toilet and needed to run out and buy a snake to fix it. I’ll never be able to pay him back for that.
Sounds like you have one hell of a husband too. Keep writing, you have an amazing gift!
Heather
Teresa,
I love reading your blog! I had my first child, a girl, on August 27th. I’ve been following your pregnancy along with mine, ever since you announced it on the Adam Carolla Show. Congrats on Buster! I also rarely talk to my mother – an alcoholic who basically bailed on us when I was a kid. She lives in the Bay Area and is dying of liver disease. When I told her I had a baby, she was too out of it to understand. I like to think I’ve made peace with this…but being a mother has unearthed some new feelings.
Keep the wonderful stories coming!
All the best,
Jessica in Ventura County
T you are such a gifted writer. I, too, had mom problems. Her name was Norma. At the suggestion of a friend, I started seeing her as Norma instead of Mom. What a difference a name makes. Seeing her as Norma didn’t help me forgive her, but it helped me take a step back and divorce myself from the “mom” of it all, She’s been gone for 6 years now. I will never have the mom I wanted or the mom my sister had. But in the end, when I focused on seeing her as Norma, rather than my mom, I had an interesting intellectual relationship with her.
I’ve read your blog from the beginning but never actually posted. I look forward to reading every week and find myself so disappointed when I come to find out you haven’t yet updated. You are such a talented writer. I look forward to hearing much more from you.
Hey T, so glad to finally hear about you and your little Buster! This story in particular because the difficult relationship you have w/ your mom, I too have, but w/ my Dad.
I cut my Dad out of my life, before getting married and having my baby girl, who is now 18 months. I’d love for him to get to her (forget about me), and even reached out to him recently, but he doesn’t seem to want to do that. Anyway, I’m glad it seems to be working out for you, your Mom and your baby boy. Babies do that sometime, bridge the gap of some difficult relationships.
Take care, and keep the stories coming!
I have to say – your blog moves me! I have issues w/ my Mom and gave up on her being anything other than a grandma years ago. Sadly she’s not doing so hot at that these days, either! For me and my kids I have to think “is life better with her in it or without?” Right now it’s without!
So we create our family…the 4 of us…our good friends that are now aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents. It works!
Love reading your work…don’t stop! xo
Can’t wait for a book from you. You always have me laughing or crying sometimes both like an idiot at work.
Same poop problem and my Mom and sister were in town… bummer…
My grandparents were all heinous parents and wonderful grandparents. I try and remember that myself because my older son is obsessed with My Mom even though she still drives me nuts.
I can remember that feeling, needing my Mommy. You will be so glad you are chronicling all this because even though it feels like very detail will be seared on your brain forever it seems to all exit or get revised at least my Moms was:)
Thank you for sharing
I am so happy you continue to update your blog. That was an incredible post.
I have the same issue with my mother, and I too feel that while I don’t care to repair our relationship, my son is more than welcome to one. He’s six now, and just headed off to get on a plane to go see grandma with mom for the weekend. He’s very excited and I know he’ll be spoiled rotten. His happiness is more important than the rest of it.
You made the right call T, again.
Congatulations. Great choice of name for the baby. I cringed a little over the shit in the bowl part. But you now have a lifetime worth of story, to tell about the day of your sons bris.
Teresa,
This is exactly what happened to me when my daughter, Sophia was born. I have a similar situation with my mom and when she annoys me I stop myself and think of my daughter and how important it is she has a great relationship with her Grandma. At first I was angry (jealous) because my Mom was doing all the things I wish she had down with / for me. Knowing that is a selfish way to react I reminded myself that I only want the best for my daughter. Four years later, my daughter ADORES her Grandma and they have an amazing relationship and our relationship is better than it has ever been. Don’t get me wrong, feelings of resentment and anger still bubble up, but I push it down, for my daughter.
Thanks for sharing your story. All my best to you and your family.
Jennifer
T, you put the memories on paper of when my dad FINALLY saw his grandkids for the first time (only took 7 years, you lucked out & it only took 8 days) Thank you for reminding me of this special memory, it’s wonderful that you were able to put those feelings on paper to describe it. Thank you!
That is a stunningly beautiful piece of writing.
I haven’t seen my own mother in close to four years. It happens to be our second such cycle of four year estrangements; we didn’t speak between 1993 and 1997, either.
I also have two daughters, and I ensure that they remain in touch with my mother through the thankfully willing human proxy of my husband. It’s endlessly awkward, but I didn’t want to deprive them of a perfectly decent (and she actually is, in this capacity) grandparent just because of her (still truly astounding) failings as a parent.
There is absolutely nothing I don’t love about this post. (Including the bag of poo.) I’ll be back for more stories, thank you.
I loved your dad’s letter, but this is your best personal blog yet. This is good writing. Some of the best I’ve seen you do.
Oh. my. god. that. was. brilliant.
T- this article is freaking brilliant. I cant wait to hear more of your stories on the podcast. Much love to you and your family!
Teresa ~
What a beautiful and amazing blog. I am in tears which is slightly awkward since I am at work. My childhood was also less than ideal but thankfully my mother was able to make amends. I really think that her relationship with my two children has been healing for her and for me. It’s like she got a second chance to do the things now, that she was incapable of when I was growing up. And I’m sorry, but what made me tear up at first was that your husband got rid of the “mess” in the way that he did. Wow…not that you don’t already know this but he is a keeper. What incredible love he must have for you.
Congratulations again on the birth of your son and congrats for being able to move a bit from the past, for your son and your mom…and for yourself.
Take good care,
Sue
teresa,
beautiful writing, as always. this is kind of a weird thing to say but oh well… your words and your story have made me want to be a mother more than anything else in my 31 years of life. maybe someday.
all the best.
T – you are such a great mom and an amazing writter. I hope some day you write an autobiography because I know it would be impossible to put down. Buster is lucky to have you as a mom!
T–of all of you posts/articles you’ve written..this one makes me misty
hey teresa read and loved the story. i too have severeal unforgivable issues with my parents and it is shocking when their first grandchild is born how it affects the relationship between you and your parents. u realize now there is truly an innocent casualty to be suffered if you guys cant try to get along and that kind of puts a buffer there between you two. and dont worry about ur son. he has you teo as parents and you will be fine. and dont worry about giving him the things that you never had as a child growing up because the fact that you never received them is the exact reason why you WILL make sure that he receives them. yeah youll make ur own litle screw ups here and there but hey i say a little family disfunction here and there lets you understand it just a little more. gratz teresa take care and good luck cuz we all need it
This was so moving, and not just because I am hormonal and 38.5 weeks pregnant. Hope you publish a book, but this post can stand on its own as a short story. Wishing you all the very, very best.
I recently noticed stretch marks and proceeded to cry my eyes out for days. My husband said I am only doing this cause I read your post. Whereas I admire you very much, I assured him I could do without this similarity. First, he said I am making it up and there is nothing there. Next morning, he said, “see, it’s much better already!” While I appreciate his efforts very much, I just can’t get over it. Please tell me this all ceases to matter in an instant.
Polina -
I promise you the stretch mark thing is probably not as bad as you think it is. Now that the kid it out, I barely notice my one stretch mark and I truly don’t care about my C-section scar, which ain’t pretty, but kind of is. This isn’t because I am no longer vain (though I obviously can’t focus as much time on my imperfections as I used to), it’s because it’s not so bad, truly.
In time, this is all nothing a spray tan can’t fix. Hang in there. You are so close.
Oh, I really hope you’re right, though I don’t think I am getting away with just one. You and your baby look so beautiful. Looking forward to more of your writing and more pictures.
Good thing your husband isn’t Jewish… my Jew Boy would not have done well with the toilet situation. “What? There isn’t anyone I can call to fix this situation???”
Beautiful writing, as usual. Brought tears to my eyes
Mazel Tov
Hey Amy:
WRONG!
I can tell you there are plenty of “Jew Boys” that would handle T’s situation just as adept as T’s husband did.
Not to take any credit away from him because he handled it perfectly, but I know plenty of men of the Jewish faith and culture that would have been absolutely comfortable with the same circumstances. Perhaps yours as well!!!
It’s pretty hard to imagine calling a story that starts with a clogged toilet as “lovely” but it was.
I’m eleven weeks along, and the imagery of your mother’s gifts and her reactions to meeting your son for the first time, and the description of your relief, has me in tears too. It’s easy to relate all the family rifts in our own lives to yours, and hoping in some part of my heart that a new child can help mend them as well.
All the best to you and your new family.
Brilliant. Beautiful. Period.
Goddamn that was well written! Great job T, you nailed it.
Now get Batman to watch Buster for an hour and twenty and go sit on Adam’s couch. Adam needs the boost, he’s struggling for good guests lately. Some of the recent podcasts have been un-listenable. You always deliver. Miss you.
That was beautiful. I forwarded it to my pregnant sister who converted to Judaism years back and who I think is not speaking to my extremely exhausting mother.
Gorgeous story, T.
wow, what a great story. thanks for sharing. let the healing begin!! (multiple puns for baby, you, and grandma intended!).
This is beautiful, Teresa. I hope you and your mom have a healed relationship due to the arrival of your son. Your writing brings tears to my eyes. Thank you for sharing!
Do you read dooce.com? You two would have a whole lot to talk about.
And yes, beautiful post. Congrats
That was such a beautiful and beautifully written piece. Thanks so much for sharing your personal … stuff!
aaaaaaw gurl i totally teared up!
Incredibly moving and beautiful. And that husband of yours… he’s a keeper.
Wow, thank you for sharing!
I’m sitting here at my computer with tears streaming down my face.
Lady, you are one strong woman and Buster is lucky to have you. I assure you, you will not let him down.
Sitting at the computer, nursing my 3 month old as I read. I must admit I welled up when Grandma walked in the door. Thank you for sharing this story and for continuing to bring little pieces of happiness via the internet.
Very happy for you and ‘grandma’. Hope your relationship with her continues for Buster to enjoy!
I love reading your blog, and listening when are with Adam on the podcast! Keep it up!
My 2nd son is 7 months old now and I loved reading about your pregnancy after mine was over! I will now continue to read as you raise Buster! Good Luck!
That was such a touching story. Your openness and honesty about it all is refreshing. It was perfect. I cant wait to read more about your baby adventures.
T,
A belated congratulations on your son. A touching story, and I’m happy that you and your mother were able to make peace. I look forward to your return to the Carolla podcast. We’ve missed you.
lovely as ever! Thanks for sharing, T!
Teresa,
That is such a touching story. I am sitting here with goosebumps. You are a wonderful woman and Buster is SO lucky to have you.
Congratulations.
Betsy