Mama Shark vs Las Cucarachas

For the past month my nightly trips to the bathroom had become a choreographed adventure that required swift footwork and street smarts. Open-toed shoes were an absolute no-no. I’d climb out of bed, slip into a pair of strong soled sneakers, approach the door and pop my head out of its frame first for a quick survey of the hallway. If the floors appeared smooth, silent and free of suspicious shadows, I’d speed-walk across the corridor and into the room of post-apocalyptic doom. Where cockroaches ranging from small and almost acceptable to big, winged and book-me-into-a-hotel-right-fucking-now had taken up residence. Some were pretty chilled, just hanging out in a corner on the wall, not a hurry in the world, much like what I imagine La Cucaracha that inspired Ween’s legendary album must have been like, if ever there was one. Hot-boxed and speaking in a Mexican dialect. Others were downright feisty motherfuckers that came charging at me the minute I crossed the threshold of their chosen kingdom or – worse yet – just as I relaxed onto the toilet seat with my boxers around my ankles.   

Turning on the light and opening that door was a bit of a Kinder Egg experience – the concept was always the same but I never really knew what to expect on the inside. Where were they gonna pop out of today? And what was the day’s chosen strategy? Had they feasted on an amphetamine breakfast or a few too many Chimichangas with Deaner and Gene? Would they hang back minding their own business, or make it theirs to torment me for the duration of my stay, and haunt my creeping, crawling skin for the rest of the night? Thank dog for our trusted plunger, which we now kept positioned right next to the door, ready to grab and suction-cup one of those bastards to the floor whenever needed. It wasn’t an ideal solution given that, in our sleep-deprived state we, at times, forgot to inform one another of the previous night’s catch. And so, it has happened that, as I tried to make one disappear into the red, rubbery ether, I released another, turning the whole spectacle into one that simply couldn’t be won.

On one particularly memorable night, I switched on the bathroom light to find three not-gonna-mess-with-these-sized fuckers having a soiree on my vanity table. One perching on my body lotion, antennas buzzing excitedly; another who seemed to have developed a romantic relationship with the husband’s deodorant can, gingerly caressing the aerosol’s valve, perhaps even hissing sweet nothings into its tinned body. The third was late to the party and came scampering out of a loose socket, somewhat worse for the wear with a crooked antenna and a wonky leg. He obviously hadn’t received the invite stipulating time and dress code. As much as the image grossed me out, it also left me curiously indifferent. Watching these alien creatures from a distance, undisturbed and calm rather than frenzied and aggressive the way they usually appeared, I wasn’t all that far from pitying them. After all, they can’t help looking the way they look, moving the way they move.

That momentary feeling of compassion went straight out of the window when I had run-ins with what I believe was one and the same cockroach two nights in a row. On the Tuesday, I entered the bathroom to find it empty, at an apparent ceasefire. I welcomed the relief just a little too soon – turns out Zed had gotten cockier and was hiding out in the hallway and, just as I opened the door to our bedroom, the little shit came storming out from some dark corner, heading straight for my ankles like one of those yappy Yorkie dogs that seem to have been bred for nothing other than nipping people in their calves. Of course, Zed had to be one of those spastic roaches, impossible to catch without it doing summersaults on your bare toes and climbing up your trousered leg, so he disappeared under our chest of drawers before the husband could trap him. Needless to say, I insisted on sleeping with various lights on. Fun stuff with a toddler. On Wednesday, Zed met us at eye level when he decided our bed was big enough for a fourth entity. The only thing that got me through the next days until the coast’s top exterminators could finally fit us in, was the promise of a two-year guarantee for nocturnal serenity up in this crib.

*

A few days before the major incidents described above, I used one of those precious hours between feierabend and falling into a coma to research various animal mamas and how they protect their young. I’d been thinking about the very article I am writing right now for a while, and finally had the time to explore some of the angles I had been playing with. I started with cats because some of the behaviours I had already witnessed in the past resonated with my own quirks. Years ago, this skinny and skittish ginger cat kept entering the living-room of a rural casita I shared with roommates who had two cats of their own. It turned into a nightly shriek fest with the house cats fiercely guarding their territory, and the visitor relentlessly fighting for her own spot. We couldn’t figure out why she felt so compelled to find refuge here, when she was being met with such hostility until, one day, having managed to sneak past my roommate’s psycho kitties, we found her getting mighty comfortable in the dark bottom drawer of a closet. Two days later, the felines of the household had outgrown the humans in number.

I get it now, that obsessive need to find and create that perfect spot to have and raise your babies. The epitome of coziness and safety, a place in which to fully relax into a new role and a new life. A little over a year ago, I got freaky about mine too. Everything had to be just right – from the bedsheets to the lighting, the temperature to the carefully selected items and humans that were allowed into this sacred space (few, and no one outside of the nuclear family). And I would have fought any bitch to have it that way, too. I also understand why “Mommy” – a truly inspired name, I know – started moving her kittens to other places from time to time, hiding them from the house’s formerly reigning cats and visiting humans, keeping them safe from unwanted snuggle attacks, noise and attention. For more than half a year after giving birth, this was something I felt so viscerally, whenever these boundaries were not respected, it took me – and my daughter – the rest of the day and night to recover.

Strangely enough and for the first time ever, I, as a self-professed dog person, find myself closely relating to feline queens carrying their babies to quiet safety. Because that’s what motherhood feels like at times: a free invitation for people to barge into the cave we so carefully built without asking or entering while they are still knocking. People who ignore our growls and jump back surprised when we finally sharpen our claws and swat at them to back off. People who feel it necessary to tell us what to do and what not to do, and leave tiny turds of judgement masked behind we’re-all-on-the-same-team smiles, all over our brain like cockroach droppings. Like Zed and his whole gang of intruders, who have nothing better to do than to come scurrying into our, at times, vulnerable mental state, to lay a few eggs here and there. People who keep tugging at the frayed elastic waistband of our yoga pants, shooting fire round questions of socially accepted follies at us, engaging in a game of rubber bounce to the beat of rhythmic old wife’s tales, adamant yet completely oblivious to the possibility of it finally snapping.

*

I quickly exhausted the need to further investigate other animal species because I realized that, even in using terms like, and evoking images of the Mama Bear protecting her cubs, it is almost impossible to explain just how physical our motherly instincts are. It dawned on me that I was going about this piece all wrong. The analogy had been sitting right there, creeping behind my bathroom tiles and along our walls all along. Some people are like cockroaches – intruders sticking their antennas into places they have no business being.  And many of them really can’t help it; they don’t mean to talk the way they talk, behave the way they behave. Turn it as you may, though, they’ll still manage to get under a new mama’s skin with their visible judgement, unreasonable worries, and overbearing dominance.

Some of the hard-shelled human roaches I’ve encountered over the last year would have done Zed proud. But Zed’s dead, baby. Zed’s dead. And as I entered our freshly fumigated home to find his lifeless body at the foot of my vanity table, I felt empowered by the knowledge that I can kill the gnawing chatter of unsolicited advice and the exhaustive push-back over crossed boundaries off just as easily. It won’t cost me a small fortune and a can of toxic fumes either. I can simply drown out their opinions, raised eyebrows and the shock over the unpierced state of my daughter’s earlobes by taking a deep breath and singing this little ditty in my head on repeat…

[I’m] Mama Shark, fuck you doo doo doo doo

[I’m] Mama Shark, fuck you doo doo doo doo

[I’m] Mama Shark, fuck you doo doo doo doo

I make the rules!