The Dirty Bottle Under the Bed
I was raised in a Stepford community. You know that town where everyone was perfect; well no, they weren’t anywhere near perfect, and some of their stories would make thedevil blush, but the town was full of families who plastered their skeletons with make-up: a basic foundation of delusions-of-grandeur and denial (one that matches the skin tone), a little blush on thecheeks for false innocence, the piercing eye effect from the latest issue of Forbes Magazine, a high brow and nose that points up for the pig-nostril look, dramatic eyelashes to overplay the role of the victim, and projection — a basic red lipstick so as to leave a mark when they kiss your…. The things every good Baptist wears to church on Sunday Morning.
Only thing is, children are gullible, and as a child in that kind of community, I knew better, but I still fell for it. I fell for it all. And that was the mother I was going to be.
The Beaver Paradigm. I was going to be the one who goes to church every Sunday, who is active in the PTA, who baked from scratch and led every fundraiser to victory. My children were going to be children who excelled at academics and sports, who would NEVER make a scene at a restaurant or clothing store, who are always dressed for a Kodak moment (never wearing food around their mouth or boogers on their noses that gross people out) and impressed people with their extensive vocabulary and cotton-picking hearts.
The house is always spotless and smells of confectionary sugar and spices, and people who leave dirty laundry on the floor probably shouldn’t reproduce. Healthy meals are cooked by mom paid for by dad and enjoyed atthe dinner table by everyone sparked with conversations inspired by after-school-specials and laced with love. Spankings are not necessary because in this world, children respect their parents, and a simple “Gee you shouldn’t be doing that” will get you a heart-felt apology. Everyone operates in this black and white Norman Rockwell print with harmony, peace, cheesy music and meatloaf dinners.
That was the master plan, at least up until the point when I had children.