Dear Avery,
Maybe you trusted I had the skills to untangle the wires of your beloved slinky, or the know-how to coax the piece-of-shiitake plastic back to its original form. I like to think I was your last hope. But more likely, it ended up on the counter because I asked you to clear the table, and we both know that “clearing the table” is synonymous in your brain with, “take my beach shovel and take loads over to the counter.”
This morning, when I padded downstairs, the piles of crap on the counter triggered flashbacks of an avalanche documentary. “One wrong move,” I thought, “and I’m toast.” This was the motivation I needed to begin excavating the layers of school papers, Barbie clothes, and crumbs. Minutes after I caught my first glimpse of granite, I saw your precious slinky, mangled and lifeless. It sat atop a dried smudge of jelly, 2 finger smudges to the left of a Costco box of croissants that I optimistically believed I’d be able to finish by myself before they expired.
“Ducking slinky,” I whispered to myself. “It should be a crime to manufacture these.” Why? Well sure, sea turtles might be strangled by them, and they already have straws to worry about. It’s not fair. But to be honest, I’m less concerned about the sea turtles, and more concerned about you, my precious love.
Do slinky manufacturers understand the emotional trauma inflicted upon an entire family when a toy that everyone was excited about breaks in less than 90 seconds? Do they understand how a slinky screams, “WHIP ME AT YOUR SISTER!”, despite the fact that it will most certainly get stuck in her hair, leading to an early haircut and a twisted slinky that will never boing again?
I assure you, they know, those mother-truckers.
As your mother, I am prepared for many things. I have an emergency kit under the kitchen sink, whose contents I have never used, but do enjoy looking at. I know the first signs of hanger and have stashed snacks everywhere: the car, your backpack, the bathroom. I can fix mangled doll hair, with the fabric softener hack. And I even bought life straws, because if the world is going to end, I want to make sure you can sip pond water without fear of diarrhea.
But nothing could prepare me for the task of untangling your slinky, which is why it has become a permanent fixture on our kitchen counter: a reminder that I may never be the mom you need me to be. I know you placed it there a week ago, and I know you’ll continue to remind me on a daily basis that I said (in a moment of desperation) that I’d fix your slinky.
I’m stealing a method of delivering news that your surgeon so succinctly demonstrated last week. As your father and I sat on tan chairs in the consult room, breathing in the anxious fog of hope and fear that descends when your child goes under anesthesia, we heard the doorknob turn. Your doctor started speaking before he even opened the door. “Everything went well,” he said. So that by the time the door was open and he was standing in it, we’d already heard the news. He immediately turned around to leave.
It was a brilliant move- a real time saver. No need to sit down in the windowless box to share a piece of news that could be reduced to three words. We wanted a little more info, having just placed your life in his hands. But alas, beggars can’t be choosers.
And so, Avery, I’d like to share the following: I regret to inform you, the damage is irreparable.
I’m sorry I lied and said I could fix it. I just really, in that moment, needed you to stop screaming while I drove through rush hour traffic. I needed you to stop screaming so your sister would stop screaming, “It’s so loud in here!” I needed you to stop screaming because I was hangry, and about ready to start screaming myself.
Your slinky will never boing again. But does this mean it can’t live a high-quality life? Probably, yeah. So while you were at school, I threw it away, with the desperate hope that you’d forget about it. If you’re reading this note, it means you didn’t forget. I’m probably in hiding in a safe house with a new identity. Because as your father once said of your sister, “She’ll either be president, or a serial killer.” And I know how you two work together.
As you read this, you might be feeling angry that I lied to you about my slinky fixing skills. But I’d invite you to re-direct your anger to the slinky makers, have compassion for the sea turtles, and to consider the fact that if you’d never whipped your sister with your slinky, we wouldn’t be in this predicament.
Furthermore, stop leaving your shit on the counter.
Love,
Mom
