Prof. Michael Carolan
Draft Three
New Moms Are Better Than Old Moms
New Is Always Better is the motto of
children all over the world. As adults, we know very well this is almost never
true. Diamonds are irreplaceable precisely because they take 1 to 3.3 billion
years to mature. Nothing is more precious than the first, oldest, edition of a
book. Malted, milled, mashed, fermented, distilled and
carefully matured for twenty years Glenlivet Whiskey, is undoubtedly better than Old Smuggler, or
Jumbo Jim’s Grape Scotch. Yet, at age six, gleaming, unopened, new toys instantly
replaced the old ones; the ones I, as a kid, was obsessed with until the newer
ones came along. Toys were only exciting at first, before they got stained,
dirty, wrinkly and predictable. Before they became boring and ordinary. Toys,
and people, were replaceable. Easily disposable.
*
She is technically
not my mom, but I liked to think she was. She is nine years younger than both
my parents, has long fabulous hair, perfect manicure and big breasts and
behind. She is a great singer and salsa dancer. Overall, newer, and thus better
than my oh-so mundane mother.
At age 6 I
couldn’t wait for the weekends to come. Those were the days I knew I’d see her
(and my dad, I guess). We would go to nice restaurants, the movies, the circus,
and during vacations, to the beach weeks on end. I would spend hours watching
her get ready: she always applied her black eyeliner first, then her Aplum
toned blush and finally, a crisp red lipstick that contrasted charmingly with
her caramel skin.
She taught me how
to make kissing sounds without the ticklish aftertaste. The trick was to make
the gesture quick and smooth. Just like waxing, she said. I copied her coquetry
and social faculties to flirt with boys. Boys would cede me their place in the
water fountain line for me to go first. I would never have to carry a heavy bag
if I played my cards artfully, she promised. I copied her music taste: I was
obsessed with Olga Tañón, a Puerto Rican salsa singer, just like she was. We
would go to the beauty salon together, a place that my mother wouldn’t dare to
go, “so much estrogen,” she says, and spend hours getting our hair done. We
would pretend to be mother and daughter when strangers approached us –“how do
you have such a beautiful daughter and still look that stunning?” Our names
were both Julia and since I mastered her facial and body expressions, no one
ever doubted our association. She twitched her nose, I twitched mine. She
crossed her legs, I did too. It seemed naturally choreographed. She would laugh
embracing the compliment, and I blushed, honored.
I would order the same as her, Cesar salad and diet coke. I wanted to be as pretty and thin
as she was. I was her companion in cigarettes
breaks, making sure my little brothers didn’t notice that ungodly habit my
dad disapproved of. I hated the smell, but never said anything. In fact, I
hated the salon and hated the dried taste of diet coke, but she fascinated me.
Her teeth were still so white, despite all the caffeine ingest and nicotine.
She had no crows feet, her face was wrinkle free. She matched her bracelets
with her purse and the occasional eye shadow. My mom wore gray suits for work
and same pointy heels everyday.
When I was in the
first grade, our big project for ceramics class was to design, build and paint
the greatest, most beautiful Mother’s Day gift our 7-year-old selves could
make. We had six weeks, twelve in-class workshops, to complete the mission.
Since I was the promising artist, I decided to make a gold teddy bear dressed
in a suit that would turn into a jewelry box. Brilliant.
I worked on it
passionately, delicately crafting my masterpiece with keen determination. I
finished it two weeks in advance. After we were done, the teacher gave us a
pre-made card she had prepared for all of us. Our only job was to add our
mother’s name in the blank space and voila! Recess time.
Astonishingly, I
didn't know what name to write down: Belkis, or Julia? I made the teddy
bear/jewelry box for her and not for
my mom and it troubled me for that entire recess. Do stepmoms have a Stepmom’s
Day too? I wanted to ask, but Ms. Ariela would know I was up to something. She
would see the discomfort and guilt in my eyes. She knew who Julia was, she was
always in school meetings with other moms. My mom would always answered me with
a sharp “I have things to do,” whenever I asked her why she didn’t spend time with
other stay-at-home moms, like Julia did. Julia seemed to be a better match. She and
her mom friends chatted, stayed for soccer games, brought the occasional
cupcakes to class. Everyone liked her, she was fun. My mom only went to the trimestral
report card meetings, and only because she had to. She could only remember the
name of one of my teachers; she’d forget the other one. Embarrassing. Ms.
Ariela knew both my stepmom and mom, which meant, I had to go back and start a new teddy
bear if I didn’t want her to notice, tell my mother and thus risk my television
privileges back home.
I had never given
my mom a Mother’s Day gift before. I mean, purposely, independently. In past
years, my father would have either made me deliver the chocolates or
earrings he had chosen for her, or my teachers would have simply done it for me. I
just had to sign the gift with my name and love. And so, at age seven, I made my first
genuine Mother’s gift rather guilty and slightly uninterested. I had no choice but to give the
prettier and carefully crafted teddy bear to the fun mom. The second teddy
bear wasn’t enough to impress her.
My enthusiasm for
the new persisted for a while. I chose to spend Christmas eves with Julia’s
family and my new little brothers as soon as I found out Santa would find me
wherever I went. They were my family too after all. She taught me how to drive,
irresponsibly without a seat belt. She intoxicated me for the first time in a
trip to the beach my dad couldn’t go. We laughed for weeks about it. I was
growing up to look like my mother, but I believed I was just like her in the
inside. I was adventurous, careless, exciting. I loved her. I cared enough to ask her to be
my Confirmation godmother. She said yes, but for some miraculous reason I never
went through with the ceremony. God spare me that one.
Our birthdays are
one after the other. June 6th and June 7th have always
been national holiday days in the Carrasquel home. Turning eighteen was a big
one for me: I could vote, buy a drink and feel like an adult when people asked
for my age. I was graduating high school, moving to another country for school
and out of my house. I was growing up. But turning forty is apparently a bigger
deal: Drinking is not drinking until you collapse in the bar’s floor, or in the
neighbor’s back door. Throw monogamy off the window! You are still young and
lively: boys, younger sweet boys, become suddenly interested in your expertise
and sexual prowess. There’s no bedtime, you are allowed to get home as late as
you please, even better, there’s no need to go home nights in a row or make it
to your sons’ soccer games or music recitals. Why bother go to your
stepdaughter’s graduation? It is not like she wants you there. Forty, Julia thinks, is your last chance to turn eighteen, to feel young and act wild. And
so she did. And so she does.
It turns out I
grew up very differently. I am straight forward, independent, and ambitious. I
learned how to read books, not skim magazines. I found comfort watching movies
and drinking wine, not beer. I know where my limitations lie and when the
appropriate time to leave a party is. I hate diet coke, whinny drunks and
pretending to find a boy’s joke funny. I got older and appreciative of honesty
and curly hair. Just like my mother. I admire her (my real, biological, only
mother that is) for keeping my teddy bear in sight for all these years. For
using it at least to place the earrings she rarely wears. I respect her for not
getting mad at me for postponing movie nights and for playing Olga Tañón for
the longest time in the car. I respect her for turning fifty and remaining fifty.
Oh what a surprise
it was to find her unused,
unappreciated, perfectly assembled teddy bear with no left ear inside a dusty
box after the divorce.
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