Being the mother of a man.

You are a mom only for a while. Of course, you will hold your children dear to your heart and they will do the same. That said, motherhood is a job that lasts twenty years, max. Now that my son has two decades of winters, I must admit that yo mama feels the baby blues so much that her stretch marks ache.

We met each other through his father. It was a beautiful Vodka night where I played Russian roulette with my egg and won. Obviously, I did not know my luck yet when I peed on the stick, three weeks later. I was sure I was trapped.

I was ready to call Morgentaler, as usual, when the fetus germinated and slyly twisted up my inner ear. “Hi,” he said. “Huh? What? Uh … Hello?” I answered.”You cannot throw me away, it’s me!” He added.

What to do? What to do? I was a down and out bum who was totally not ready for this. But the little peanut in my belly seemed to think that I would be adequate. And as my boy is super smart, I listened to him.

My Player’s Light went to oblivion and folic acid took over. I let my stomach balloon, threw my shoulders back and went full RESPs and RRSPs. I then propelled myself into the future, navel first. I was going to be THE mother. And he would be MY son. Forever united by the bonds of blood! Rhaaaaaa!!!!

The afternoon he finally came into my arms after a strange experience for a human being, let’s be honest, I recognized him right away. Even with his nose crushed by the tunnel of life. At that moment, I became everything to him. And he was everything to me. We bonded so much so, we became an alloy of flesh and Pampers.

For about thirteen years, our life together was dedicated to playing. We had fun making faces, boos and peek-a-boos! We hid and seeked, we stacked towers of Duplos and Legos. We amused ourselves by learning to read street names, to write in the snow and to add license plates. We disguised ourselves, bickered and tickled. We pushed hot wheels, threw Frisbees, kicked balls. We killed the bad guys in Baldur’s Gate, bid adieu to goldfishes and pet rats. We collected rocks and chased waves. We competed fiercely in board and card games until, inevitably, I lost my offspring to his much cooler friends.

I’m pretty pleased with myself that I understood that the fruit of my loins couldn’t depend on my unconditional love only. I figured this special time with my son was limited and that, someday, he would have to leave my bosom and my nest. I had to feed his ego and nurture his autonomy. Otherwise, he would end up still living in my basement at forty and that is not a legacy to give to my heir.

So I took every opportunity to sniff the top of his head like a druggy until his adolescence. Once a teenager, he stank so much that it wasn’t hard to give him space. Isn’t Mother Nature well made?

Both of us then turned into the best roommates, ever!! We had great complicity, somewhat neglected household chores and never really argued. We watched TV shows highlighting the plot errors, walked  with long strides so fast that no one could follow us and shared mad insides jokes.

Then, one day, we separated. It was over. He was gone…  I had just lost my baby, my child, my purpose in life and my longest relationship with a guy. It lasted not even twenty years…

Of course, we keep each other posted. He’s doing fine. He’s a nice young man with his own place, girlfriend, jobs and studies. We visit from time to time, so I can give him a little cash, talk about things that make us feel smarter than others and share a few laughs. But it’s not quite the same as before.

Becoming the mother of a man is the chronicle of a heartbreak foretold, it’s melancholy mingled with pride, a sweet and sour spleen.

Now, every time I say goodbye to him, I get on my tippy toes and sneak a little sniff of the top of his head, you know, to give me that little fix until the next visit…

The end of small paper hearts.

At last, the celebration of love and all that surrounds it is finally over! At last! Or sadly! Depending on your degree of investment in the brushed velvet love machine.

I wiki the thing: Several people can be considered as saint patrons whose name now adorns gilding Hallmark cards. All literally died as bloody Valentines. For a few weeks, bleeding hearts were all the rage these days, on the walls of drugstores or as banners in non hipster restaurants.

Barry White was dusted out and his king bed voice echoed through whoopee sessions. Because frilly satin corsets and bling bling bracelets from Birks are expensive, bare buttocks cupids shot arrows at Visa cards to put us in the passion red. The strawberries were accompanied by scented candles, champagne and five-course dinners. The unaccompanied ones had to wait for the 15th to smooth out their unloved and barely fucked faces.

Yes, single folks didn’t get any bottles of Coco Chanel or impatient theethy blow jobs that evening. They had Netflix, chow mein from House of China and the warmth of their cats. If they only knew that old couples probably had the same…

New lovers paid too salty bills, overdosed on too sweet cocoa treats and romantic movies where Catherine Heigl was as pleasant as an acid enema. Rose water flicks are the real St-Valentine’s massacres. And yes, “Fifty Shades” is as tacky and depressing as fluffy handcuffs.

There have been marriage proposals. Often spontaneous and ill-considered. Like we adopt a puppy, without understanding what responsibilities it brings. How it’s cute and all, but that there will be shit to take care of every day from now on.

The cool couples believed they could not celebrate anything. And the least cool of the two cools sulked a little because, seriously, a tiny something, some sort of attention, would not have killed them!!

The geeks yelped «Yoda one for me! » or «You’re the Obi Wan for me! » as they fornicated on a Wookie rug thanking the heavens not to be thirty year old virgins anymore.

There has been the bashfuls. Those who yearn but have no reciprocity, no thank you for the obsession they maintain toward deaf aortas to their pleas. The heart shaped plush pillows “I love you this big” have kept empty open arms. The bad fiery poems which talks of burning and hell and why and please remained unanswered. Those people were the worst, the true martyrs of February 14th.

Eyes watered at the sight of crafts from children to their first crush: Mommy or Daddy. Emotions ran high with E’s spelled backwards in glittery noodles on a lacy background that quickly got sticked on the fridge under a taxi company magnet.

The browsers exploded in a thousand “what to do, what to buy” in large pink bandwidths and Internet cookies. All those clicks showed Big Brother how much citizens are lonely and sad.

As for myself? Well, you’re guessing how much of a sentimental sap I am, but I’m also very stingy: The end of the small paper hearts means chocolates on sale at 50 percent off.

Long live love! Long live the deals!!

Underground blues.

I put my shoulder to the stubbornness of the door and finally engulf myself inside with a wind-blown furry hat. I’m surrounded by depressing grays and muddy browns. I slide my ticket in the slot with some anguish of the barrier refusing to let me pass. It happened before. Something about me not pushing the thing correctly. I feel dumb, sometimes.

I get in the subway’s belly by racing down the stairs as if I have something to prove. A musician plays the cacophone over my blaring headphones. I take a five in my pocket to impress him. I realize it’s a twenty that is slowly leaving my fingers. Too proud to take it back, I tell myself that at least, the virtuoso will be grateful. But he barely nods his head at the sight of my hourly rate resting on the blue velvet. I feel really dumb.

There’s a crowd on the pier. As always. I place my body in a strategic way to facilitate my entry. The big mute TV on the other side tells me to be afraid of everything. The train is coming. I imagine hands behind my back violently throwing me on the tracks. My shoulder blades tense in anticipation. I must stop reading the tabloids. I’m so dumb, sometimes.

I slip in a little childhood nostalgia. Those three organic notes when the cars were put in motion, the grilled rubber smell, the pristine all around me … Today, it oozes limestone and decrepit all along the walls. I elaborate a disaster scenario where the tunnel collapses under the pressure of the water and get almost scared for a second. Yup, I’m dumb.

The doors open and no one knows how to human anymore. Some hurry to get out, some hurry to sneak in, some hurry to sit near the exit, some hurry to press their God damn huge bag pack in everyone’s face. The doors close on the herd stinking of wet synthetic fur. Is the guy behind me feeling my butt?  I look discreetly under my arm to check, ready to scold: It’s the head of a toddler stuck between my backside and the thigh of his father. I quickly scoot over to give him space. Geez, I’m dumb!

Transfer. I sprint on the yellow path pressed between the metal of the purring wagons and hoards of goose feathers coats. The window is short to get passed all these people before the mechanical monster resumes its course and propels me into the void. I swoop over to get to the green line. The soft French speaking voice in the speakers bounces off the concrete to warn us of a slowdown.  I pray to the commute Gods to let it not be on the green line. The voice continues «…sur la ligne orange…” and my relief is beyond disproportionate. Again, so dumb.

While swaying and holding the bacteria ridden bar, I observe the cultural mosaic around me. I marvel at the cosmopolitan metropolitan. Skins are yellow, black, brown or ashy like me (I’m hungover). Heads are blonds, frizzy, turbaned or Montreal Canadians woolen toqued.  All together we ignore each other in harmony.  I notice a beautiful woman in a hijab at my left. She stares at me, intensely. I look elsewhere wondering if I have offended her unintentionally. I feel her eyes piercing my temple.

The image of an explosive belt crosses my mind. It screams “Allahu Akbar !!” in my skull. The veiled one rises and accosts me. Nowhere to run. She talks to me about a kindergarten. I’m confused. She reminds me that our sons went there. I suddenly recognize her. Must be well over fifteen years ago! Naila, right? How are you?

We catch up on lost time between two stations. I must get off, it’s my stop. I wave my hand good-bye. She sits back down and smiles at me. I smile back as she goes through the tunnel.

But it’s really to hide just how I dumb I feel right now…