The (F)art Of Communication
By Callie Feyen
@calliefeyen
Jesse and I, we are trying to eat better and so he brings a container of peanut M&Ms the size of a small garbage can home from Costco. The idea being that instead of blueberry pie, instead of Hudsonville Moose Track ice cream, instead of a DQ blizzard, a handful of peanut M&Ms–perhaps one in each color–will suffice our after dinner dessert wishes.
The M&Ms have turned out to also be a key ingredient in Hadley’s newest practical joke for which I’ve had to establish a new household rule: NO MORE DOOKEY BUTT.
What you do is let the M&Ms melt on the tips of your fingers so they’re all brown, but you know where I’m going with this, so here’s where the strategy comes in: carefully walk to where you mom is, and since you’re now a teenager and have that affected tone down pat, switch it up on her and bring your voice to the days when you followed her around everywhere and radiated delight at just her presence.
“Mama,” you’ll want to say quietly and sweetly. This will get her attention–calling her something other than, “Heymom,” or, “MomcanI.”
She will look at you, and here’s where you want to be careful to not show your fingers lest you give yourself away. Go in for the hug, quick. Wrap your arms around her and mumble something about missing her, or whatever.
As you do this, swiftly tap your mom’s butt–it only takes a subtle move, this is an efficient prank, but here’s where you must never, ever mess up: you absolutely cannot laugh. Indeed, chocolate on somebody’s ass is hilarious. You’re a hero if you can do this to your mom, but this will not work if even for a second you take so much of a shaky breath at the thought of what it is you’re doing: Giving your mom Dookey Butt.
Hadley will tell you there will be consequences. She now knows how to use Shout, for example. Hadley will also say that it is a life skill to assess when the benefits far outweigh the consequences. She will want readers to fully understand this, so as a courtesy to her, I’m including this formula:
ACCOMPLISHING DOOKEY BUTT > ANY AMOUNT OF TROUBLE YE SHALL RECEIVE
***
Besides physical health, I’ve been making attempts to up my intellectual game. Currently, this means reading more poetry, reading through the Sunday New York Times, and books like James K.A. Smith’s You Are What You Love: The Spiritual Power of Habit. (And honestly? I think this man is going to be very excited when he learns his book is in an essay that contains the words, “dookey” and also “butt.” You are welcome, Mr. K.A. Smith. You. Are. Welcome.)
This is what I’m doing on a morning when Hadley comes downstairs with Jesse’s laptop, sits down across from me, and opens it up.
“Do you have to be on the screen first thing in the morning?” I whine.
“I’m doing research,” she tells me.
Pro-parenting tip: Ask what kind of research. Research, as you will soon find out, can mean many things.
I am reading the chapter titled, “The Spirit Meets You Where You Are,” while Hadley researches.
“Did you know that penguins can fire their poop up to four feet?” Hadley tells me.
Mr. K. A. Smith, John Calvin, Jesus Christ, tell me please, I beg you, where is the Spirit meeting me right now?
“That’s what you’re researching?” I ask.
“Uh huh,” Hadley says, scooping a spoonful of cereal into her mouth and crunching for a second. “Can you even believe that?”
“I really can’t,” I say.
“Gosh, I WISH I could do that,” Hadley says taking another bite of cereal. “I’d be like, ‘INCOMING!!!” then she stands and points her butt in the direction of her target: Harper.
“OK, that’s enough,” I say, because Harper plays a strong meek game, but she has the temper of a hornet and even a threat will send her into attack mode.
It’s quiet for a moment, and I re-read a sentence I’ve been trying to understand for what feels like five years, except now, all I can think about is penguins and their battle-like bowel movements.
It’s no matter because Hadley and Harper begin to discuss the authenticity in Hadley’s new research topic: the world’s largest butt.
“It’s 5 feet and 3 inches,” Hadley says, pointing to the computer like she’s reading Wikipedia.
“It is not,” Harper says.
“It is,” Hadley says. “Harper, that’s me. Lying down. That’s how big this butt is.”
“Hadley, you’re lying. Nobody’s butt is that big.”
“Martha Chesterson’s is,” Hadley says matter-of-factly.
“Martha Chesterson? Who’s that?” Harper asks.
“The person with the biggest butt.”
“This isn’t real, Hadley! You’re lying!”
I have ten seconds until, well, it wouldn’t surprise me if Harper tries to fire a little something special Hadley’s way.
I close the chapter on the spirit meeting me where I am. I think maybe the spirit might be afraid to meet me here.
***
Another habit—I go for drives. Usually nightly. I roll down the windows, blast the music I want to listen to, and drive. I have no destination in mind.
Near my house are several families of Canadian geese, and often they will cross the street, which is relatively busy on Ann Arbor nights, but I always find it heartening when we all slow to a stop to let them proudly waddle across the street.
The other day, just one goose–I think it was a mama–crossed the street while the family quacked for her from the curb. They made no attempt to move across the street, and she stayed where she was, her rear facing her family, her beak pointing toward another horizon.
I slowly coasted past just in case mama or children changed their mind, but nobody moved.
She will come back, I thought as I turned up the volume on Aretha Franklin’s, “Spirit in the Dark.” I know that sidewalk the mama left well. My friend Lisa and I run it in the mornings. It is a goose toilet. Running on that sidewalk could be considered agility training.
She’ll go back, I thought as I considered the first highway sign to Chicago. She just needs to get away from all the shit for a little while.
***
Saturday morning, I am reading the summer edition of Notre Dame Magazine on our front porch. This issue is about South Bend, the town where Notre Dame houses itself. The writers in this edition take an honest look at the relationship the town and the university have with each other.
It’s not like Ann Arbor and the University of Michigan. Here, the town and the school don’t seem to mind identifying with and even defining themselves by each other. Even though I was never a student at Notre Dame (I DID teach aerobics there, though), I was a resident of South Bend, and my love for both the city and the school run deep. I think that lately, the two have made efforts to have a symbiotic relationship. I know both are trying to admire and respect each other, but I also understand they want to distinguish themselves independently. They share the same space, but they are not the same. They are here for different reasons.
Hadley walks outside and gives me a good morning hug, then sits in the chair beside me. I know she’s making an effort to not be on her phone first thing in the morning because we talked about it–for the two billionth time–before she went to bed the night before. And so she’s here and she wants to talk, or, she wants me to talk to her, but I am reading. I want to read.
When will I be comfortable with who the two of us are, I think as I circle the top of my coffee mug with my finger. When will I be at peace with our differences?
“Miss Hannah is moving?” Hadley asks, eyeing the For Sale sign on our next door neighbor’s front lawn.
“Yeah,” I say, and put the magazine down. We look at the house next door for a minute.
“Maybe whoever moves in next door will have a kid my age,” Hadley says.
“Wouldn’t that be so fun?” I say.
Hadley nods quickly, but says nothing and continues to look at the house.
I watch her for just a second, then pick up my magazine, letting Hadley to her thoughts, and hoping that soon she finds her person. Somebody to tell anything and everything to. Somebody to tell about the waste removal talents of penguins.
And gosh, poor Martha Chesterson.
Photo by Lottie Caiella.