We take games seriously around here. The first time R played Risk with my family, my brother threatened to flip the board and stormed out when he lost. The first time I played Risk with R’s roommates, I threatened to flip the board when R took New Zealand from me. The first time R and I played Risk with our friend D, I broke an alliance immediately after making it, and D quit playing right then and there. He still talks about it, and still won’t play risk with me. It’s been ten years. My entire family refuses to play Catchphrase with R because he cheats. My entire family refuses to play Clue with my sister K because she’s too good. Once, my Mormon family made the mistake of playing Cards Against Humanity and only realized the mistake we’d made when my mom played a card that’s too unspeakable and offensive to include here, even in this giant overshare of a blog. My sister-in-law M danced on the table when she won that game. When I was on maternity leave, R and I used to stay up til 1, 2, 3 am playing computer games while our baby slept. Last time I played Ticket to Ride with my family, nobody completed even half of their missions and we all went home in a terrible mood. My daughter loves games, too. We play Uno, and Operation, and Candyland, and Battleship, and Old Maid, and Sleeping Queens, and Bugs in the Kitchen, and Go Fish, and chess, and a slew of adorable cooperative games that didn’t exist when I was a kid. Sometimes I let her win. Okay, often I let her win. I let her lose too, and I’m trying to teach her to be a good sport when it happens, but honestly I don’t think she stands much of a chance.
The thing is, the thing about having a kid, is that it’s the little things that break your heart. The little pants and socks and shoes. I used to wash and fold giant-sized loads of baby-sized clothes and marvel. Isn’t it weird? I’d say to my husband, that we have such a tiny roommate? That we live with such a little person? The irony is, kids can’t play with little toys until they’re big, on account of they might try to eat the toys and die. As my baby grew bigger, her toys got smaller. We showered her in whole families of Calico Critters, rabbits and badgers and goats and bears with little hammocks to sleep in and little produce to eat. DUPLO became LEGO Friends became a million tiny bricks that fuck up my feet. My daughter is still little, just in first grade, but somehow also very big. She is more than half as long as my husband. He holds her still because we didn’t have another little and wraps her monkey arms in a stranglehold around his neck, her long hobbit feet dangling somewhere around his knees. She is too heavy for me to lift for more than a minute, so I can’t do that. Instead, I hold her little hand.
Adventure is a hard drug. You get sold on the promise of fun, the lure of escape, but when you’re there in the thick of it, it’s hard and painful and you just want to go home. I used to apply for internships in places far from home and jet off with romantic visions of me sipping coffee in cafes and wandering city streets and reading poetry in the park and meeting people who moved me in a way no one back home could ever do. Cut to me sweating buckets on a bus freaking out because I don’t know if I missed my stop. Cut to me walking miles in urban wasteland, nothing but warehouses and empty fields and big box stores as far as the eye can see. Cut to me blowing off weird guys, awkward coworkers, and annoying roommates to hang out in my room alone. Cut to me running out of money. Cut to me calling my mom, my boyfriend, my friends. Cut to me desperate to come back home.
I love billboards because I love the highway because I love long road trips because I am a sucker for nostalgia. Nostalgia for an Americana that I never lived that maybe never existed is like a short cut to eliciting emotion about my own past, or maybe it’s more like a crispy clean saccharine coating for memories that are more complicated to process. We drove everywhere when I was a kid because we couldn’t afford to fly. There were too many of us and even before then there wasn’t money for plane tickets. So we drove through the mountains up to the pacific northwest to see one set of grandparents and we drove halfway across the country from the midwest to the southwest and back again to see another set of grandparents so many times and I loved every miserable moment of those trips. Robert and I drove too, in our early years, all over the desert, not because we couldn’t afford plane tickets but because we had nowhere to go. We used to pick destinations at random, for no reason. Let’s go to Wilcox! Let’s go to Casa Grande! Let’s go to Bisbee! Let’s go up to Phoenix for the state fair! It was on one of those trips that we saw the greatest billboard of my life, a campy horror-esque advertisement for THE THING. What THE THING was we had no idea, but we had to see it. The billboard told us we had to. And then we saw another billboard and another and another after that, each one announcing with increasing urgency that THE THING was drawing nearer. We followed the billboards, they were on the way to whatever small whatevertown we were headed to that day, but we would have blown right past our destination in search of THE THING if it had come to that. When we finally made it to the home of THE THING, one of those gas station/souvenir store outposts in the desert, we followed the signs to the back of the store and saw that we’d have to pay $2 for the thing. Robert lost all enthusiasm but there was no dampening mine, so I went in, and wandered through a labyrinth that wound well behind the store, marveling at all manner of chintzy artifacts and treasures but also walking quickly because I needed to get to the THE THING and finally I did and it was everything I ever dreamed.
I don’t remember the day my mom said she hated me.
Calm down. She doesn’t actually.
She told me the story a few weeks ago of how I was four or five years old and I was so upset I screamed, “I hate you,” and she was so upset she screamed, “I hate you, too.” I know. And the worst part is, somebody heard her, and not just anybody, but her father, my grandfather. He didn’t say anything, but she saw him slip out the back door after it all went down and she knew.
She told me the story because she needed something, anything, to calm me down when I called her a few weeks ago in hysterics because a stranger had seen me lose it with my preschooler, saw me scream at her, and then yank her back from the street when she tried to run into traffic, and then get down on her level and in her face and yellhiss at her to “never, never do that again.”
The stranger watched this go down, and then she lost her cool, walked too close to us and muttered loud enough for me to hear, “fucking bitch, I fucking saw you.”
It all devolved from there. I cried. The stranger pulled out her phone to record my meltdown, threatened to call CPS.
My mom told me the story of how she said she hated me because she wanted me to know she understood, that we’ve all been there, but what I took away is that I don’t remember. I don’t remember her screaming at me. I don’t remember what she said.
I hope my daughter doesn’t remember the things I do.
I remember when I was baptized.
I stood waist deep in the font, small like a hot tub, water warm like a bath. I was dressed in neck to ankle white, my jumpsuit—baggy and sexless—cinched only slightly at the waist. The zipper flipped up at my neck. I remember it bothered me that you could notice it sticking up in the picture of me and my dad taken just before or just after—it must have been just before, my hair was dry—the main event. I remember my dad standing next to me in the water. I remember his hand in mine and his other hand–I get the lefts and rights mixed up trying to figure out how it all went, it’s been so long since I’ve seen anyone baptized this way–behind my head when I went under. I don’t remember what he said. I don’t remember what I thought. I remember plugging my nose. I remember meeting with my bishop a few weeks earlier, to be interviewed and found worthy to become a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. There’s a twist in my perception. In my memories of the baptism, I might as well be a teenager. I am autonomous, grown. I am the same person I am now. In my memories of the bishop’s office, I am a little girl.
I was eight-years old.