when i was thirteen, going on fourteen, my mother came home from work one evening and asked for a glass of water, with lots of ice in it. this seemingly innocent request confused me. my mother NEVER asked for a glass of water when she came home, let alone one with ice in it. as i waled to the kitchen, lost in thought, another thing hit me. how she had asked for said glass of water. she had spoken to me rather casually, as though we were friends, using a little slang while she was at it. what was going on? i didn't get a chance to think too much about it because apparently the glass that i took her was not up to snuff. she could spot little flecks of dishcloth floating around in her glass. "look, can't you see it?"
"um, yes mom" only because you can't argue with your mother over clean - that is a battle you can never hope to win. i shuffled back to the kitchen, rinsed the glass with close to boiling water (my mother insisted hot water was the key to spotless) and, without drying the inside of the glass, refilled it with ice cubes and cold water. and as i performed these odd tasks, i wondered what was going on with my mom. i decided she must have had a hard day. i was thirteen, what did i know about a hard day at work? maybe sometimes when things were really tough a person might want to just sit back and have a cold glass of water. my mother was happy with her spotless glass and i proceeded to shut her out as she started on her lecture on the importance of hot water when washing dishes. my mother was back.
and then she asked for water the next evening and the next. and each time we went through the whole are there specks in my water drama. the slang also continued and she she seemed unnaturally pleased. apart from the glass-is-dirty outburts, nothing seemed to get to her. not that i was trying to test her, washing glasses five times over was more than enough punishment for sins unknown.
a few days later, on a sunny saturday, i followed my mother around the house as she watered her famous african violets and tried to turn my bland thumb green. she rambled along about sunlight and potting and i looked at this woman and thought, hey, your clothes don't fit right. what is going on? why is your top so tight? i was confused and suddenly sad. so i went to my bedroom and lay on my bed with my legs up against the wall, my body making an L - my position of deep thought and comfortable repose.
i put together all the oddities - the water, the slang, the happy glow and now the ill-fitting clothing. what did it all mean? as the only two options came to me, though i fought them hard, tears started leaking from my closed eyes. as they trickled down each side of my face and into my hair, i wondered if there was anything i could do. i mean it was obvious, it was either that my mother was having an affair or aliens had invaded and replaced her with one of their own. either way, as i saw it, i had lost the woman i had known my whole life. what would i do? how would my father cope? i mean, he panicked when i had girl issues while my mother was on a business trip. the poor man. poor us. i had a good old mini-weep for the life i had had thus far and taken for granted, not realising how fragile it all was. and then my sister came into the room - and we had to get into a fight (because that is what sisters who love each other do).
as the days went by, i watched for any signs of hope. i watched to see if the mother i knew would return and fit into her clothing. i waited for the day she would stop asking for water "with lots of ice". i went out of my way to be extra nice to both parents, to remind my mother of what she would lose and to bring comfort to my poor father. and i tried to not be sad. i was determined to stop the inevitable.
a few weeks later, the truth came out. i was sort of correct about it all. but the news was not so bad. my mother was pregnant.
