Page 2 of Compassion

Fucking.

Eons.

“Definitelybefore Lucy,” my mother sneers on a snip of wine. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, Bernard is a nice enough young man-”

“He hoards cats,” Dad casually inserts into conversation before having a bite of bread.

“However, I never thought he’d getmarriedlet alone start a family.”

I’ll openly admit to you that going to all his cat themed wedding events last year really knocked me down a few pegs. Primarily because my mom spent each one whispering shit like this to me but also because if the creepy cat dude can find love, why can’t I? He’s ten years older and ten times weirder andstillmanaged to find someone who wanted to live in holy catrimony with him. What’s so wrong with me? And I’m askingyou, not the woman who has a list that she checks twice like she’s fucking Santa Claus for criticisms.

“This is actually Brenda’s recipe,” Mom announces after swallowing a bit more wine. “She gave Lucythiswhile Lucy gave her a few healthy alternatives to some of the nastier pregnancy cravings.” Her pale blue eyes that she inherited from her biological father swing my direction. “You know I have a list, too…Just in case it ever happens in our family.”

I offer her a forced sympathetic grin and ingest the smallest nibble I can stomach.

Look, it’s not that I hate children. I totally love children. I love them so much that I have literally worked with them my whole life. Babysitting. Tutoring. Lifeguarding. Birthday party hosting. Nannying. Tumbling guide. I absolutely want children of my own someday. And it’s not like I didn’t want them then when the possibility was there. It’s not like that shit wasn’t in the plans despite his privately spoken indifference. However, sometimes – through no fault of our own – plans change.Lifechanges. And the change isn’t always a predictable one.

“Can this dish never happen to us again?” Dad slyly shifts the subject with a point to his meal. “At least not without more cheese.”

“Charles!” my mother fusses his direction causing him and I to immediately snicker.

See why I love him.

“So, how’s the book coming along, sugar?” Dad reaches for the small tub of parmesan that’s in the middle of the table. “You refused to talk about it on Christmas – I assume to not steal the spotlight from the baby news – but that doesn’t make it not important or evenlessimportant than what they announced.”

“Come on, Charles, it’s not nearly as important as bringinglifeinto this world.”

“Maybe it is toour daughter.” My father swiftly argues while dumping a spoonful of cheese on my food for me. “And maybe this book is her bringing life into this world in a different way. Have you ever considered that?”

Writing and illustrating a children’s book is something I’ve been trying to do since my freshman year at Clover Rose University. Keyword to take away from that is trying. See, back then, it was just one of those things I doodled and daydreamed about while ignoring my Writing and Culture’s professor who – by the way – never included women nor people of color in his teachings. I loved the idea of my own children holding something thatIcreated. Something that they could pass down to their own children. I wanted them to be proud and able to say to others ‘look at what my mother accomplished.’. Regardless of how overly critical of my existence my own mom is, I love that she’s accomplished so much in her life. She’s one of the best surgeons in her field and one of the top ones at her hospital. She’s got accolades hung in expensive frames all around her office as well as a growing collection of medical periodicals she’s contributed to. And Dad? I’m very proud of him as well. He’s a blue blood. A lieutenant now with more responsibilities than his paycheck could ever cover. It’s not an easy gig, even at his mainly administrative level. There are always cases and crimes and people who are quick to point out your every minor mistake while just disregarding every life you’ve ever saved. It’s a thankless job, especially when you’re on the cleaner side of things, yet he does it and keeps doing it because he believes that human life, human rights matter. He often tells people blue bloods are boots on the ground while those that sit in congress or the senate try to figure their shit out. He knows the world isn’t black and white or even fair but does his best to do what’srightin spite of the bullshit. The admiration I have for them both…is admiration I want my own little ones to have for me. During my college days and even the first few months out, I kept working on the book, but once Chris Garrity, my now deceased fiancé of three years, entered my life, I completely stopped. And the only reason I started again is because all the experts my mother more or less forced me to speak to said focusing on a project would help the healing process. They claimed it would give me control over my life again. Give me a new purpose outside of work. A new vision. Allow myself to plan for the future I wanted. Truth? The only thing working on this book has done is give me an excuse to buy more wine, which I didn’t need. My mother is reason enough.

“Still not in the mood to talk about it?” Dad cautiously questions prior to cutting into his dinner.

A small headshake is presented on a forkful bite of the now cheese-covered dish.

“What about work?” Mom adjusts her wine glass at the same time she changes topics to something that may actually interest her. “How is it? Have you been promoted yet?”

“Mom, there isnopromoting, remember? I’m as high up as I’m gonna go.”

Being a librarian at an elite preschool is honestly my dream job! Doesn’t sound like it would be – and for most people it isn’t – but it’s everything I love all rolled into one very nerdy, very book-filled career. The place isn’t at all like your average daycare. It’s more like a child college for lack of a better term. It’s a private academy that’s geared towards those with lots of money to throw at their child’s education. It’s a learning organization that offers your precious ones art classes designed and written by those with degrees in the field, musical classes by the future composers of our time or past award-winning ones looking for a different pace in life, as well as gourmet meals that borderline on haute cuisine yet kid friendly enough to still be devoured like they’re a run of the mill basic PB&J. I’m lucky enough to work at one of the most unique and innovative institutions for early child development in the entire country. You’re probably wondering what do I do exactly, right? Well, I’ll tell you, and hopefully it sticks better for you than it does my mother. You see, it’s my responsibility to pick the books we keep on the shelves, coordinate with the owner/director, Presley Morrison, about the ever-changing curriculum, and travel from classroom to classroom reading stories to help drive a literary passion. The older afterschool kids, I occasionally help with additional homework if their teacher, Sienna O’Hara, sends them to me, which she typically does. She doesn’t like doing the homework portion of her job. She prefers the fun science experiments, the cooking projects, and crafting things with them from her own Ojibwa – or Anishinaabe – heritage. While I don’tloveher pawning them off on me, I do love getting her feedback on Native books to include in the book fairs that are also my responsibility. On top of those things – as if those aren’t enough – I also run the book drives – collecting books to donate to single parents in lower financial brackets – and our twice a month book club. One is for the children to attend with their parents, which is basically just a book they’re given each month to read weekly with their kids before coming to me at the end of the month where I’ll read to them the same book while they enjoy refreshments. It’s meant to be a bonding exercise as well as to build healthy reading and studying behaviors between adult and child – or in too many casesnannyand child. The other book club is for adults only that are looking for ways to socialize with other parents – or again nannies – without the crutch of their children. Basically, the English degree everyone swore would never be useful – mother included – got me a life that revolves almost non-stop around books. Combine that love with the other – kids – and yeah. Doing what I do is nothing short of a dream come true.

“You could always look into switching to anactualprivate academy or even a boarding school.” Mom’s head tilts in a judging fashion. “You would probably make more moneyandbe able to work your way into administration where you belong.”

“Ibelongright where I am,” I promptly argue, fork being gently placed down. “And I know it drives you crazy that I’m not a supervisor or in any type of management position, but I’mhappy,Mom. And I love what I do. Hearing kids like Sylvie, this sweet, mousy, four-year-old with coke bottle glasses read books likeGreen Eggs and Hamall on her own brings to me more joy than any amount of zeroes on a paycheck ever could.”

To my surprise, she flashes me a small smile. “That was the first book you learned to read.”

“Dr. Seuss was basically a drug dealer in this house,” Dad teasingly adds. “She always needed another hit ofOne Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue FishandFox in Socks.”

“Hop on Pop,” Mom promptly contributes.

“There’s a Wocket in My Pocket.”

“Don’t forgetOh, the Places You'll Go!”

Warm giggles are given on a minor blush. “I read that one to my graduating pre-k kids every year.”

“You wereaddictedto Dr. Seuss,” she happily coos.

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