Saturday, April 16, 2011

I Ate The Butter Tart

When I was about 12 years old I did something (of which I have zero recollection) that severely pissed off my mother.  Granted this was not anything new, but whatever I did (this time) was paramount.  Or at least big enough that while passing me in the laundry room (where I was debating whether or not to steal a butter tart from the deep freeze) my mother looked me square in the eye and said, "I love you Allana, but I don't like you very much."  Shibang!  Ouch.  She turned away from me and carried out what I referred to as her motherly laundry duties (Holy cow, was I an asshole or what?!) and I stood frozen.  Frozen, next to the deep freeze.  Because at 12 years of age "like" and "love" meant the same thing to me, which therefore translated as:  My mother hates me.

18 years later (and including an incident last night involving all my expensive makeup and my own four year old daughter) I get it.   Okay, I'm not 30 but we're talking love here people not math, okay?  Firstly, whatever I did, said or didn't do to my mother a bunch of years ago didn't stop me from thinking that this clearly inappropriate time would be the perfect time for me to take a butter tart out of the freezer that I wasn't allowed to have (side note: my mother freezes everything.  In fact I wouldn't be surprised if in her will she stated that she'd like to be buried in a white Frigidaire).  Secondly, I've discovered sometimes it feels like you don't like your children 100% of the time.  Especially when they destroy your things.  And that's okay.

Which brings me to last night where I celebrated my birthday (Oprah feels strongly that I need to tell you how old I am because that is empowering).  So fine.  Last night I celebrated my birthday that ranges somewhere between the ages 28-64,  and I had a few close friends over to help me pretend I was still vacationing in Cuba.   I am okay with denial on various fronts (Sorry Oprah).   Being the "cool" parent I allowed my daughter and her good pal to play upstairs in my bedroom which I knew would involve wearing my high heels and trying on my jewelry.  What I didn't realize is that it would also involve ransacking my makeup drawer and crushing my various overpriced Lancome products all over their faces and whatever white surface they could get their hands on.  Just to clarify:  when I purchased my $30 eyeliner (albeit with my beloved Optimum points from Shoppers Drug Mart where, considering the amount of times I mention this place in my blogs, I spend too much time) I didn't imagine it being used to scrawl my daughters name across the toilet seat.  Call me crazy.  Nor did I envision my lip gloss being eaten.  Regardless of how delicious it tastes it is not meant to be consumed.  It says so right on the package:  DO NOT INGEST.  If they could read, I'm sure they would have eaten it anyway.

So for the first time since giving birth to my daughter four years and four months ago I was seriously pissed.  Like, raging.  Just thinking about it made me leave this post for 2 minutes and shove a huge piece of left over cake in my mouth.  I had a new feeling brewing in me that felt a lot like...betrayal.  And it felt awful.  She knew what she was doing was very very wrong but she did it anyway.  And this wasn't an issue I could pass on to my husband to deal with.  This was MY stuff.  My beloved makeup that I've grown to highly respect in the past decade.  The makeup that says to me every morning, "Don't worry, good friend, I know you think you look like shitbags but I'm going to turn your day around with the stroke of an eyeliner and a generous coating of under-eye concealer."  The makeup that was now EVERYWHERE: The walls, the floor, the toilet (wah!) and my shoes.  My dark grey high heel boots were literally sparkling with Physician's Formula's Shimmer Strips custom eye-enhancing shadow and liner...which now lays empty in the recycling bin.  Fortunately that only cost about ten bucks.

I put Olive in her room and separated her from her pal (who was also in deep do-do from her parents...who moments before were enjoying their pina colada's in our kitchen.  Dare to dream).  I then told her that what she did was mean and hurtful.  And as I walked away I uttered to myself, "Oh Lord, she is going to break my heart."  Why?  Because she is only FOUR!  Four.  What's going to happen in a decade?  Am I really going to be crushed every time she does something hurtful?  If so, I'm pooched.

When I woke up this morning I was still hurt.   I know...get over it.  What's wrong with me?  She's a kid.   Do I really need to spend the morning trying to find situations to help her relate to the experience?  Like asking her how she would feel if my friend and I went to hang out in her room and tore her stuffed animals apart?  And just for the record, I did ask her this question and she looked me square in the eye and said, "Why would you do that, Momma?" and I replied, "Well, I'm not going to.  I'm just trying to create a relatable experience for you so that you can understand how I felt and...oh forget it."

She's off to the museum with her dad this morning so I can stay home, eat cake in my pyjamas and ultimately write this blog.  And here's what I've surmised from the situation:  This is giving me practice.  A way to start to figuring out how I'm going to react to my children when big things happen.  Because they are going to happen.  And because my love for my girls is so deep it's ultimately going to crush a little tiny bit of my heart.  But I won't tell her that.  That would just mean, and I would have to spend the rest of the day explaining that my actual heart is okay (sort of) and that she doesn't have to worry about me dying which is the latest big question in our house.  One issue at a time please... 

And I won't tell her is that I don't like her.  Because I do like her.  And I know my mother liked me, she just felt under appreciated and I get it.  So, sorry mom for whatever I did way back when.  Sorry for being a jerk to you.  You, who ironed my underwear.   And just for full disclosure,  I did end up taking a butter tart after you turned your back and walked away.  I couldn't help myself.  You make really good butter tarts.  


  1. ohhhh love friend and I when we were 4 broke into his dads boxes of samples ( he wa s a saleman for maybelline)...needless to say we were not liked by our folks and proceeded to have a bath in acetone to remove all the nailpolish off ourselves and had to replace a room of carpet..........hmmmmmmmmmmmm

  2. Just wait till you see Ava's apology card...

  3. Been there too - red nail polish does NOT come off pyjamas but it does come off travertine tile - if you get at it fast enough. Sparkle nail polish meanwhile is rather difficult to get off 4 year old legs. And Jane Iredale lip balm is aparently yummy too - at $30 a pop argh!