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.
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Tags: Bad Moms, Craziness, Moms, motherhood
I have read quite a few blogs pertaining to the various experiences mothers old and new alike have when presented with the joys of motherhood and the lack of luck when it comes to the timing of events…and I will say, as a mother of two, this was one of the most honest ones I have read. Motherhood forces you to face the most awkward of situations wether you want to or not. Your story rings very familiar to me as I have faced very similiar tasks and celebrated small triumphs. Good luck to you and congradulations!
T,
I always was a fan of yours on the radio show, and have only recently started reading your blogs. They are amazing to read, as I am about to be a parent myself in December.
Your wit and timing are great. I still laugh about one of my favorite jokes of yours on the radio show with some news story about cats dying; Adam made a reference to a concentration camp for cats, and you promptly made up “Meow-schwitz”
After hearing all the stuff that you went through to get to this point, I’m really glad you found what you were looking for. Congratulations.
Fabulous story. I look forward to hearing how things evolve with your mom.
P.S. Has she ever read your blog?
beautiful. you and your writing. it brought tears to my eyes. <3
Call back to your baby’s name – our baby is also named Nathan, but just Nathan and not Nathaniel – too cool. Knew there was a reason I fell in love with my favorite lefty news lady.
If I wasn’t happily married, I’d have driven to LA and swooped you up based on your first year with my main man ACE. I know you’ll be a great Mom and happy with Batman – mazaltov (don’t know if I spelled that right since I’m not Jewish).
Hugs & Kisses and can’t wait to hear you on another podcast with Adam.
Teresa,
You write so beautifully. I almost felt like I was right there with you. Sounds like Batman is a total keeper…love that he stepped right in and took care of “stuff”. : ) Hope Mommyhood is going well…congratulations on your little boy!
You are a fantastic writer, Teresa. That’s a beautiful and beautifully told story. I have a daughter who is nearing two years old and I still feel the exact same way you describe in those last few paragraphs. You and Buster and your husband will be fine – whatever comes your way. You’re a beautiful family. Congratulations!
T that was so beautifully written and funny. What a romantic and comic moment you described as you see with horror your man dashing across the yard carrying the slain beast. That is a testament to love.
And I’m glad you were been given a glimpse of your mother in a loving light which you wrote so well it brought tears to my eyes.
Great story, compelling and rich (Bald Bryan drop, but not sarcastic). I loved it. I just relistened to the episode of TACS (12-12-09) where your therapist offered you $1,000,000 if you didn’t bond with Buster and I am very happy to hear that she will not have to pay up
Congratulations to you and Batman!
that. was. hilarious. and very sweet. but mostly I want to point out the hilarious. I laughed so hard I cried and couldn’t breathe for a minute. I needed that laugh today.
on a more serious note, glad you’ve found a bit of peace with your mother.
Dear Teresa,
As one of your fans, who is also a rabbi, I loved this, as I loved you on Adam’s show, and still on his podcast. (I can’t wait to hear you again on it!)
Mazel tov to y’all!
David
Great post. You are a very good writer. You should post that picture of your mom holding buster, with her permission, of course.
I am so glad to finally have a new entry to read. I just found out I am 9 weeks pregnant (already have a 1 yr old) and have not felt anything was funny enough to laugh at in a while, until I read this. I laughed and cried and cringed a little. You are so raw and honest, which is a breath of fresh air. It lets you know that you’re not the only one who has crappy days (sorry no pun intended) lol. I think it is beautiful to see how much you love your little guy. I remember you being worried you wouldn’t love it enough. Well now you understand everything we’ve been trying to tell you this whole time. I can’t wait to read more of your motherhood experiences (because believe me… they get better!!) Hope you keep them coming!
It made me cry too…because you are absolutely hilarious AND because I can relate to your crappy mom situation. Sometimes you do just have to deal with it.
Amen.
Everyone has family baggage, yet like you said…bury the foreskin and move on. The trials of your youth made you who you today – an amazing mom. Couldn’t be happier for you.
And here I thought I was the only woman in the world who witnessed my husband carrying my shit in a bag out to the trash (after having flung it out the bathroom window first – he said the warmth made him queasy). I don’t know if I cried harder when I saw that or when I passed the post-surgery atrocity that clogged the toilet in the first place and made our bathroom smell like an outhouse at Girl Scout camp.
Love it, raw and real. Just like you. Enjoy every morsel.
one of the best blogs i’ve read in a long time, thank you
i had some cysts removed and didn’t poo for a week. at least u have a little baby as reward for your suffering. the only thing i had to bring me joy was a bag of suppositories. fun stuff!
You made me laugh out loud and cry sympathetically, all within 20 seconds. I do hope you are recording every moment with Buster for your bestseller!
How our newborns teach us new things — besides being a “mom”! Keep following David’s and his Dad’s leads, they’re getting some of it right now. Take advantage of it, because it won’t last forever — ha!! The love does though!!!
Bonnie
Teresa,
Did you receive the onesie, “Son of a Witch”, my husband sent for Buster? He always comes up with the most thoughtful gifts and had it made for you. Hope you enjoy it!
Truly your best entry. Your husband is a keeper.
Add my “AWESOME” to the list. Great work. Thank you!
Teresa,
Congratulations on your son, and thanks for the wonderful blog entry. Batman is a gem, and I hope you and your mom can let go of the past and enjoy little Nathaniel. I’ll bet she surprises you.
Ann
I know “ritualistic genital mutilation” sounds bad, but that’s literally what you just did. (Albeit not in the same ballpark as the female variety.)
And at least he isn’t scarred for life. Er, wait… actually he is. Oh well, at least he is at slightly lower risk for certain diseases.
And thankfully he seems to have avoided the many horrific possible complications of this ancient, barbaric operation.
Oh please……………..
You are too much! Go away Bellingham!
T.
That was one of the most beautiful essays I’ve ever read. Thank you.
Wow…what a great blog. Mom stuff always gets me especially. Perhaps that’s the way. She’s a new person now “Grandma,” and the other lady no longer exists.
Wow, that’s some heavy shit. Made me cry, too…
To Everyone there: Blessings!
Your husband is the best.
goosebumps and tears. happy for you.
Again… tears!
You are great.
Out of curiosity, have you ever read the book The Drama of the Gifted Child? It’s about peoples’ relationships with their parents. It’s very terse, but also very short. I would highly recommend it.
Beautiful.
Oh my goodness – I think this is my favorite entry on your blog. Beautifully written! I love the part about Buster being the buffer between you and your mom. That’s exactly what my boys are between my mom and me. And seriously, the poop stuff – hysterical! For someone who doesn’t like to talk about anything number related coming out of your body, you sure did a fabulous job!! And your husband rocks!!
Keep up the blogging, please! I love it!
Thank you Teresa. This was raw and beautiful, and overwhelmed me with emotion.
Please do not stop blogging! I love you and your honesty and I really enjoy it. Thank you for your work!
Teresa – You are such an amazing writer. I told my husband last night (he’s the one who pointed me to your website) that you are the David Sedaris of female writers. I really really think you should gather these stories and market them as a collection after Buster’s a year old. They are soooo good! I am currently pregnant and having complications so I’m stuck in the hospital. Reading your post just helped me remember that this is all worth it. Thanks!
You are such a remarkable writer, Teresa. Now I’ve got tears dotting MY shirt, and I know I’m not the only one. I’d pre-order your book in a heartbeat.
Teresa,
I don’t know you but after listening to AC for so many years, I feel like I do. I am compelled to tell you, in the LEAST weirdest way possible, that I love you. So many of your radio conversations and posts on this blog have helped me personally and not because I am a mom or pregnant. I am 24 and finding my way through life with my new fiance and our two dogs. Even though I don’t share your motherhood experience, hearing you be so honest about everything helps me to be more honest in my own life. Being so courageously true to yourself, right down to writing about your husband experiencing your poop in a very personal way, is what we all need more of today… well not the poop part particularly but the honesty part
There is so little honesty in the media… Thanks for being a friend to me even though it’s unintentional. I hope I can be half the woman you are.
That’s it. It’s time for you to write a book…NOW. If you’ve ever read Jenny McCarthy’s crappy, bestselling pregnancy/baby books, you’ll know that the genre is in serious need of more good writers. This entry made me cry. Lovely and human and real.
You are an amazing writer, and yeah I cried while I read this. Congrats to you and Batman. I can’t wait to hear you on the podcast when you are able to.
thank you. that is great. grandmothers are a blessing – even if not always to their own children, they become different women around their grands (and great-grands, as i’ve been able to witness). i’m so happy for you (and your names are impeccable – as i’m a mother to a nate, and wife to a david).
remember your sense of humor is going to carry you through a lot of crap with buster, your husband, your mother, and everyone else.
Wow.. beautiful. I cried twice!
Teresa,
I’ve checked your blog every day since the birth of your son and anxiously await the next post. Although the delay in posting is TOTALLY understandable, I feel as if you’ve made up for the “month off” by this incredible story. I don’t remember crying so hard reading a blog entry before. You are nothing short of amazing and I’m rooting HARD for you, Batman and Buster over here.
Just another ACS/podcast devotee.
Thank you for sharing that wonderful private story. It was both hilarious and touching.
I wish you much luck with your relationship with your mom. I know from experience how difficult the relationship between a mom and daughter can be.
Congratulations on the birth of your son. : )
A hospital is being audited by the IRS. The CFO patiently answers all of the questions the auditor sends his way… “When you get to the end of a roll of guaze, and there’s not enough to use for a procedure, what do you do?”
The CFO answers, “We save up all the scraps, and at the end of the year we send them back to the manufacturer and the send us a complete roll in exchange.”
“OK…”, the auditor muses, what about the plaster you use for setting casts? What happens when you get to the bottom of a jar and with that little bit that’s left over?”
“Same thing…”, the CFO answers, “we save all that up, send it back to the manufacturer every year, and they send us a whole jar!”
“Alrighty then. What do you do with all those foreskins you have left over after circumcisions?”
The CFO pauses… looks the auditor dead square in the eyes and says, “Actually, we save up all those foreskins, and we send them to the IRS… and once a year they send us a complete dick!”
I really loved this, made me cry! I’ve been a huge fan of yours for years from the Adam Carolla Radio Show. Congrats on your beautiful baby.
This made me cry. So glad you are blogging.