My Dad visted my brother, sister-in-law and their two adorable boys in California this summer. While there, he sent and email to my other brother and I, in Toronto, that went verbatim like this:
“Hi Guys,
How is everyone? Took the boys to see the Smurf movie yesterday and it was smurfing great. Going to the smurfin beach today. It is not as smurfin hot here as it was in T.O. Who took away the smurfin summer?”
Love you & smurf you all a whole bunch,
Papa smurf”
This email kills me. Do you mean to tell me that I really had a 50-50 chance to see the world through Brainy Smurf’s glasses and instead I ended up Neurotic Smurf. At least my brothers get to be Doctor Smurfs. I can’t believe I had a chance to be so happy, to be the kind of person who genuinely appreciates all the small, day-to-day things that email chain letters are always telling you to, and I’m not. Maybe I was wrong to delete that one about happiness being a gift and instead should have ‘gifted’ it to 5 of my friends like the lame email told me to? Well, shit.
My Dad’s joie de vivre baffles me. He absolutely loves pina coladas, and getting caught in the rain. Don’t even get him started on the feel of the ocean, or the taste of champagne! He’s attended several Jimmy Buffett concerts wearing a Hawaiian shirt and he’s told people about it. He still calls me Wendel Shmendel Bendel on a regular basis, even when asking for legal advice. Restaurants, like McDonald’s, are cafe’s or bistros and a tiny mall called Masonville in London, Ontario, is pronounced maison-vie.
I love spending time with my Dad, whether we’re having lunch at this little place on the lake that he just adores or he’s helping to fix something in my house and passing no judgment on how messy it is, but it always reminds me just how much a loser I am in the genetic lottery. This fact is never more poignant on those afternoons where I find myself huddled in the corner of my house in the fetal position, reading Sylvia Plath poems, and get a phone call from my Dad telling me about what a wonderful time he just had in a lavender patch. Or at the Port Credit Southside Shuffle Music Festival. At a quiet little inn just outside the city. Or at the Smurf movie with his grandsons.
Why couldn’t I just be like that!? Why can’t I go frolick in a lavedar path!? I wouldn’t even know where to find one.
Why couldn’t I just get the Smurf gene?
Genetic uncertainty has made the decision to have a baby a very fretful one for me. I am terrified of conceiving a child and it’s an issue. With his ovaries pulsing faster than Justin Beiber and Dr. Dre’s “Justbeat” headphones, my husband accuses me of hating babies. This accusation is entirely unfair. I don’t hate babies. I just hate the idea of my baby. Or a baby with my genes. I would love to adopt a baby, to give all the love I have to a pre-existing child who really needs it. Beacuse I know, that in my very worst moments, I wish I wasn’t here. The fact that I can make that decision for our baby is enormous for me. If only my husband understood that it is because I love our unborn child so fiercely already, that makes me fret. It’s because I worry about our little boy or girl spending afternoons huddled in the corner of their room, in the fetal position, reading Dylan Thomas poems, and knowing all too well the untouchable depths of their suffering. And knowing their pain is from me. Directly, genetically, from me. That they had a 50-50 chance to have a racing heartbeat limited to overtime in sporting events like their father, but lost that genetic roll of the dice.
When I see this image, I close my eyes tight and picture myself tip-toeing across the floor of their room. I see myself, knealing down beside them and putting a gentle hand on their shoulder as I pass them the phone.
“Your Grandfather has something to tell you,” I say, “You’re going to be smurfed away by how smurfirific it is. He smurfs you a whole bunch.”
Brilliant as usual (lavender patch, hilarious)….But I really have to respond (on behalf of the world of people who want to see you and your husband have an amazing little baby) with the news that there is a Grouchy Smurf (see below), not to mention Oscar the Grouch, and the Grouchy Dwarf. Granted they are not all considered “depressed” (although I bet at least two out of those three are), but more importantly, the message that children get from a young age about the people in the world — and that we should all get — is that it takes all kinds…even, and maybe especially, the ones who aren’t always in such a great mood.
In short, thank god for you Wendel, Shmendel, Bendel. I’d love it if you had six more little ones just like you.
http://www.sodahead.com/fun/smurfs-cute-or-creepy/question-1531839/?page=7&link=ibaf&q=grumpy%2Bsmurf&imgurl=http://bluebuddies.com/smurf_fun/smurf_personality_test/jpg/Grouchy_Smurf.jpg
I love that Maya! It’s true, that is a wonderful message for children. I really like that perspective-I’m tolding rounding out my nieces’ and nephews’ views of the world! Your pro-creative encouragement is extremely touching and I am officially putting you down, Ms. Shapiro, to babysit all six of them.
Wish we could all be Smurfirific, but… Another well-written, thoughtful, insightful post.
Thanks,
Elizabeth
I think you’re smurfirific Elizabeth. And I bet my Dad does too!
It’s amazing to me that you can take such heavy thoughts and insert humor that I love. Frolic in a lavender patch??? I can’t tell you how much I adore that. Among other phrases and lines in this post.
If it wasn’t for psychotropic meds, I wouldn’t be here. That’s not drama; it’s a statement of fact. I won’t outline my family history. It’s just too morose. Suffice it to say, I’ve had depressions I didn’t think I’d survive. I have to remind myself of that when I’m feeling ok, which, thankfully, is most of the time.
Thank you so much for your words. I always look forward to your posts.
You are so generous June! You are such a strong woman and you should be so proud of such an amazing accomplishment. Is it just me, or do you think psychotropic drugs need a rebranding as a category? I think it’s the ‘psycho’ part that is really weighing it down. Thanks a lot, Hitchcock!
Betcha your child would be JUST LIKE YOUR DAD! I know, it happened to me – three out of six times! I should probably tell you that my Dad was born in 1925, on April first. Throughout his life, he has taken that as tacit license to be a goof. (That’s ‘foog’ spelled backwards) And he has done well at it. He taught us such things as secret agent water fighting. Dribble glasses. Fake ice cubes. Tall, Taller and Tallest stories. And literal poetic license in the newspaper. And now I have this new generation who feels that their biggest goal in life is to outdo their grandfather. It is an ongoing competition. I’ll let you know how it turns out – if I survive!
Your family sounds like so much fun Diane! Thank you so much for sharing. I really hope that I eventually have a house full of foogs that are as wonderful as yours.
Funny, sad, thought-provoking post. Discovered your site on SW, looking forward to reading more of your work!
Now this may seem like a joke to everybody, but when I was born….
I was blue like a flippin’ Smurf!