Tiger Babies Strike Back (30 page)

We entered the building and immediately the aroma of popcorn, French fries, and smelly feet enveloped us like a warm, toasty fart. We could hear and feel the cavernous space vibrating with 1980s music, the drone of overlapping voices on the loudspeakers, and the crying, sobbing, and screeching of toddlers and preteens all collectively hopped up on Sweet Tarts. As our daughters joined their gang, I exchanged glances with the other mothers. Each of our facial expressions was somewhere on the spectrum between slightly chagrined and completely miserable. One woman appeared particularly desperate, as if she were trying to decide if now was the right time to swallow the cyanide pill she kept in her purse for just such an occasion.

We were surrounded by germ-infested chaos. Six-year-olds with rubbery limbs and five Twizzlers simultaneously hanging out of their mouths were hoisting seven-pound bowling balls over their potentially licey heads. With all their might, they tossed them like gigantic, crashing jawbreakers across the scuffed lanes. I could feel the ground rumble beneath my feet, and when I looked across the trash-strewn floor, I noticed puddles of unidentifiable liquid that hadn't been cleaned up in who knows how long.

A bowling alley employee assigned to facilitate the party tried to perk up the morose birthday girl by asking, “Are you excited? Are you SUPER DUPER EXCITED?” The birthday girl looked near tears and just nodded mutely.

Just then I witnessed a bowling ball catapulted haphazardly into a gaggle of kids, barely missing someone's cherubic, mullet-framed face. Aghast at the mayhem all around us, I turned to the employee and said, “Are you insured? Are you SUPER DUPER INSURED?”

I watched Lucy from a respectable distance. I was not quite a helicopter mom, but more like a crop duster flying low in the near distance. I wanted to give my daughter space to interact with her pals without me, and to let her navigate her own needs. It was satisfying to see her not freak out when she ended up with fruit punch instead of pink lemonade, and she waited her turn politely and didn't stomp on any little kids. She gave them some withering glances, but she kept her hands and thoughts to herself, which seemed pretty good to me. I watched as she laughed with her friends, carefully rolled the ball down her lane, and did goofy victory dances when she managed to knock any pins down. She didn't look around in search of my assurances or approval, and I was proud of her independence. And best of all, she looked like she was having a good time.

We mothers shared the duties of splitting servings of French fries, divvying up the cake, and making sure kids didn't kill one another over the goody bags. All of us together pitching in to corral our little creatures really did make the experience more manageable. And when you are raising a kid, sometimes that's the best one can hope for.

After a while, a wail erupted above the din. It was a piercing, high-pitched, dental drill sound that could only be produced by the vocal cords of a human female under the age of ten. I prayed, prayed, prayed that it was not my child. I had just taken a break to eat a single French fry, and I hoped the squeal would magically go away, but it did not. It only morphed into a jackal's howl. As I glanced around, I continued to silently implore the powers that be that my child would not be the one who required assistance.

And miraculously, it wasn't my daughter who was pitching the fit. I spotted Lucy rolling a bowling ball down one of the lanes and was relieved. But then, the screeching continued. I scanned the area and spotted the piglet in peril. It was my friend's youngest daughter, and she had wiped out in one of the lanes and had dropped her drink.

I scrambled over to her and helped her up.

“Hey, it's okay,” I said.

I cleaned her off as best as I could with some Kleenex from my pocket, sopped up her drink with a wad of napkins, and then led her back over to the rest of the party. Her braying stopped and downshifted to a silent scream, the kind where the mouth is open so wide that you can see tonsils, but no sound comes out.

Her mother came back from the bathroom, and as soon as the kid spotted her, the screech that erupted from the thirty-pound body was louder than any of the previous noises. It was like she had just been resting her lungs for a bit, but now that she had spotted her mom, she resumed her siren's wail.

“I think she's okay,” I said, handing over the disheveled kid.

“Oh, Lordy,” my friend replied, scooping up her daughter. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

If that had actually been Lucy who was crying, and if I had been temporarily not around, I am certain that one of my friends would have comforted her in my absence. I know that Stephanie, or Jo, or Carol, or Kathryn, or Julie would have been there. We are all mothers. We have all been there and will be there again when it is our child who needs help, whether we need a hand or lend a hand.

And if any of us were Tiger Mothers, chances are we wouldn't have even been together at this crazy party. Maybe if we had stayed home and not allowed our kids to come, we could have counted on that Saturday afternoon being quieter and calmer. None of this chaos would have invaded our lives. However, this is life. Life is ketchup on your clothes, French fries in your hair, and cake mashed around your kid's mouth.

When we were all leaving the bowling alley, I offered my friend's kid some Reese's Pieces but accidentally said “Reese's Penis.”

I was mortified. But that's life, too. When I'm frazzled, the part of my mind that always has one foot in the gutter has a tendency to trip me up. Oh, well! I told the kid's mother what I'd said, and we had a good laugh about it.

And we laughed all the way home. We know that these ridiculous, embarrassing, nerve-singeing details are all part of this giant ball of string we are rolling up a hill, together. But we've got our eye on the prize: a happy, varied, all-inclusive life experience made better with friends for our children, and friends for adults as well.

Our families are not just our biological ones, but the ones we make, too.

38

My own mother, Irene, may have kind of ignored me, and she wasn't very physically demonstrative, but she never clipped my wings so I wouldn't fly. My mom is a master, or mistress, of telling it like it is. She is blunt to the core and would never hesitate to say something looked cheap, was overpriced, tasted bad, or was just plain terrible. She never spared feelings. Like I said earlier, instead of Irene, she is sometimes called I Ream, or just the Reamer.

As I get older I am beginning to see that my mother's adherence to practicality above all else served a specific goal. The Reamer did not push me toward accomplishment solely to reflect well on her. As her child, I was to her not merely an extension of herself, whose only purpose was to serve in exalting her. I can see now that our relationship was forged with the goal of my independence. The Reamer did not coddle me. But it wasn't for lack of love. She did not coddle me
because
she loved me. She wanted me to be strong so I could live without her.

These days my mother says she raised me to be my own person. Does that mean she willingly gave me the tools to chip away at the foundation that bolted me to her? Does it mean she didn't let me hug her too much
on purpose
so I wouldn't get too attached and be afraid to break free?

Well, we could all say we did something on purpose in retrospect; that is, if everything actually worked out, which it did. I think the Reamer was just not naturally too snuggly and was simply not overendowed with sentimentality. Plus, she was busy, and didn't realize how short the window would be, the window of time in which we could feel intimate with each other. That window was narrow, indeed. Who knew it could slam shut so fast? And the tiny, mangled hand of my tender heart that got caught in the hastily slammed frame took a long time to heal.

I've forgiven my mom for her natural stoicism, her fears for me, and the projection of her own worries. She worked hard and did the best she could. She wanted good things for me, and a good life. And I think she accepts that I had to fly a short distance away from her because her love pecks, from my point of view, felt instead like sharp pluckings of my pinfeathers that would've hindered flight sooner or later.

As with many families, I think as mother and daughter we're a little closer now that I've moved away. There's space to breathe, and between us is a nonmilitarized zone of years having passed. When I go back to San Francisco to visit, there is a cease-fire in the squabbling because our time together is set on a timer.

I am thankful to my parents for letting me go. I'm glad that
they
are independent, too. The upside to my mother's natural lack of sentimentality is that I'm not regularly mopping up her drunken carcass from the floor of a karaoke bar after she's belted out “Feelings.” Or if she was Filipina, “Peelings.”

The reality of my mom's lifelong habit of being practical and unemotional above all else means that she calls up and asks if I need anything at Costco, rather than ringing me up at midnight to rehash some hysterical argument from 2007. I've got friends whose parents do that, and I'm so glad that's not anything my mother would do. It turns out that Tiger Mom qualities have some benefits, after all. My mother still might not be very comfortable hugging me, but I know that that ninety-six-pack of toilet paper means she truly loves me.

It's a stoic kind of love, but it's love just the same. For instance, every year on my birthday, my parents send me a store-bought card, and at the bottom of the printed message, it is always signed, “From Your Family.” The lettering is engineer-perfect, in all capital letters, and there is no extra “Love,” or other sentimental addition to the matter-of-fact statement. There is no inclusion of the words
Mom
or
Dad
. The implied existence of my brothers, uncles, aunts, and other relatives hovers invisibly in the all-encompassing word,
Family
.

This three-word phrase says it all about Chinese thinking. This birthday card sign-off tells me everything I need to know as their daughter. Not including the individual names indicates that our specific identities are, overall, inconsequential. We are family. Also, no amount of frilly exclamations or lack thereof makes any difference either. If they adore me, hate my guts, or feel just kinda “eh” about me, the bedrock truth is that we are family. No matter what.

This year my birthday card arrived, and as expected, it was signed in the exact same manner. Actually, my own name was not anywhere on the card either, but at the bottom, there were the usual words,
From Your Family
. The card itself had a picture of Snoopy and a wide rainbow flag across the top. When I opened the flap, the card fanned out like a pop-up book, and the big block letters read, “CAN'T HIDE THE PRIDE!”

I wasn't sure if my parents were trying to tell me that they thought I was gay. Or maybe they just remembered that when I was nine years old I liked Snoopy. Either way, I've taken the message to heart. My family, whatever their names are, are proud of me.

39