Shark Mother

Shark Mother

Flipping through random stations on a small, early model flat-screen, I’m suddenly caught by a title: “Shark Week.” Neat! I love sharks. Love ‘em! But, the connection is weak; I switch channels again. Letterman is on Colbert, The Late Show — first time since he relinquished his former desk. These two are both great; I have to watch. In an amusing discussion about empty nesting, Letterman waxes on about the “agony” of watching his son leave for college. Deadpan, Colbert, blurts: “Yeah. Don’t have children; it’s not worth it.” My guffaw spews my half-chewed glob of Tinkyada with tomato sauce in a Pollack-esque spray of color into my unsuspecting yellow Fiestaware bowl.

“Yes!”, I screech.

Followed by my emphatic, “NO!”

Parenting breaks your heart, shatters your preconceived (pun not intended, but, sure, it works) notions of what being a parent — a mother, in particular — entails. You are like the mother shark — you must keep swimming, moving forward, in a never ceasing paddle in the new, often treacherous, water that is parenthood. Then — so swiftly, unfairly! — in the end, you are alone.

They'll take you for granted. They'll need you desperately until they don’t, must reject you to find themselves. They'll hold you accountable for things not on your ledger. They'll hold you accountable as they deny holding you accountable, don’t believe they are holding you accountable. Nothing you did or do will ever have been or be right, be good enough, be the essential kind of love —  the sort of love that could save them from the inevitable slings and arrows of even the most charmed of lives. Less than charmed lives? Look out!

Your best intentions will be your worst efforts, your moments of “I can’t!” become their most vivid, impacting memory — your numerous quirks worthy of scorn, derision. Your unconditional love transforms into a cloying, a clutching, a chasing — doesn’t matter how little you interact, how much you interact, any interaction might be too much or too little. You will never “win”, though “winning” has never been your point.

Occasionally, they'll appear to appreciate your efforts — maybe even love you. Still, you'll let them go, handily washing their hands of need for you.

You long to be the mother shark. Long, lean — all sinew, muscle, unending strength — coursing through Neptune’s brine, releasing her mermaid’s purses, her precious egg sacs, her ghost shark chimaeras, out into the ice blue cold of the endless sea. “Chimera” — a thing hoped for but impossible to achieve.

The mother shark swims. Swims and swims, makes more egg sacs, releases them. Her only memory one of movement, of glide, of the small and fading ache deep in her loins urging her to let slip the loss, swim on.

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