Lucy and Lamott

So, I'll begin this entry with a disclaimer: It is generally not a great idea to have a surprise baby when you're a twenty-year-old unemployed girl with a pretty moderate drinking problem and no goals of which to speak just because you want someone to love you and you think your child will be just like you and you will be their favorite person and it will be happily ever after forever and ever. It rarely ever works out like the way you think it will and parenting is hard and expensive, etc.

That said, Lucy is exactly the kid I always dreamed of having and she made me grow up and become a better person and life is worth living now that she exists on this earth. She looks, talks and thinks like me, and we both agree that she is the coolest person in our family. Excluding the hours of 7:00-9:00 pm, during I routinely ruin her life by insisting that she go to bed at a reasonable hour, we have what I think is a pretty magical relationship.

One of the best things about my current relationship with Lucy is that she's at an age right now where I am still the most awesome person to ever live. Sure, there are moments-- like the morning I followed her down the street to the bus singing Rebecca Black's "Friday" at the top of my lungs-- when she wishes I would be a bit more like 'normal' moms, but for the most she enjoys having such a young, hip mama.  A young, hip mama whose idea of a fun night out is cramming herself into a church full of middle aged white people to listen to a lecture on grief by Anne Lamott and bringing her seven-year-old daughter along for the ride.

I'm not being sarcastic, here. I had a root canal Friday morning and spent the weekend moaning on the couch with an ice pack on my face, so she was bored out of her mind and willing to do anything I wanted as long as it involved leaving the house. We both got all dressed up for our night on the town. I even took a shower and wore a dress! I know I looked good because Lucy said, "You look pretty, Mommy! You don't even look like you need to go to the hospital." Score.

Lucy dressed in what she calls her "Mommy clothes," a costume consisting of a lot of layers, a purse full of garbage, and a very disgruntled expression.

We had to stop at the store on the way to the lecture so I could buy a cold coffee drink to press against the side of my face. We were running late, which meant Lucy took advantage of drug-addled panic and convinced me to buy her a giant chocolate milk and a candy bar, both of which she put her in purse. "See, Mommy, I really look like an adult now. I could easily pass for at least twelve. I have my purse all organized with papers in the middle, my chocolate milk over here, and my candy bar over her."

"I don't really think most adult carry chocolate milk in their purses," I said, pulling her across crowded parking lot in the dark while I tried not to trip over my very long dress which had seemed totally practical when I bought it.

"Oh, and most adults do carry at least three pairs of little girls' underpants in their purses?" Lucy asked. Touché, Lucy. It's not my fault your sister can't be trusted not to pee her pants out of spite.


It was so crowded inside the church that we couldn't find a seat unless she agreed to sit on my lap. She was the only child in attendance, and I could tell the women next to us were very disappointed to be sharing a pew with the only little girl in the whole building, but Lucy was a champion. While Ms. Lamott spoke of the tragic shooting in Newtown and the ways grief can unexpectedly bring us to our knees, my daughter combed my hair with her fingers and rubbed her cheek against my face. At one point, when Ms. Lamott started talking about ways to help someone who is hurting, Lucy moved to the floor so she could take notes on her little pad of paper. When Ms. Lamott mentioned the pain of losing a sibling, Lucy squeezed my hand, knowing that I would be thinking of my little brother, who died two years ago. She listened intently to descriptions of heartbreak and the difficulty of trying to explain grief and tragedy to children. She nodded her head along with the rest of the crowd and laughed when things were funny. She listened, and when Ms. Lamott asked if anyone had questions, Lucy was the first person to raise her hand.

Lucy's hand is very little and the church was very crowded, so she didn't get a chance to say what she wanted to say before the lecture came to an end. As soon Anne Lamott stepped off the stage, though, Lucy was sprinting down the aisle with her hand in the air. "Come on, Mom!" she said, and walked right to the front of the long line of hopeful fans hoping to have their books signed and photos taken. She rapped her knuckles on the table while I stood a few feet away, too shy to address an writer who has meant so much to me over the years.

"Excuse me, I had a question and you didn't call on me," she said.

Anne Lamott looked up from the table and smiled at her.

"I just have one question and that's all. I want to be a writer and I want to know when did you start writing?"

"Well, I probably started writing when I about seven or eight years old," Ms. Lamott said, smiling at me while I blushed in the background. "I think I was in second or third grade. What grade are you in?"

Lucy shook her head.

"You don't want to tell me what grade you're in?"

Lucy shook her head.

"Is that a secret?"

Lucy turned around and grabbed my hand. "I told her I only had one question and that was all," she said. "She doesn't have time to chat. She needs to do her job and sign those books."

On the way back to the car, Lucy waved her program in the air and talked excitedly about all the writing events she could see in her future. "We can go see Amy Tan on the nineteenth, Mom. Do you like Amy Tan?"

"Yeah, I do, actually, but I'm pretty sure you don't know who she is," I said.

"If you like her, I like her. I don't know who Anne Lamott is, but I liked the thing she said. I need to learn everything I can about writing and writers and maybe musicians like if we could see Fiona Apple or something, that would be cool."

"You want to see a lecture by Fiona Apple?"

"Um, yes! She is one of my inspirations. I know all the words to all her songs."

And she does. That's the thing. She pays attention to everything I like and everything I do, and she takes from it every single thing she can. That's what I mean when I say she makes me a better person. She makes me think about every opinion, ever choice of words, every song I sing along with or book I check out from the library. She is watching me all the time, wanting to be like me, wanting to get closer to me. I was definitely an adult by the time I realized my mother had a life and interests outside of my own life and interests. I never thought to get to try to get to know her by doing the things she enjoyed. I was too busy talking and thinking about myself. And at seven years old, my child knows almost everything about me, about the person I used to be and the person I am and the person I want to be in the future. She understands that I'm not perfect and I'm kind of a nerd and she loves me even more for it and wants to be like me because she looks up to me. Which is crazy because I look up to her. I may not really be a cool Mom, but I have the coolest daughter.