Sometimes you're the Queen, sometimes the Pawn

​It was weird celebrating Mother’s Day without my mom. I let Jory and the kids spoil me with delicious meals and gifts, but I kept longing for the Real Mom to arrive. I had meant to send cards to women who have been like mother figures to me, you know, to be the light kind of thing. This is exactly what my mom would have wanted me to do. Except I didn’t. I knew the day was coming, knew I wanted to send cards. I was too disheartened. 
 
I did reach out to my four friends who have buried children, three to suicide. And to my two mom friends whose husbands recently committed suicide. These holidays can be brutal ways of reminding us of who we no longer have and no longer are.
 
On the day, I meant to relax and just do nothing, but I couldn’t manage to get that done either. Between the two amazing family meals we had, I spent some good time in the pool with the kids and Jory (which is sort of the point). But then, with my anxiety about our finances partying with my underlying sadness, I felt better adulting, which is to say, working on a way to pay the bills. My incredible friend Jan had graciously recommended me for a part time job, and I spent almost two hours writing copy for the application test. Then Jory opened a bottle of wine. I sent what I had done to Jan, lest my exiguous grammar became even more questionable. What do they say about the best of intentions?
 
I find myself mumbling one of my mom’s favorite sayings. I still  find it patronizing, annoying, and perhaps true but it reminds me of a metaphorical Xanax: “It all works out in the end.” 
 
Take the day before Mother’s Day for example:
 
I should start with the disclaimer that we’re still getting used to being a one-car family. OK, honestly? We’ll never get used to being a one-car family, not with three kids. It’s more accurate to say that with one car, every day is an exercise in planning for the D-Day landings. 
 
Jory had scored free tickets to see the latest Marvel movie, so took the kids. I stayed home, believing I have enough drama in my life without subjecting myself to the problems of various mutants with superpowers. Rather, I was excited to dive into the book I would be facilitating for my final LA book group. The group now understandably wants to meet in person without a talking head Zooming on a television screen, which is a total buzzkill, especially after a glass of wine.
 
We have read many fantastic books together in this group, so I was dismayed to find our last read to be a clunker. I try to care about the protagonist (especially since the story is from her POV) but the more I get to know her, the less I want to. In fairness, she does call herself “the most selfish person I know”, and has acute self-loathing. It also seems the author read somewhere that sex sells, and therefore believed that the more affairs her characters have, the closer she would get to having a best seller.
 
Before I can get through it, Jory and the kids are back home. The kids are as excited about the slushees and lemonade Jory bought them as they are about the film. To clarify: neon artificially colored syrup infused with tons of sugar is like Christmas in May for two of my kids. Before the movie, Jory and I had discussed how buying snacks in a movie theater is a luxury we can’t afford at this point, akin to flying first class. But apparently, drinks aren’t the same thing as snacks, and, Jory rationalizes, since the tickets were free, technically, the money spent on tickets was just spent on drinks. Terrific logic, if we had budgeted for movie tickets, which we had not. As long as money out does not equal money in, and my sleep is interrupted by the ghosts of Regret from the Past, Inflation of the Present and Possible Debt Yet to Come, I’m Scrooge to Christmas in May.
 
As if the atmosphere weren’t tense enough, Lillie Grace breaks down out of nowhere. Turns out she’s upset at missing her first chess lesson at the library, which was happening after the movie.
“Why didn’t you go?”
“Because I would have been ten minutes late, and Daddy said he’d just drop me off.”
 
Who wants to walk in late by yourself to an unknown chess lesson in the library at the age of 11? If stereotypes are to be believed, you’d probably be the only girl, surrounded by a bunch of geeky guys. The small room would have the distinct odor of unwashed bodies. Most of the boys would be sporting collared shirts and glasses. The teacher would be an older white guy, also sporting glasses, and probably in a wheelchair.  I get it.
 
“But this was on the calendar, so why would Dad just drop you off?” 
 
Turns out, after the movie, Jory planned to go shopping for dinner that night, as his mother was coming over for an early Mother’s Day dinner. However, having cut out 90% of afterschool activities due to finances, I knew Lillie needs some sort of structured hobby outside of school, and this chess group only meets once a month.
 
Lillie and I arrive in time for most of the second hour. We sit together as I take in the scene. We are the only females in the room, aside from a small girl from Indian or Sri Lankan descent, whose mother nervously watches her, instead of the chess proceedings, the whole time. At the front of the cramped airless room, there is a felt chessboard on a tripod. The teacher, an bespectacled older Caucasian gentleman in a wheelchair, is challenging a chubby boy sporting a (collared) polo shirt to move his castle past him, while the rest of the room watches transfixed. (If I made this up, you’d accuse me of writing stereotypes).
 
Five minutes later, we are told to pair off. My daughter sits across from Chubby Boy, and the facilitator instructs me to sit across from a very serious South Asian gentleman in his 30s. My opponent glares at me as he moves his pawn to start the game. I smile at him, and figure I might as well lay my cards on the table:
 
(Me) “Umm…I gave my daughter a ride here. Can you uh – remind me (code for reveal) how all the pieces move?”
 
“Of course. I myself did not come to play. I am only here because I brought my nephew.”
 
I quickly discern two major things:

1. Who, on going to the local library on a Saturday, chooses a long-sleeved white buttoned down collared shirt and then buttons it ALL THE WAY UP? That is definitely his nephew, and at the rate he’s going, the closest thing he’ll have to a son, barring arranged marriage.
2. If you didn’t come to play, why did you bring your own chess set, organize both the white and black pieces, and then move your pawn after I was instructed to sit down? ‘Did not come to play?’ Mmm hmm... Sure. That, or, you're bluffing because women make you incredibly nervous.

 
We sit there. 
(Me) “No really. Just tell me what the pieces do, and I’ll play.”
He then explains what each piece does, and I go to town.
 
Thanks to beginner’s luck, I soon have him in check. I didn’t realize I had to “call it”. So, he makes his move, takes his hand off the piece and then sees the check. He is truly horrified. He puts his hands to his face and says, “I must re-do this. I must.” 
 
“OK” I respond. “But can you re-do moves once your hand is off the piece?” (Things I learned from watching the pilot episode of ‘The Queen’s Gambit’).
He becomes surprisingly agitated: “But you – you did NOT call check! You did NOT!”
“You’re right. No problem.” I am not heated. I really do NOT care.
 
However, I have unleashed the Geek’s worst fears. He now believes I was just playing dumb in some ploy to disarm him. He believes I am actually a sneaky chess wizard because I put his king in check so quickly. In his mind of logic, my not having called check proves that I was also dishonest about not knowing how the pieces move. I am not to be trusted.
 
I want to tell him that I was not playing dumb when it comes to chess, I really am dumb. However, he’s past the point of talking, his face a mask of sheer determination. He WILL win. I thought he was serious before?
 
About ten minutes later, when he pointedly shows me that he has me in CHECK MATE, I want to tell him that it’s been about 40 years since I’ve touched a chess set, and that was probably at a yard sale. Yet, he is so elated to have trounced me, me this suspected covert chess expert, that I just smile and congratulate him. Joy can be so hard to come by, why not make his day?
 
Lillie Grace and Chubby Boy’s game continues for quite some time afterwards. They run out of time, and it’s a draw: “The best chess game of the day!” their erudite gimpy teacher enthuses (and there were several other games going, mind you). The teacher looks at me over his spectacles and says he is always impressed when girls hold their own, and that Stanford has scholarships for chess. I’m just happy that Lillie reversed her decision and showed up.
 
However, upon returning home, Jory is in his Zoom meeting, and we still haven’t planned dinner. Not knowing what to get for his mother, I figure pizza is as good a choice as any as she’ll be here in less than an hour. The kids are thrilled, as pizza in our house is a treat.
 
Jory, however, is not thrilled. In fact, he is angry. Very angry. It is as if we forgot to include Canada in the D-Day landings. 
 
“We can’t serve my mother pizza for Mother’s Day!” It is the second time today that someone is truly horrified by my choices.
 
“Run to the store then!” 
 
“There’s no time.”
 
“We can let your mother choose the toppings!” I try.
 
“No. This is Mother’s Day dinner. It has to be special.”
 
“It will be special. It’s not about the food.”
 
“It IS about the food. It’s called dinner.”
 
After a moment of why didn’t you get the food yesterday then, or before the movie this morning vs. why on earth did you take Lillie to that chess game when I needed the car, I focus back on the present dilemma.
 
“We can order a salad, too.” (off his glare) “Of her choice.”
(Silence)
 
“I would LOVE to have my mom over for pizza on Mother’s Day!” My eyes fill with tears. “It’s about us being together.”
 
“At least we got her a nice gift,” he concedes. 
 
His mother arrives ten minutes later, and is (sweet relief) very happy with pizza and salad.  She is also ecstatic with her well-selected gift.
 
After a wonderful evening, as I am loading the dishwasher, I can hear my mom saying: “It all worked out in the end.”
 
Luckily for my marriage it did. But what about those times that you feel disappointed or discouraged? 
 
Our desire to feel alive makes us want to make a moment count, be it through a fancy meal, a chess win, or a mutant’s adventures. As a result, we stress out. We want our lives to matter. We all do it, and will continue to. It’s part of being human.
 
I think sanity (and my metaphorical Xanax) lie in not letting the disappointments or defeat define us. This of course is way easier said than done. Barack Obama seems to understand this well. He said, 
 
The real test is not whether you avoid this failure, because you won't. It's whether you let it harden or shame you into inaction, or whether you learn from it; whether you choose to persevere. 
 
Hey, Father’s Day is right around the corner, right?