Mother, May I Fall in Love?
The timing couldn't be worse. My heart is still broken from the last time I tried. I read a book on getting over heartbreak. It said I should put my energy into doing things I used to enjoy, things I may have lost along with my dignity, my self-esteem, my will to live. So I said yes when an old friend invited me to get out of the city and go camping for the weekend with a group of people from her church. You know the type. Guitars, hemp necklaces, essential oils. Plus this one joker in hiking boots and homemade corduroy pants.
Mother, he makes his own pants. He's three years younger than me, and I just said I was done with men in their twenties. He smokes pot. He has a dog. He's from Vermont. He walks like he's on the moon. He lives in Brooklyn. He goes to church.
On the other hand, we were both up at dawn on our first morning in the woods, and he asked me if I wanted to meditate. He'd brought a Tibetan singing bowl. We sat still and breathed for thirty minutes. Then he kissed me. We spent the rest of the day hiking as fast as we could, then pulling over to make out until everyone caught up. When he asked me if I wanted to sleep in his tent, I said no. He smiled and said it couldn't hurt to try.
Mother, he has a killer smile.
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Mother, May I Forget to Use Birth Control?
I'm almost thirty and I'm spending every weekend in Brooklyn. Half the time we don't get out of bed until seven or eight PM. We get Indian food from the bodega down the street and meet up with friends at a bar. He doesn't wear homemade pants anymore. He still smokes pot, but not first thing in the morning. His dog and I tolerate each other. Either he's started walking like he's on Earth, or I've started walking like I'm on the moon. Also, his church is Unitarian, which totally doesn't count.
You know better than anyone that I never had a consistent, loving father figure, so I'm desperate to lock this one down. I know that makes me a crappy feminist, but let's be honest, you weren't a great role model. I think you owe me this one.
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Mother, May I Get Married at Midnight Under a Full Moon in a Chapel on an Island off the Coast of Maine With No One But a Minister and Two of Our Friends?
I know it's going to break your heart that I didn't invite you, but we're kind of in a hurry here. Also, the minister is Unitarian.
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Mother, May I Panic and Call My Ex-Boyfriend?
Shit got real, fast, no thanks to you. I just want to make sure there's a backup plan.
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Mother, May I Move to a Third-Floor Walkup in a Neighborhood So Far Out in Brooklyn That It'll Take Me an Hour to Get to My Job in Downtown Manhattan?
It's all we can afford.
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Mother, May I Forget My Birth Control Again?
I'm under the impression that you can't get pregnant while breastfeeding if you haven't started getting your period.
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Mother, May I Spend Two Weeks in Bed Crying?
I really didn't see this one coming.
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Mother, May I Leave New York and Move to a Small Town in Vermont to be Closer to His Family?
There's no room in this apartment for any more babies. I had to quit my job because I wasn't making enough to cover childcare. New York used to be fun, but now all I do is waddle to the playground, or the library, or the free sing-alongs at the cafe around the corner.
If you're wondering why I don't move back to Indiana to be closer to my family, remind yourself that you used to hit me with a wooden spoon that you kept on top of the fridge. Or check your recycling bin to see how many bottles of whiskey Dad goes through in a week. Or look at the scar I still have from the time you pressed the curling iron against my forehead when I told you I wanted to quit playing the violin.
Oh, did I mention they’re twins?
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Mother, May I Jump off a Cliff?
It's the middle of February, and there's literally six feet of snow on the ground. I don't know anyone here except my mother-in-law. The babies won't stop crying. The older one just turned two, and it's true what they say. Terrible. I haven't slept more than three hours at a time since October. The dog is dying of old age. He shits on the floor at least once a day. I'm the one who stays home, so I'm the one who cleans it up. We have enough money to pay the mortgage and buy groceries, but not enough to go out to eat or buy a second car. I can't stand the sound of my own voice in my head.
Mother, this is nothing like what you said my life would be, on the days when you were in a good mood and I brought home another straight-A report card, or won another prize for an essay, or played another violin solo with the Monrovia Symphony Orchestra. I did it all to make you proud.
Mother, did I make you proud?
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Mother, May I Call My Ex-Boyfriend Again?
I just want to reassure myself that he's as miserable as I am.
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Mother, May I Talk to My Primary Care Doctor About Starting an Antidepressant?
It seems like a good idea.
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Mother, May I Fall on My Knees and Worship This Purple Crocus?
Look at it, pushing its head out of the snow in the front yard! Listen to that cardinal trying to find a mate! Watch how I run out the door when my mother-in-law comes to take the babies for a few hours! I made a new friend at the Unitarian church. She has a nose ring and a little boy the same age as my oldest, and she invited me to grab a beer with her. I'm walking like I'm on the moon again.
Also, the dog finally died.
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Mother, May I Go Back to Work?
My oldest just started Kindergarten and the twins are in preschool. Four hours a day isn't a lot, but I found a tiny marketing agency that'll take me on. The owner's impressed by my New York City credentials. It pays enough to cover a car payment, with enough leftover for haircuts and a few new clothes. Please. I'm dying here.
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Mother, May I Have an Affair With My Boss?
I still love my husband, but there seems to be a ticking time bomb somewhere inside me. You probably put it there with a wooden spoon.
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Mother, May I Relapse into My High School Eating Disorder to Cope With My Despair?
It didn't work back then, but I'm running out of options.
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Mother, May I Jump Off a Cliff?
Seriously this time. My boss is a sociopathic narcissist who snorts blow like it's 1983. Sometimes he disappears for months at a time, then he comes back and starts texting me at two in the morning. I hate him, but I don't know how to say no, probably because you and Dad invalidated my feelings and treated me like your property instead of a fully-formed human being. This town is ridiculously tiny and there's no way to escape this toxic tire fire of a mess I created. My husband and kids would be better off without me.
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Mother, May I Come Clean, Quit My Job, and Find a Really Good Therapist?
If I beg, I think my husband will forgive me. If the therapist is good enough, I may be able to forgive myself.
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Mother, May I Find God?
Unitarians mostly don't talk about God, but if anyone needs a Higher Power, it's me.
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Mother, May I Block My Ex-Boyfriend's Number?
It scares me to death, but my therapist thinks it's time. I already did the old boss's number. Now I guess I'll have to call a friend when I feel like I want to rub off all my skin on the bark of a tree? Is that what normal people do? Never mind. You wouldn't know.
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Mother, May I Cry at My Daughter's Dance Recital?
She's just so beautiful. All three of them are just so beautiful. I don't understand why you couldn't have loved me the way I love them.
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Mother, May I Settle For What I Already Have?
I'm almost forty now. My husband did forgive me, and the therapist was as good as I hoped. Life isn't what you told me it would be, on those days when you were in a good mood. But it's better, in ways you wouldn't be able to understand. We even got a new dog.
Melissa Lore is a rural northern California transplant to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, where she lives with her husband, two children, and two outrageously fluffy sheepadoodles. She earned an MFA in creative writing from Columbia University in New York City, where she was awarded the Lini Mazumdar fellowship and graduated with distinction. Her short fiction has appeared in numerous literary magazines, including ZYZZYVA, Identity Theory, and The Normal School. Melissa is currently at work on her first novel.
Twitter: @melissalore1 Instagram: @melissafolklore
Photo by Len Radin on Foter.com / CC BY-NC-SA