Bugsy and The Wrong Mother

The Christmas gift from my sister consisted of 2 things representing opposite ends of my life so far. The kid end: "Bugsy Malone" soundtrack. The mid-life adult end: "The Wrong Mother" by Sophie Hannah, contemporary fiction. Both were very meaningful.

Bugsy Malone was a huge favorite of ours growing up (in the days before Scott Baio was Chachi or Charles and before he became a complete tool on reality TV). Our parents took us to see the movie when it came out. I remember picking out Willy Wonka candy to take with me to see the show, and becoming extremely thirsty during Blousie's song, "Ordinary Blues." I think it had something to do with the type of film it was shot on: it looked dusty and sepia like - very parching. (These were the days before juice boxes and bottled water - if you tried to bring beverages with you, it had to be in a thermos, and those always leaked, so no one ever used their lunch box ones.) I never noticed the amount of violence in the film until my own kids saw it last summer at a roof top drive-in in downtown LA. It took on a different feel watching it as a mother. Although you'd think I'd be used to the gun fascination thing as a mom to 3 boys. Happily, we've escaped this phase for the most part. But being a mom didn't stop me from singing along with the movie: we owned the record and it was one of the most played records in the playroom. I'm happy to report that it's still in the playroom, alongside the other LPs of my childhood: Saturday Night Fever, Sound of Music and Grease. Sadly, all of the Donny and Marie albums have disappeared. I'm not sure why Bugsy survived the cleaning purge and Donny did not. So this Christmas, Hilary gave me Bugsy on CD - part of my childhood in song form.

The other part of the gift was the joke part. Hilary is great at joke gifts - a skill passed down from our father. One year, after a particularly long commercial ad-campaign by Manny, Moe and Jack, he followed their advice and got each of his "girls" (mom included) some little tidbit from the Pep Boys: "get all your Christmas needs at the Pep Boys" the commercials promised. He got each of us a trinket and wrapped them up in small jewelry boxes. I believe mine was some kind of spark plug. Upon unwrapping, the girls were confused, and the dad was crying with laughter. It took a bit of explanation before we all started laughing with him. This year, Hilary got dad a Snuggie. And for me? "The Wrong Mother." Hee. She said she walked by it and the title spoke to her.

So I've cracked open "The Wrong Mother" this weekend, as I've been stuck with a cold in bed and there is only a limited amount of Joss Wheden produced material starring Nathan Fillion I can see on Netflix. "The Wrong Mother" is a British Book. Written by someone who lives in England. Uses the queen's English in her writing. Which I find exciting, actually. It's like reading a foreign language book that you can understand *most* of. It's a little like travelling abroad, which, let's face it, all authors try to do: transport you into his/her world. It's usually a world I like to think myself a part of. I studied abroad in Essex for 6 months. I've seen the BBC versions of ALL the Jane Austen classics. I drink Tetley tea and Boddingtons ale. I know the difference between Crisps and Chips. You know, all the important stuff that makes you feel more British, and a little snobby too. But there's something about reading a British author that illuminates your American-ess. It's not just the spelling. Or the slang. It's the assumption that you know what "O levels" are. And how the police system works - and what the initials in it stand for. Or that post (mail) boxes are standardly red. (I knew that one!!!)

So when I understand something that to a Brit makes perfect sense but is slightly baffling to their Western Atlantic counterparts - I feel a bit excited (I knew that one!!!). Like I've read a passage in Latin or some other foreign language. And it makes *this* mother feel smart.

I won't ruin the story for anyone. In fact, I haven't finished it myself. It's turning out to be a great tale. A mystery. I won't be surprised if it's made into a movie; hopefully starring a Kate Winslet and NOT a Gwyneth Paltrow faking a British accent. That would be rubbish. (hee) And I don't tend to discuss - at length - books with anyone anymore. Been there. Done that. Paid 5o grand to do it for 4 years and have a piece of paper to prove it.

And how does this relate to raising 4 children - as the blog title suggests? It doesn't, really. But some of the passages of the book dwell on the dark side of motherhood (yes, there is that side - you see it the moment you go into labor and it peeks it's head out fairly often after you've gone through the trauma of birth) and acknowledging the dark can be a healthy thing from time to time. Bit of perspective and all. And it can be nice to hear another mother say, even fictionally, "What the f*ck have I gotten myself into..." - comfort in numbers and all that.

"You give a little love, and it all comes back to you..."