soopastryheart

When I was little, I was excited about college before I was ever excited about high school. There was no option of not going; college was just in the natural progression of my life, like puberty and menopause. I’d dream about what it’d be like on a big campus, surrounded by romantic ivy-wrapped buildings and gothic architecture. I’d dream about getting into a heated argument in an ethics class with a stubborn yet handsome boy who I’d eventually date. I dreamed about lecture halls and late night study sessions at the library. I dreamed about meet-cutes at the coffee kiosk, dorms, bookstores, and political rallies.

I was more than convinced that my life, or the “life that counted” wouldn’t start until college, so anything before it would be idle time, a holding room until college was ready for me. College would be a time of great growth and self-learning, and I would come out of it as confident as I could ever be. And I’d meet amazing people; people who would change my life just by being part of it, enriching it with their unique personalities and perspectives. These would be friends who would become part of my wedding party, friends who’d support me through my divorce(s), friends who would know me better than I would know myself. Yes, I was positive that college was going to provide me with this; college would cater to me. And college would be everything I envisioned, everything I had created in my head, because it had to – I had been putting everything off in anticipation of this great life.

Except, there was no ivy, and there were no creepy statues. That heated ethics argument was with an angry lesbian, not a Rivers Cuomo-esque type of boy. The lecture halls were at 7:30 in the morning with 530 overeager, overcompetitive, equally high-strung pre-med students. Study sessions at the library were not glamorous; falling asleep face first in my biochemistry book at one in the morning was not the image I had pictured. Waking up to a page fused to my cheek was neither cute nor charming, especially if drooling was involved.

Because I was/am psychotic and have terrible time management skills, the middle years of college were pretty damn miserable; I was taking on far too many classes than I could sanely handle. I’d leave the apartment at eight in the morning, only to return fourteen hours later to sit at my desk, desperately trying to retain the information on the pages and notes before me. It was here that I developed my erratic sleeping habits (I once briefly fell asleep on the stretching mats on the main floor of the IMA), the ones that I ultimately blame for my insomnia now.

Needless to say, with all the sleep depravation and overwhelming course load, I wasn’t the most pleasant person to be around. On top of it all (because I’m also a masochist), I started to take on the opening shifts at work – which meant waking up at 4:30 in the morning. I figured if I wasn’t sleeping, I should be making some money at it. I was tired and cranky all the time to the point where my own parents were too nervous to call, in case I snapped. I turned down weekend invites from friends, flaked out countless of times, and gave plenty of bullshit excuses about my absences.

Gradually, the calls and invites dwindled. I didn’t blame my friends – I was so unreliable and scatter-brained that I completely understood their annoyances. A commitment from me meant nothing, and people were genuinely surprised at the times I did show face. I knew I was being a terrible friend, but I was too busy and far too tired to care. I would run into once-close friends and they would give me a Cliff’s notes version of the happenings of their lives and I started to realize how much I was missing out, how much I was drifting away from them. The close group of friends I had always envisioned was disappearing before my very eyes, sailing away on the we-balance-it-all-just-fine ship, while I was stuck at the harbor, being viciously attacked by lab reports. At the rate I was going, I had barely anyone to invite to my wedding(s), let alone ask to be my bridesmaids.

It wasn’t until I went back to a reasonable number of credits a quarter and started sleeping in places other than crosswalks and stoplights that I came to full awareness of my lack of a college experience. Everything I had preplanned had gone kaput and my social circle was on the brink of extinction. I barely knew a life outside of organic chem labs and office hours. I knew going in to college that the academics would have to be a priority, but I never expected it to swallow my life so entirely. And more importantly, I never anticipated that I would do so poorly balancing everything. This wasn’t the me I had seen in my premonitions – I was supposed to be enviously well-rounded and successful. I was supposed to be the one everyone looked at and went, ‘wow, that girl has her shit together’, not the one who continuously stepped in it.

I was facing, or thought I was facing a whole new challenge: trying to incorporate myself back into my friends’ lives. I knew how selfish and presumptuous I was being – I was basically saying to them, ‘Hey, remember me? I know I didn’t have time for you guys before, but here I am now, so let’s just pick up where we left off, eh?’. I half-expected to be shunned, or in the very least, ignored when my name suddenly popped up on their incoming call logs.

But because I had once again grossly underestimated how amazing these people were, I struggled to hide my shock when they did indeed, accept me back with open arms. No questions were asked. No prerequisites had to be fulfilled. I never had to beg for forgiveness and repentance because they required no apologies. These were people who understood friendship to be more than what I had superficially gathered and created in my head. And while they tried to convince me otherwise, I felt completely undeserving of such love, kindness, and understanding.

It’s no reach to say that I can be quite… slow when it comes to understanding human affections. It’s easy to trust the people around me, but even easier to not. Sadly, I think I’ve always approached people with an air of skepticism and cautiousness. And while that has certainly provided me with a sheath of protection against unsavory characters, it has also in turn, prevented me from getting close to those who truly warrant trust.

I finally took the time to analyze where I had gone wrong in my planning. I already had years of college past me, the so-called ‘life’ I had been so eagerly anticipating that would provide me with all the experiences that I thought I was supposed to have… only to find out that I was coming up utterly empty-handed. Besides the sleepless nights and vicious caffeine abuse, I had very little evidence of this great college life. I had not grown wiser or felt any assurance that I was evolving as a human being; in fact, I felt just as lost, empty, and frustrated as ever. I was learning to deal with the stress and workload better. I was learning about crossbreeds of fruit flies and how to write an effective thesis, but I remained as emotionally retarded as I had always been.

The problem was, I was looking at those expected experiences – including friendships – systematically. I had created a to-do list of sorts; a grocery list of everything I thought I needed to achieve within a specific timeline. What took me a long time for me to learn was that you couldn’t predict and plan what and how much you’ll learn from any particular event, no matter how much you wanted it to. Life is like Delta Airlines; it never runs on schedule. Experiences can’t be evaluated and appraised. There is no checklist.

The problem with learning an unintentional lesson is that you panic and try to overcompensate. But I was smart enough to understand that if I were to do so, I would once again be forcing circumstances in hopes of retaining some sort of wisdom. I wasn’t going to try to throw myself into playing catch-up, because clearly, that had backfired tremendously.

I vowed to stop being carried away by clichéd expectations, and just learn from the greatest teachers around me – my friends. In them I saw all the qualities I admired most. They were successfully tackling responsibility without being bogged down and overwhelmed. They approached life and friendship with a grace and kindness I could only ever hope to achieve, with unrestricted hearts. And although I still felt like I had a lot of work to do to deserve their companionship, they never made me feel like I had to earn it.

I recently returned from an outrageous trip to Vegas with an amazing group of friends. Some were new, and some I had known for years, but we all embarked on a weekend adventure worthy of a screenplay (involved: missing teeth and near bitch-brawls at a McDonald’s drive-thru). Together we laughed until our sides began to cramp, doubled over with tears streaming down our alcohol-flushed cheeks. We sat with each other on the bathroom floor while we regurgitated the contents of the buffet, and looked out for one another even when we were barely able to walk ourselves. And while many of the details remain fuzzy (much thanks to the notorious amount of Goose consumed), I know I returned home with a renewed sense of camaraderie and love for those I cherished (as well as a remorseless hangover).

More than ever, I want to be the person who deserves the friends I have. I want to be able to contribute and give just as much, if not more, the love, patience, and support my friends have always given me. It is thanks to them, and not the hours logged at the tutoring center, that I feel I am becoming the person I had always hoped I would be.

What’s that overworked saying? Life is what happens when you’re busy making plans? In my case especially, that adage seems to be an undeniable truth. I had been trying to force my life to happen according to a preconceived list of expectations. It didn’t have to be that hard. The stories began to write themselves once I stopped pushing for the plot. The characters were always there, better than anything I could have generated. All I had to do was stop being such a freaking basket case.

To everyone, from my formerly-scrawny-ass-white-boy-now-a-meathead best friend, to my beautiful Bewbie (who I’d like to joke that with her blonde hair and blue eyes, probably owned half a dozen slaves in a former life), to the entire Vegas crew, to the group I share a loss and heartache with, to everyone who has tolerated me and allowed me to stick around, I could never convey the gratitude and fortune I feel by being permitted to call you my friends. I am truly blessed to know so many beautiful souls, and with your love and guidance, I will continue to strive to be a person worthy of your friendship.

I worked at a gym throughout college. This gym offered a daycare center for its members, and this daycare center was located just yards away from the front desk, my unofficial designation. We shared a wall. There was no door.

On good days, I’d watch tiny toddlers wash the windows with their tongues or attempt to fit an entire jam-covered fist in their jam-covered mouths. On not-so-good days, I’d watch kids pick their noses with their thumbs (and then ever so delicately, deposit the nasal treasures in their mouths) and purposely dump entire Ziploc bags of Cheerios on the floor for no other reason than wanting to watch me sweep it up. On the I-don’t-get-paid-enough-for-this-shit days, these kids made me question my inner sociopath – I would regularly warn my boss that I was thisclose to attacking them with a Bosu. These kids could scream (without provocation) with impressive bravado, without so much as a hiccup for air, and all I could do was sit on my hands and keep from reaching for anything that could be used as a weapon (barbells, phone cords, staplers, etc).

This gym’s clientele catered to the Range Rover/second home in Whistler/wine club demographic. These were people who thought it was perfectly okay to name their kids after exotic spices and herbs or Shakespearean characters (Orsenio? Really?). It was not an odd occurrence to see 3-year-old Cassia wearing a pair of True Religions or carrying around a bottle of Voss, so I was used to their general lack of awareness for adult authority. If I asked repeatedly for Sage or Titus to cease banging against the glass doors with their iPods, they would only respond by tapping into their inner Travis Barker, and promptly banging harder and louder.

Saturday mornings were the worst because kids too old for daycare were still allowed to sit in the lobby (an area directly adjacent to my workspace). These were the kids on a private school power trip. They would raise the volumes on the cartoons to a point where I would be yelling through the phone (on rare occasions I could hear it ring). They would wipe assorted nasal secretions on the couches, walls, and each other. I watched a girl head-butt another and fought like hell to contain my laughter when it was revealed the recipient of said head-butt had chipped a tooth. On more than one occasion, a kid shit his pants – a kid who had to be no less than seven-years-old to be sitting in the big kids club lobby.

With every blood-curling scream and sudden wave of suspicious smells, I could feel my ovaries shrink, my fallopian tubes coil, and my uterus shouting “oh hay-ell nah”. I found little use for birth control – the Saturday morning shift had all but assured my legs would remain firmly locked at the knees.

Eventually, I conditioned myself to tune it out. The screaming, the yelling, the pooping, it all became white noise (and white smell?). Daycare was beyond my job description, and definitely beyond my pay grade. They were not my responsibility or my obligation. If they wanted to practice high kicks on each other’s faces, who was I to stop them? Trainees would stare at me with wide-eyed admiration and asked me how I seemed oblivious to the pint-sized gladiators. I just shrugged and explained how to replace the paper roll on the credit card machine.

I don’t want to make it sound like every kid who came into daycare was a foot soldier of Satan, because there were a few who didn’t make me want to commit violent crimes. I even ended up regularly babysitting for two boys who not only refrained from regularly testing their lung capacities, but also were charmingly polite and well mannered.

See, it’s not that I’m bad with kids. Quite the contrary in fact – I was eleven when my mom dropped the bomb that she was pregnant (at 39, no less), and twelve when Honie rolled into our lives. I changed diapers. I gave baths. I temperature-tested breast milk. I became accustomed to being shushed whenever she was napping. I gritted my teeth when she tore the head off a Barbie doll I had for over a decade. I tolerated her eating my 20-dollar lip balm.

On the rare occasions my parents make the mistake of asking when they should expect grandchildren, I retort by asking if they’re okay with Honie being a teen mom. I point to my mom’s stretch marks, shake my head, and say, “no thank you”. I tell them that I’d be the type of mother you hear about on the news, ones who drive around for blocks with the baby in the car seat on top of the car. Kids are messy. Kids are expensive. Kids are a pain in the ass. Kids I can handle for a few hours at a time, but every hour of every day? I think I’d rather have my fingernails torn off by a pair of rusty pliers. Or subjected to a marathon of Jersey Shore.

And while I can sit here and joke about all the ways I would be an unfit mother, the truth is, they are all excuses to the real reason I am more than a little hesitant about becoming a parent. The real reason? I am fucking terrified of that responsibility.

You know that gut-twisting cloud of doubt and fear that washes over you when you get pulled over? As you see the patrolman walking towards you in your side-view mirror, you rewind your brain for an instant replay, trying to pinpoint all the mistakes you may have made. Maybe you were speeding or didn’t come to a full stop… but suddenly, you’re irrationally worried about crimes you haven’t committed, as if you have a dead body stuffed in the trunk, next to the twenty-kilo of coke. The point is, whenever I get pulled over, I am immediately overwhelmed with the things I have not done. Logic and sanity escape me. I panic. I am ready to confess to murder.

So multiply that by a hundred and that’s how I feel about being a mother, a parent, a human being wholly and indisputably responsible for the growth and well being of another.

Wait Soo, I thought you had aspirations to be a pediatric cardiac surgeon?

Yes, I see how you could be confused. In terms of having another life in your hands, it doesn’t get more metaphorical or literal than that. Going in there, repairing whatever damage to extend and improve the quality of living… that’s life in the biological sense. I could take on that challenge. But the life outside the hospital, the life before and after the trip to the OR, that’s the kicker. I have to worry about the technical stuff, you, the parent, get to worry about everything else. I don’t have to worry about how much television your kids watch or which college-preparatory school is the best. My opinion would only be medical, meaning you’re on your own with the rated R movie debate. Your daughter’s nose ring is irrelevant to me, unless it develops an infection.

I would mew over every decision, major or minor, worrying that I would make the incorrect one. I would make pro/con lists about sleepovers or little leagues. Sure, toddler t-ball could teach teamwork and promote healthy habits, but what if he clubs himself in the face? What if the coach is a pervert? How do parents handle the stress? How do they stop themselves from becoming paranoids, or talk themselves down from creating highly improbable, totally fictional situations?

The truth is, I am far too much of a nut job to be a good parent.

If I had chosen the private school over the public, could my kid have gone to Harvard and found a cure for cancer and AIDS? Did I stunt a growing prodigy when I pulled her out of those piano lessons? If Theodus gets injured in a freak peewee soccer game that cripples him for life, could I ever forgive myself?

And even if you mean well, even with the best intentions, what about all the latent things kids pick up from their parents? If I were short with the barista, would my kid subconsciously learn to belittle others? If after a particularly frustrating phone call with my mother, I roll my eyes and call her crazy, would I be unintentionally giving my kid permission to do the same to me someday? What about all the traits and habits I inadvertently pass on by simply being me?

Learning by osmosis. That’s what I’m afraid of. I’ve seen it first hand. My mom and I didn’t think twice about censoring our dressing room conversations when Honie tagged along during our shopping excursions. My mom would point out the unflattering cut of the skirt, saying it made my thighs look big. I would vocally acknowledge the pudge developing around my mid-section, and my mom would suggest I lay off the dorm food a bit. Honie was little, just starting to read her hand-me-down Dr. Seuss books, and it never crossed my mind that she was absorbing it all in. It wasn’t until a few months later when she refused to wear certain clothes citing “caveman arms” and “muffin top” as reasons that I realized the kind of effect my absentminded opinions had on her.

And I was horrified. She was just a kid – barely being able to tie her shoelaces or pour milk in her cereal without spilling half the carton on the countertop – and already I had accidentally installed in her my insecurities and superficiality. I didn’t want that for her; I didn’t want to teach her anything that I remotely disliked about myself. Honie was going to be a masterpiece, a precocious and refined work of art. She was going to be sassy and smart. She was going to be classy and ladylike, and independent and strong. Basically, she was going to achieve everything I had attempted and failed. She was going to get it right, and I would lead her. I would be her Jiminy Cricket, her fairy godmother, her yellow brick road.

But as soon as I realized that Honie not only learned but also understood what it meant to be insecure, I knew I had already failed. I had already made a dent in her perfection. And worst of all, I had no idea I was doing so.

I don’t know how my parents, or any parents for that matter – do what they do without going completely crazy. There are so many ways to screw up your kid, intentional or not – so how do you raise them without doubting every choice you make? How do you protect without being overbearing? What things can you blatantly teach your kid and what things do you allow experiences to teach? When do you push? When do you pull back? How do you balance everything so your kid has the best chance? How do you stop worrying? How do you know you’re doing it right? Or is it just a blind shot, hoping for the best?

Honie will be thirteen in June. Thirteen. Teen. The chubby cheeks are gone. So is the waddling. The days of subjecting her to ridiculous outfits, trying to get her to unknowingly say “asshole” and “fucktard”, and blaming her for surprise farts are long gone. These days, she’s perfected the art of the condescending eye roll and has an entire wardrobe centered around skinny jeans and Chuck Taylors. Suddenly, I’m hearing phrases like, “leave me alone” and “that’s private” (both usually followed up by, “…you psycho”). I am reminded, a little more everyday, that she has approached an age where I will have to begin to respect the fact that she has secrets. My role as the primary confidant and advice-giver is being slowly phased out and substituted by her friends. And sometimes, I take a step back to wonder… how much of me is incorporated in who she has become? How much have I influenced her? How much have I accidentally taught her? Has she learned anything from me at all? When she makes a mistake that eerily resembles one I made at her age, I question whether or not I should have helped prevent it. When I catch her being a little more than snippy with my mom, I can’t reprimand her without feeing guilty and hypocritical.

And I don’t think I’ll be able to escape the lure of naming my kids after French songstresses or great novels (is Gatsby too much?). I too have fought the urge to buy Honie a pair of $100 Ugg boots when she couldn’t even walk up the stairs. My mom has assured me that all kids pick their noses. And most of them wipe them incongruous places, so I shouldn’t expect mine to be different. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it if my kid’s preschool teacher tells me that my kid has developed a habit of shaking a turd out of his pants. I don’t think I’ll be able to hide my disappointment when my kids aren’t baby-geniuses, cello sensations, or Nobel Prize winning ambassadors. And more than anything, I’ll be crushed if my kids turn out anything like me.

This is why I can’t imagine becoming a mother. If anything, I need to spare the world, limit the possibility of having more neurotic lunatics like me running around.

I mean, could you imagine?