Mother, Can You Not? (7 page)

M
y mother is the human version of WebMD. It’s actually impressive. After talking to her for five minutes, you’ll be convinced that even the smallest ailment is cancer or the black lung. “Oh, you have a zit? Well, I read a study that adult-onset acne can be a sign of polycystic ovarian disease—when was the last time you went to the gyno?” If I have a sore throat and make the mistake of mentioning it to my mother. “KATE, YOU COULD HAVE MENINGITIS!! TOUCH YOUR CHIN TO YOUR NECK!! DID YOU TRY IT? CAN YOU TOUCH YOUR CHIN TO YOUR NECK?!” Throw a few swollen glands in the mix, and you’re definitely looking at Ebola.

Although where perceived illnesses are concerned, there is nowhere my mom’s hypervigilance is more ferocious or disgusting than sexually transmitted diseases. The number of times she has shown me vile
images of pus-filled genital warts and infected herpes sores is easily in the thousands. In high school it got to the point where I could have legitimately worked as an STD diagnostician. I could spot pubic lice in my sleep.

Between my headgear and the dancing crabs in my dreams, birth control and STD prevention weren’t really things that needed to be discussed while I was in high school, but during the summer before my first year of college, my mom decided it was time for me to get fitted for a diaphragm.

I will never understand why my mother’s preferred method of birth control was (and still is), of all things, the diaphragm.
You know what would make all this steamy sex we’re having even hotter? A spermicidal-gel-reapplication break! Bust out that preloaded vagina jelly stick and get over here, sexy.

She scheduled an appointment with a New York–based gynecologist before school started, so I would have a “lady bits” doctor close to campus.

“You need to be prepared, Kate. You’re gorgeous; those horny college boys are going to be all over you.
FRESH MEAT! Mind you, this isn’t the all-clear to start humping every guy on campus the second you get to school…”

In light of the chorus line of genital warts I imagined prancing around under the boxers of every man I saw, humping frat guys was not at the top of my college to-do list. That said, I had yet to French-kiss a boy, and I was extraordinarily sexually frustrated. It was getting to the point where I would catch myself fantasizing about dry humping strangers in the street after making brief eye contact. Oh, if the Westwood Subway sandwich chef only knew the things I imagined doing with him on top of the vegetarian-topping trays.

It was a confusing time, so I’ll admit, getting birth control was probably wise. Besides, all the television shows and movies I’d watched suggested that college was a sexy time of experimentation and freedom, even for late bloomers like me.

We arrived in New York a few weeks before classes started to shop for dorm accessories and visit my aunt on the Upper West Side. On the afternoon of the
doctor’s appointment, after hours of arguing about hampers in a nightmarishly vast Bed Bath & Beyond in Manhattan, we made our way over to my new gyno’s office.

Of course my mother insisted on staying in the exam room with me, and we waited together for the doctor. I was crinkling my paper gown nervously, my legs dangling over the edge, firmly closed. My mom gestured toward the stirrups.

“What’re you waiting for? Spread ’em!”

“No!”

“Oh, come on! What’re you, shy all of a sudden?”

The examination room was lit with unflattering fluorescent panels that simultaneously made my acne and budding frown lines more pronounced. I worried that in this light my cobweb-dusted vagina was not being set up for a good first impression with Dr. Weiner. A disembodied model of the female pelvis was resting on the counter of the cabinet-and-sink unit to my right. The three-dimensional anatomical sculpture was spliced down the middle, exposing the intricacies of a healthy female reproductive system. To me, it was
just a blank canvas on which to paint the horrors of sexually transmitted diseases. I named her Gonorrhea Gloria and was in the midst of imagining a particularly gruesome genital warts outbreak on the model’s cervix when Dr. Sabrina Weiner walked into the room.

“Hi, Kate! Nice to meet you! What brings you in today?” She looked about forty, and she was wearing a cream blouse and high-waisted blue pants that were more “fashion girl” cool than “mom jeans” frumpy. A smart white lab coat, with her name embroidered in navy, pulled the ensemble together nicely. This intimidatingly chic woman just renewed my concern about my vagina coming off poorly. Can a lady get some mood lighting up in here? Honestly, she looked nice enough, but it’s hard to get excited about someone when you know that the plan is for her to insert foreign objects into your vaginal canal. My mother chimed in on my behalf.

“Hi, Dr. Weiner! So, Kate will be starting college—PRINCETON—in a few weeks, so we wanted to get her fitted for a diaphragm and talk to you about sex.”

I blushed about the fact that my mother felt the
need to scream “Princeton” everywhere she went since the day I had gotten in to the school.

“Princeton! How impressive! Well, you have a very responsible mom, Kate. Are you sexually active?”

“Nope, not a man in sight.” my mother responded enthusiastically.

“No. Not yet,” I confirmed.

“All right, can I have you swing your legs up onto the table and scootch your bottom all the way down to the edge and put your feet in the stirrups?”

I complied, pulling at the paper gown as I placed my legs into a spread-eagle position.
Here we go, vagina, time to sparkle, baby!

“Perfect. All right, honey, so I’m just going to do a basic exam here, and take a few measurements to get you fitted for this diaphragm. And we can talk about other birth control options as well.”

Dr. Weiner removed her wedding ring, placing it on top of Gonorrhea Gloria, and applied plastic gloves. She smiled at me reassuringly and sat down on the little rolling stool between my legs, lifting up the thin waxy gown and revealing my vagina to the room. She
didn’t recoil, so that was good, but I could feel Gloria judging the shit out of me.

“Okay, so you’re going to feel some pressure.” She inserted a finger, and I squirmed uncomfortably. “No, no, don’t clench, honey. Try and just relax. Breathe.”

My mother was completely uninterested in the fact that a stranger’s gloved finger was halfway up my hooha for the first time and took this as an opportunity to rehash the safe-sex lecture I had heard a thousand times over. “Now, Dr. Weiner, just so she hears it from a doctor too…can you back me up? College guys are some of the horniest, most disgusting herpes-riddled liars on the planet. And it’s important to make them get tested for STDs before she decides to have sex, right?”

Dr. Weiner, who, just as a reminder, is wrist-deep in my vagina at this point, looked up at me.

“Well, I can’t speak to the first part of that, but I do agree that it’s very important to be safe, and a lot of girls feel intimidated about asking a guy to get tested.”

PUH-LEASE!
I smiled. STD testing was as integral to my sexual fantasies as moody music and chocolate-covered strawberries (my understanding of sex at that
time was a mash-up of ’90s romcom montages and Nora Roberts’s futuristic mystery-romance novels). I glared at my mother.

“Well, you need to hear it from a professional too—you don’t listen to me. NO STD TEST, YOU WON’T BE GETTING SEXED! Think about herpes, and HIV, and CRABS…Do you want me to show you the pictures again?”

Dr. Weiner smiled and looked up at me. “I think what your mother is trying to say is that it can be tricky sometimes when you’re in the moment and a guy doesn’t want to get tested. But if it’s a guy worth your time, he will understand and be happy to respect what you want.”

“Exactly!” My mother nodded emphatically as Dr. Weiner continued. “Sometimes you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you meet your prince.”

“Yeah, and college man-children frogs have WARTS. Genital warts!”

“They can.” Dr. Weiner smiled with her straight, blindingly white teeth, and I tried to imagine her
kissing a genital-wart-ridden frog to make the situation less mortifying.

“Speaking of princes, where did you meet yours? Your ring is beautiful.” My mother gestured toward the simple diamond engagement ring that was lying on top of Gloria.

“I met him in college.”

“Oh, really? That’s fabulous! What does he do?” Dr. Weiner removed the finger that had been rooting around my lady parts and reached for what looked like a medieval metal torture device, which, as it turned out, was just a speculum.

“Okay, honey, this is going to be a little more pressure.” She pushed the cold device inside me and responded to my mother, “He’s a theater producer.”

My mother perked up in her seat and immediately sprang into Drone Mom mode. With college admissions behind us, she had already begun thinking about internships that would set me up for a career in the arts, though she was still campaigning for me to go to law school. This was the one and only subject that could
have distracted her from the STD campaign of terror. I was grateful for Dr. Weiner’s choice of husband and felt a pang of guilt about forcing her to kiss the genital-wart frog.

“Really? A producer? Kate’s a very talented musical theater writer! She’s a songwriter and performer too!”

Dr. Weiner looked up at me, still just fully immersed in my vagina. “Oh, really?”

My mother sat forward in her chair. “Kate, why don’t you sing one of the songs from the musical you wrote?” If the speculum weren’t halfway up my vagina, I would have leapt off the examination table and strangled her.

Dr. Weiner shifted the metal device. “No, no, honey, don’t clench. Breathe.”

Apparently I hold all my tension in my vagina. My mother charged ahead, speculum and swabs be damned! “Come on, Kate, sing ‘Asian Boy’s Lament’…Dr. Weiner will love it, and it’ll relax you…relax your lady bits!”

Context: The musical I wrote in high school was about college admissions stereotypes, and one of the characters was called Asian Boy as part of the satire.

When I did not begin singing, she nudged my arm. “Come on!” And then she began belting out the lyrics to Asian Boy’s big number, “Why Not A Plus?,” in a horrifyingly over-the-top generic Asian accent.

“Mother, can you
not
?!”

Dr. Weiner stepped in on my behalf. “Okay, ladies. Maybe you’ll sing it for me after? But right now, I need you to breathe and try to relax your muscles.”

I glared at my mother once again, and she backed off but left my CD (she carried a copy with her wherever she went) with the doctor to give to her husband. We never heard from him, and when the time came? I opted for condoms.

W
hen I was born, my mother forced anyone who entered our home to bathe in hand sanitizer and wear a hospital mask as soon as they walked through the door. She also hired a British nanny whom she then refused to let hold me or, for that matter, even touch me. One night during a dinner party, when my mother wouldn’t hand me over to the nanny for a nap, a friend at the table jokingly defended my mom with: “Hey! If the nanny wants a baby…let her have her own fucking baby!”

Unfortunately, my mother adopted this sarcastic quip as a serious mantra and never let me out of her sight for the next eighteen years. Even in college, the helicoptering showed no signs of faltering.

During my freshman year, however, I was grateful to have her helping me navigate the minefield that is the life of a female college freshman. I think the best way to describe my first week on campus was that it felt like getting smacked in the face with a testosterone stick, and I called my mother every night for advice.

Realistically, I probably could have just met her for dinner at her hotel, as she hovered around campus for the first few weeks of school. There was a lot to discuss—it was a complete and utter shock for me to find that there were men who actively wanted to have sex with me. The great thing about Princeton was most of us were sexually frustrated nerds who spent high school working instead of socializing, so the alcohol flowed, and quoting Shakespeare was considered an acceptable come-on. That was great news for me. “This lady dothn’t protest at all!”

In high school, I kissed boys during musicals and played Truth or Dare a few times, but I never had a boyfriend. Technically, any and all smooching I
had
done up to that point was either the result of someone
being forced to kiss me in a school play or being compelled to by a party game.

Within a week, I fell in puppy love with a sophomore named Adam Reitner. I met Adam in the dining hall one day, and he told a friend of mine that he thought I was hot. So yeah, we were in love. He was sarcastic, tall, and Jewish—not a bad start for someone like me who has erotic fantasies about Larry David. I had also assigned Adam an enormous penis in my daydreams, which didn’t hurt.

I wasn’t sure when to expect the sex stuff to start happening, but we were spending a lot of time together, and I thought things were going well. I even bragged to my mother.
Remember how you thought I was going to die alone? Might not be the plan!

“You know that guy Adam I told you about? We’ve been hanging out for like a few weeks…” Translation: We’ve been doing a lot of “group hangs,” drinking, and sloppy inebriated dancing together while out partying.

“Do you have your diaphragm yet? Does it fit? Have you gotten Adam tested for STDs? You need to make
sure you get the report directly from
his
doctor. You don’t want some herpes-riddled liar conning you into sex and infecting you with vagina sores for the rest of your life.”

“Oh my God, Mother! We haven’t even kissed yet!”

“You’ve been dating for three weeks, and he hasn’t kissed you yet? Is he gay?”

“NO! We’re not like officially dating, we’re just hanging out, and I know he’s attracted to me, and I don’t know! We’re taking it slow!”

“Sounds gay.”

When we hung up, I realized she did have a point. Why
hadn’t
Adam made a move? Was it my back fat? I decided that I was going to have to make my intentions more plain and my control tops tighter. I had already been drunkenly pointing at him on dance floors and trying to corner him for make-out sessions in basements. Defining this ridiculous, one-sided mating ritual as “hanging out” stemmed from my complete and utter lack of relationship experience.

In my defense, though, it also came from watching my female peers “hang out” and tolerate barely human
treatment from men who wanted to “keep things casual” and weren’t “into labels.” “Hanging out” encompasses a wide variety of sexual interactions, but it’s really just the collegiate excuse to screw anyone you want with no strings attached. Have fun, kids!

How could I make things more mortifyingly obvious for Adam, you ask? By rubbing my ass against his crotch on dance floors, of course! When I tried this, he didn’t even pop a boner, which was pretty routine in my admittedly limited experience. Though I suppose this makes sense in light of the forcible nature of my public dry humping.

Frustrated, I ignored all my mom’s texts that night and went to bed. At 6 a.m., I woke up to two public safety officers pounding on my door. I assured them that I had not been kidnapped and called the woman who sent them.

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME, MOM!? You called campus police!?”

“Oh thank God you’re okay! Why the hell didn’t you respond to my texts?! I must have sent you fifty messages.” Sixty-three, actually.

“I was busy!!!”

“Oooo-la-la! With Adam?! How’d it go last night?”

“Not well. He was so aloof!”

“GAY!”

“Come on, stop. I dunno, it’s so confusing. We hang out all the time, and I think I’m being pretty obvious about liking him.”

“Well, you’ve been all over him; why not try playing a little hard to get? Stick your tongue down another guy’s throat and let him watch!”

This seemed like a reasonable idea, but the next day, I got some news from a mutual friend: Adam was already discreetly “hanging out” with someone else, and he had been since before I met him. I immediately dialed my mother and told her the news.

“Aw, I’m sorry, honey. But it’s good to know now! There’s so much gorgeous manmeat at Princeton. What about Tim? Now that’s the kind of sperminator
I
went after in college! Big hunky wrestler guy.”

“Mom! Tim’s my resident advisor! It’s like
illegal
! And what do you mean you’re sorry? I think this is great about Adam!”

You would think I’d take this as the disappointing news that it was and move on to the next. Oh no! In my lust-riddled brain, I rationalized that Adam
truly
loved me but just couldn’t bear to disappoint the girl he had met first.

“Honey, you can’t be serious…?”

But I was! You know, that classic love story:

Boy meets Girl One.

Boy has months of great sex with and is totally smitten with Girl One.

Boy frantically avoids sad advance after sad advance being made by Girl Two.

Boy secretly falls in love with Girl Two, while still maintaining all outward appearances of being super into and dating Girl One.

Boy marries Girl Two.

That was my five-year plan, and a few weeks later, I got news that made me want to dance like a girl in a tampon commercial—Adam had broken up with Girl One! To quote my mother, “Ovaries, start your engines!” My five-year plan had been given a dramatic shove into high gear, and I rejoiced while dialing my mom.

She warned me not to get my hopes up, but I was too busy thinking about what our kids would look like to listen.

“MOM, I’M GOING TO HAVE HIS BABIES! ARE YOU READY FOR GRANDCHILDREN?!”

“Spawn: number one, don’t you ever joke about grandchildren with me again. Number two, slow down. Forget grandbabies—you need to get him to the health center and get him tested. You sleep with him, you sleep with every girl he’s ever slept with! STD testing before sexting!!!”

I think she was unclear about the meaning of sexting at that point, but I got the message.

It was a Thursday, and we were all going out that evening. I had my legs and pubes waxed for the first time, so I would feel sexy for my big night! This did not turn out as well as expected. I looked like a prepubescent burn victim, and the irritation transformed my walk into a waddle. Let me tell you, nothing says sexy like limping around a dance floor and discreetly icing your crotch with cold beer.

My mom called me at around 11 p.m., and this time I answered in an effort to avoid another visit from campus police.

“Mom, I’m out. What do you want?!”

“How’s it going with Adam?” she asked.

I paused before responding and glanced around the room. At that point, Adam was too preoccupied with another girl to even notice I was there.

“Mother, everything’s fine, just leave me alone. And don’t call the police. I’m alive!”

Just as I hung up and turned back around, I saw Adam lean in and kiss another girl on the dance floor. I was devastated, so I went home, got into the bed I’d gone to the trouble of making for Adam’s benefit, and slapped a cold can of Fresca on my vagina.

When I woke up the next morning, I opened my laptop and drafted a borderline psychotic, truly humiliating love letter, declaring my feelings for him and asking him out. I sent it to my mom and called her.

“Hey, Mom.”

“You sound upset! What happened last night? Did
someone try and slip something in your drink? DID SOMEONE TRY AND DATE-RAPE YOU?”

“No, no I’m fine. Can you proofread the email I just sent you?”

“Sure, hang on.”

Now, I don’t remember exactly what it said, but I do remember that while I was writing it, it dawned on me that this might actually be the greatest love letter ever written. Who’s Shakespeare again? Oh, that guy who used to write sonnets in iambic pentameter before Kate Friedman-Siegel redefined the very essence of what it means to be in love?

My mother sighed into the phone. “Honey, please don’t send this.”

“Why? It’s how I feel!”

“Kate, I know this is so hard, but sweetheart, you have to accept that he is just a friend. He doesn’t feel that way about you…I’m so sorry, honey, but you have to trust me, please don’t send that note!”

My eyes welled, but even in the emotional chaos of that moment, my mother’s transformation from the acerbic, funny woman I was used to into Mother Superior
from
The Sound of Music
worried me. Either she was gearing up for a sarcastic rendition of “How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?” or perhaps she knew something I didn’t.

“Mom, I have to tell him how I feel. If I never try, how can I possibly ever feel okay about that?”

She paused for a long time. I have to admire this rare moment of restraint. After suffering through hundreds of hours of Adam-centric conversations, my response to me would have been: “Never try?! NEVER TRY?! Are you kidding me?!? You have done everything but present yourself naked, vagina first, in his extra-long twin-sized bed!” Which is an indicator that I’m probably not ready to be a parent just yet. It’s also a testament to my mother’s understanding that this was a mistake I needed to make.

“Mom?”

“Yes, honey; I’m here. I don’t think you should send it, but if you do, PLEASE take out the line about ‘a romance for the ages.’ ”
Fair.

As soon as we hung up, I sent Adam the letter. It did not go well.

Adam was very sweet about it, as sweet as a nineteen-year-old boy can be, and he gently showed me back to my seat in the friend zone. I think his actual words were something to the effect of “I—uh, but we’re friends!”

Over the course of the following year, I kept the letter in a password-protected folder on my desktop called “DO NOT OPEN UNLESS YOU WANT TO CRY.” The folder also contained terrible, angsty short stories I had written and other emails that teenage Kate deemed worthy of her “emotions” folder. I’d peruse its contents while shamefully cry-singing along to Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful.” Every time I tried to look at Adam’s email, though, I had to close it; it was just too mortifying. But we have remained friends to this day, so it wasn’t a total loss.

My mom could have stopped me that morning, and she knew it, just as she knew I was setting myself up for a humiliating rejection and a subsequent period of tortured songwriting and rocky-road-related weight gain. But she recognized that it was time to cut (a small
section of the very much still attached) cord and let me get hurt. She would rip the genitals off a lion in hand-to-paw combat to protect me, so watching me suffer my first heartbreak was probably miserable for her. Lion testicles aside, my mother knew that letting me suffer was the only way to help me grow up: “Sometimes, you have to get your heart broken to find your way around the penis.”
*