My husband and I recently went over our wills. This was pretty easy for me, since I don’t actually own anything of value. In fact, the only thing I am leaving my husband is a postmortem “honey do” list.
The first thing on that list is to throw away all of my notebooks and journals. These are the things I worry most about falling into the wrong hands. I’d hate to be remembered for grocery lists interspersed with late-night rum-fueled “comedy” inspirations. Sample page, New Year’s Eve 1998: paper towels; Windex; lime LaCroix; (then suddenly, in capital letters) DON’T FORGET COLLEEN—CAT POOP DOG OMELETTE—FUNNY!!!!; (then the Target shopping list resumes) spray starch; tweezers. Apparently my pen ran out of ink at the last, so the word “tweezers” is scratched deeply into the paper. As if it were actually written with a pair of tweezers.
I’d like to spare my kids from handling actual documentation of the nuts-and-bolts machinery of their Mama’s particular brand of goofy.
“Maybe I should’ve thought about that before I had kids,” you say? How many parents out there have ever been on the receiving end of that one? What I love most is when the mighty “should-a” sword is wielded by Those Who Are Childless. Particularly those who are Childless By Choice. Because, when a CBC nails you with a “should-a,” the implicit suggestion is that not only should you feel extra crispy crappy about whatever current conundrum that you’re in—but furthermore, you should also pat the CBC on the back for having the presence of mind not to get knocked up.
This has been on my mind lately because my daughter is now roughly the same age that I was when I was pregnant with her. She’s also got a pal who is pregnant and facing some tough decisions. This isn’t the first pal of hers to become a young mother. I thought my heart would stop a few years ago when Amanda came home from a slumber party with the news that one of the young party guests was expecting. I’d met the girl in passing. She was easy to remember because she was so pretty and outgoing. She was also fourteen. I’ll admit that my first instinct was to tug the reins hard and never let my daughter see this girl again. Like it or not, our peer groups help define our belief systems and our societal dance steps. This is true whether you’re forty or fourteen. This stance was more than a bit hypocritical on my part, because I remember all too well the isolation of what it was like to be young and pregnant.
In the hot summer of ’88, I was ready to drop. I’d moved back in with my parents so I could be close to help when the time came. I ran into an old classmate and her mother at the corner convenience store. My old pal talked to me animatedly about what was going on in her life, and didn’t really ask about mine. That was pretty weird, right? I mean, talk about the elephant in the room. We said our goodbyes and I walked next door to the Video Update. I was obscured by one of those giant cardboard cutouts so when my pal and her mother walked in—talking animatedly about running into me—they didn’t realize I could hear them. What stands out for me to this day is the breezy statement: “Well, she’s ruined her life, and now she’s probably going to ruin that poor kid’s life, too.” So good to know those stand-up folks are out there, ready to exercise their index finger muscles and point.
I’ve got a friend, Terry, who once told me that she thought all people should have to obtain a license to procreate. I asked her whether she thought this license should be a four-year kind of a deal that expires on your birthday, or could you apply for and secure a seasonal pass?
Under Terry’s rules, my kids wouldn’t exist—at least, not as they are now. And that would be a damn shame, because they are terrific. There’s no fill-in-the-blank space for this in my will, but, if there were, it would be: My greatest earthly treasure is that my kids love me. May you all be so rich.
Writer, performer, and femme fatale Colleen Kruse can be reached at colleen at rakemag dot com.
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