Just a wee piece I wrote nearly three years ago about SeaBass and I.
Sea Bass Mama
I had a daydream yesterday as I was swirling my fingers around in the murky depths of our toilet: I was 22, I had my own apartment, and I told my future husband I loved him in the wee hours following my birthday party that evening. Everything was clean, beautiful, new, and shiny. Love—not just lust—but true love feels like that. I snap out of my daydream, and realize that it was all a lie; all those events did happen, they did feel like love, and they were actually a memory, not a daydream to escape into as my knees begin to ache on the bathroom floor. No, real love is swishing your 15-month-old’s poo-crusty diaper in the toilet, because there is no one else on this planet, galaxy, or universe that I love enough to do this. This is nasty. This is the wrong end of Italian bean soup I lovingly made for my family. And lovingly wiped up after it was flung at the floor with a smile. And lovingly washed away amidst the banshee screams from my son’s face.
Before I go on about what real love is and all the crap you expect to hear from a new mom, let me state this quite clearly: love and being dope-slapped into the bizarre world of parenting go hand in hand, and they’re both exceedingly messy, tiring, and frustrating. I am not a model parent. You will not see me in Gymboree. You won’t find me on the pages of a local parenting rag. You will, however, see me toting my little poo-flinger in a wrap down to the river on a sunny day so we can nurse and I can flash my breasts in public (the real goal of nursing mothers worldwide; we all hope to get into National Geographic or on the news or thrown off of airplanes for indecent exposure).
It has come to my attention, however, that I am not alone in my alternative parenting style. Apparently, there are other mothers and parents in this beer-soggy burg that also enjoy being part of a fringe group that use cloth diapers, make their own baby food, and generally try to live simple, thrifty, and socially responsible lifestyles. We keep a low profile, however, as we’re the same people that are hard to advertise to; my son got his junk mail within 2 weeks of his birth and we’ve been getting it since. He’s a fresh, potential consumer, easily marketed and marketable, and I’m wearing a sweater I’ve had since 1996. But I digress.
Here’s the thing: punk parenting isn’t easy, but it’s a hard-won satisfaction that is reinforced by the idea that I can raise an individual who isn’t a cog, who doesn’t take the easy way out, who can choose what he wants (I have a son, so I’m going to use the pronoun ‘he’, but you’re welcome to use whatever pronoun—if any—you want) to do with his life. I’m trying to teach him this in little ways, without creating animosity toward the freshly-scrubbed faces within the mainstream parenting world by showing him as much of his world as I can, as openly as I can.
For example, I was pulling Sea Bass (obviously not his real name, nor is it connected to the mean-spirited trucker in “Dumb and Dumber”) along in his red wagon on a post-holiday consumption walk, when what should I spy but a slightly stained coffeemaker on a neighbor’s lawn. This handy appliance was re-packaged in its replacement’s box (which had a few dangly bits of Xmas wrap on it); apparently the older model had been chucked for one with a few more bells and whistles. I could feel my fingers twitching. It had been months since my last big curb score (a pressed-board shelving system that now holds all our winter garb), and I wasn’t about to let this one slip by. However, in my nearly 10 years of scavenging and dumpster diving, I’ve learned a few caveats about the general consuming public:
A. If it works, but the former owner doesn’t want anyone else to have it (and they’re getting rid of it), the odds are high that they’ll purposely sabotage the item; i.e.: cut the cord on the appliance, break the glass bits, pour water on it, purposely put it out in the rain/extreme cold/heat, dump nasty trash on it, etc.
B. They’re lazy. Even if it can be fixed (re-wiring a plug on a lamp, for example), they probably won’t bother. Although, sadly, many conscientious consumers understand planned obsolescence and don’t give their products a second thought after they fail.
C. They love the newest and best. Case in point, my new old coffeemaker.
I did a brief inspection of the cast-off: carafe unbroken, cord intact, burner plate still attached. A thorough washing and a bottle of vinegar later, said coffeemaker is in perfect, working condition in its new home, happily percolating for some very grateful caffeine junkies.
I would like to add that my son looked at me like I was asking him to get out and push when I nudged the coffeemaker behind him in the wagon. “Baby, isn’t this exciting? We found a coffeemaker!” This was followed up with a worried half-whine/grunt and an impatience wiggle (as in, “Fine, good, I’m glad for you and the box. Can we please keep moving now that my already very small testicles are currently non-existent in this 20 degree weather?).
To me, this is showing my son what love is. It’s walking instead of driving, it’s re-using other people’s throw-aways, it’s swishing a cloth diaper cover in the toilet so that, in some small way, I’m giving him a friendlier, smarter, healthier world that he is happy to call his home.
