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Poignant Family Drama
Aug. 22nd, 2024 09:52 amSpying on people is awfully fun!
Though I suspect the current situation doesn’t meet the criteria for proper spying since the Poignant Family Drama is right out there in the open. I am practically a fish swimming in it!
Thus, the Spawn’s mother & I chatted for half an hour or so yesterday—about a boyfriend she used to have named Atilla—
(“Atilla?” I said.
“German-Turkish,” she said.)
—and how she & Iggy battled it out in the courts for three years, and how he used to have to have supervised visitation because even though he obviously adores those kids, he would run off & leave them alone for long periods of time, plus there was never anything in his apartment to eat, and they would call her, “Mom, we’re hungry—”
“So, finally, I just said to them: ‘You’ve got to tell him to buy you some food! He’s simply not capable of anticipating your needs—’ "
###
I wouldn’t say “not capable.”
I would say, “needed to be taught.”
It’s quite clear to me that Iggy had an upbringing not too dissimilar to my own: latchkey child, single mother, Manhattan. I was taking subways into Brooklyn to my grandfather’s house on my own at the age of seven if my mother planned to be out of the apartment for more than 24 hours; if she planned to come back within a day, she would leave me five one-dollar bills on the little Formica table on which we ate our (few) communal meals with the injunction: Get yourself something to eat—
Was this neglect?
I suppose it was.
But I rather enjoyed it. All this money! And I could do what I wanted with it! I could buy nothing but candy bars! Or I could starve myself and save up all the money to buy dollhouse furniture at FAO Schwartz (which was mostly what I did.)
In my mother’s defense: When I was seven, she was only 25 herself, without the slightest clue how to be a parent, since her own mother was so fucking insane, eventually walking out on my mother and her two sisters while they were still quite young. Taking precisely half the furniture with her!
I put off having kids myself until my mid-30s ‘cause I knew I didn’t have a clue how to be a good parent.
After I had Ichabod, I watched endless hours of The Cosby Show—to learn how to be a good parent.
You can imagine how heartbroken I was to find out that Dr. Cliff Huxtable was a craven rapist and roofie connoisseur.
###
The Spawn’s mother is very pretty—in that blonde, cornflower-blue-eyed Christie Brinkley kinda way. Also really personable: Has that gift when she’s talking to you of making you feel like there’s nothing on the planet she’d rather be doing than talking to you.
She is coming by practically every day to coach Dante in calculus.
This is impressive.
“Are you good at math?” I asked.
“Not really. But I took calculus last spring—”
Turns out she went back to school at the age of 40+ to get a second undergraduate degree… in geology.
“Wow!” I said. “What’s your first undergraduate degree in?”
“Comparative literature,” she said. “From the American University in Paris. They gave me a full scholarship, so I figured, Why not?”
###
I try to imagine Iggy & the Spawn’s mother as a couple—
And fail miserably.
There’s a 20-or-so year age gap.
She would have been in her mid-20s or so when Dante was born; Iggy was 45.
I can see why he fell for her: She’s the classic shiksa, absolute catnip for Jewish boys.
And he was a rock ‘n’ roll photographer. Which sounds—and maybe even is—glamorous.
A very raffish-looking rock ‘n’ roll photographer, easy on the eyes.
He’s still pretty cute at 62, if it comes to that.
###
I don’t know if they ever officially wed. I wonder if she wanted to, and he held back because she wasn't Jewish?
Anyway, it is quite clear he still has strong feelings for her. During the second part of our conversation—the part that went Wow, geology? There are so many interesting rock formations around here!—we were standing near the kitchen island where Iggy was decanting one of his endless batches of pickles, and he reached out to hand her a slice. She accepted it & nibbled down without the slightest acknowledgment.
That’s a really old pattern, I thought.
She’s married now to someone called Jeremy. I met Jeremy once when he came by to pick up the BoyZ. Perfectly cordial but obviously uncomfortable with being in this house.
“Jeremy & Rahav don’t like each other,” Spawn Mother confided—“Rahav” being Iggy’s true, name, denatured of rock ‘n’ roll.
Though I suspect the current situation doesn’t meet the criteria for proper spying since the Poignant Family Drama is right out there in the open. I am practically a fish swimming in it!
Thus, the Spawn’s mother & I chatted for half an hour or so yesterday—about a boyfriend she used to have named Atilla—
(“Atilla?” I said.
“German-Turkish,” she said.)
—and how she & Iggy battled it out in the courts for three years, and how he used to have to have supervised visitation because even though he obviously adores those kids, he would run off & leave them alone for long periods of time, plus there was never anything in his apartment to eat, and they would call her, “Mom, we’re hungry—”
“So, finally, I just said to them: ‘You’ve got to tell him to buy you some food! He’s simply not capable of anticipating your needs—’ "
###
I wouldn’t say “not capable.”
I would say, “needed to be taught.”
It’s quite clear to me that Iggy had an upbringing not too dissimilar to my own: latchkey child, single mother, Manhattan. I was taking subways into Brooklyn to my grandfather’s house on my own at the age of seven if my mother planned to be out of the apartment for more than 24 hours; if she planned to come back within a day, she would leave me five one-dollar bills on the little Formica table on which we ate our (few) communal meals with the injunction: Get yourself something to eat—
Was this neglect?
I suppose it was.
But I rather enjoyed it. All this money! And I could do what I wanted with it! I could buy nothing but candy bars! Or I could starve myself and save up all the money to buy dollhouse furniture at FAO Schwartz (which was mostly what I did.)
In my mother’s defense: When I was seven, she was only 25 herself, without the slightest clue how to be a parent, since her own mother was so fucking insane, eventually walking out on my mother and her two sisters while they were still quite young. Taking precisely half the furniture with her!
I put off having kids myself until my mid-30s ‘cause I knew I didn’t have a clue how to be a good parent.
After I had Ichabod, I watched endless hours of The Cosby Show—to learn how to be a good parent.
You can imagine how heartbroken I was to find out that Dr. Cliff Huxtable was a craven rapist and roofie connoisseur.
###
The Spawn’s mother is very pretty—in that blonde, cornflower-blue-eyed Christie Brinkley kinda way. Also really personable: Has that gift when she’s talking to you of making you feel like there’s nothing on the planet she’d rather be doing than talking to you.
She is coming by practically every day to coach Dante in calculus.
This is impressive.
“Are you good at math?” I asked.
“Not really. But I took calculus last spring—”
Turns out she went back to school at the age of 40+ to get a second undergraduate degree… in geology.
“Wow!” I said. “What’s your first undergraduate degree in?”
“Comparative literature,” she said. “From the American University in Paris. They gave me a full scholarship, so I figured, Why not?”
###
I try to imagine Iggy & the Spawn’s mother as a couple—
And fail miserably.
There’s a 20-or-so year age gap.
She would have been in her mid-20s or so when Dante was born; Iggy was 45.
I can see why he fell for her: She’s the classic shiksa, absolute catnip for Jewish boys.
And he was a rock ‘n’ roll photographer. Which sounds—and maybe even is—glamorous.
A very raffish-looking rock ‘n’ roll photographer, easy on the eyes.
He’s still pretty cute at 62, if it comes to that.
###
I don’t know if they ever officially wed. I wonder if she wanted to, and he held back because she wasn't Jewish?
Anyway, it is quite clear he still has strong feelings for her. During the second part of our conversation—the part that went Wow, geology? There are so many interesting rock formations around here!—we were standing near the kitchen island where Iggy was decanting one of his endless batches of pickles, and he reached out to hand her a slice. She accepted it & nibbled down without the slightest acknowledgment.
That’s a really old pattern, I thought.
She’s married now to someone called Jeremy. I met Jeremy once when he came by to pick up the BoyZ. Perfectly cordial but obviously uncomfortable with being in this house.
“Jeremy & Rahav don’t like each other,” Spawn Mother confided—“Rahav” being Iggy’s true, name, denatured of rock ‘n’ roll.
