Motherhood

Here comes another Facebook message. I know when she messages me, she’ll be asking for something. I don’t know her, really, at all. She’s the mom of a kid my daughter befriended in kindergarten. We lived in a transitional neighbourhood. Gentrifipyjama pants. Neck tattoos and thousand dollar strollers. Lots of kids in tow then. Alannah was my daughter’s friend. We haven’t even lived in the same town for the past five years, but I’m allowed to help Alannah, so I do. I take her with us on family vacations. I introduce her to theatre and art. I buy her and my daughter matching clothes, like they are sisters. I call medical hotlines to find out how to save her from her severe asthma when her puffer runs out, and I listen to her wheeze through the night. I pick her up and drop her off, and continually worry. But I’m not her mother, and Alannah knows this, and I can’t fault her mother either.

Chantelle, Alannah’s mother, grew up with nothing. Her own mother, a toothless, overweight, tattooed, loud, drug-addicted nothing, now dead, gave Chantelle nothing to work with. Abandoned her to foster care. Now memorialized on Facebook as an angel. “I miss my mother.” “Your mother is your first and forever friend.” Yada yada. Chantelle had nothing to go on. Got pregnant too young. She had no education and no options. Just a baby to love with a much older man, which inevitably didn’t work out. Tried again with another guy from the same situation and had three more children with him. She couldn’t afford to work, and he never worked. Saddled at home with an overwhelming problem of too many children and no money. They lived for several years in a shitty apartment over a pizza shop. At one point she had taken in other people and this tiny, filthy apartment housed over 13 people in its two bedrooms, by Alannah’s count. My daughter had an enormous bedroom all to herself she spent almost no time in, except when Alannah came.

When Chantelle found a house to rent, but needed money for first-and-last, she asked me to co-sign a payday loan at 45% interest. Instead, I loaned her the money, knowing she could never repay it. I was so relieved they would be living somewhere better. Chantelle had no one else to ask.

I admire her ability to say yes to my offers to give Alannah a life that she can’t. She isn’t jealous or funny about my offers to give Alannah a taste of something better than she experienced. I am probably close to Chantelle’s mother’s age, and she’s given me a chance to fill that role, in a way.

This past Christmas, Chantelle was so far behind on rent that she was about to be evicted. My dread for her future set in. I calculated how much assistance she was receiving. She had a new fiancé who also received disability assistance, and was living there, and this shouldn’t have happened. She fucked up. The money should have gone to rent, but it didn’t. She fucked up. I knew she wasn’t an alcoholic, drug addicted mother/asshole, but she had somehow wasted the money. Sometimes money goes out the window when you haven’t had it. Maybe the new guy had problems and wasn’t contributing. I saw a picture of an engagement ring on Facebook and felt a twang of anger. But then again, it was her happiness. I couldn’t get upset. She was doing her best.

I tried to raise money to stop the eviction. I asked family and friends, and some people on my side of the economic equation understood and gave, and some just saw that she fucked up. Thought I was a pushover. In the end, the amount we needed was too much. So, like a mom, I stayed up at night researching charities, and worrying. Finally found one that could bail her out at the last minute. Rents had risen so much I knew she’d be screwed if she had to find a new place for 6 people. I pictured her whole family living in my basement.

I asked if the kids had Santa gifts. They did not. Went on a wild ride, finding last-minute big-ticket items for four children. My boyfriend drove to someone’s home and jammed a Barbie Dream House into his Honda. He drove to endless stores trying to find a mostly sold out video game, finally gleefully successful. I had groceries delivered.

There is no such thing as a selfless act, but there are good people out there. A stranger in a pub handed me a $100 bill when I explained how I was trying to help. My parents, who would always have bailed me out, wrote her a cheque for $450. Good people exist.

Having the humility to ask for help is all I need. I know I get a sense of being a kind-hearted person, even if I don’t spread the word. But I really believe we have lost the sense of community. We became tyrannical parents instead of loving parents. We hold accountable these children that have no choice. Imagine little Chantelle. I will love her. I will be her mother. Little Chantelle still has a chance, and so does Alannah. I know that’s the world they live in, but a glimmer of hope there’s a way to something better is the best we can do.

If I have next to nothing, which has recently been the case, but it’s slightly more than you… I will give it to you. That’s the best idea of “charity.” Right up there in your face, with people who aren’t perfect, and fuck up, but still need a chance.