Erin Barker - Good News Versus Bad

 

So, when I was about 12 years old, my mom said she wanted to talk to me about something. My mom and I didn't have a lot of talks. I loved her very much, but she was kind of an intimidating figure. She was one of those corporate working moms with the beeper, and the pantsuit, and the rolly suitcase. [audience chuckles] She yelled important things into phones a lot, and she was away a lot on business. But she sat me down in the living room, and she told me that she was pregnant. It was strange the way she said it, almost like she wasn't that happy about it.

 

It had been eight years since my brother was born, but even I could remember how excited everybody had been, how everyone had ideas for names, how all the grandparents had flown in from out of town, how barely a day went by that we didn't get some massive delivery of congratulations balloons or a giant stuffed animal. But this time, there were no balloons. There weren't even any cards, but still I was very excited. I never expected to have another sibling after my little brother. I was optimistic that this time I'd get one who could throw a baseball. [audience laughter] 

 

I told everyone the big news. I told everyone at school, everyone at church, my Girl Scout troop, the next-door neighbors, the kid who mowed our lawn, everybody. And they were all just as excited as I was. Except, after a while, I started to notice that when these people would inevitably congratulate my dad on the big news, there would be this whispered exchange, and then that person would say, "Oh my God, I'm so sorry." I didn't know what that meant until one day when my dad took me out for ice cream. 

 

My dad was like my best friend when I was a kid. He was the dad who would read to us every night before bed, and would listen very seriously to my thoughts on the Roald Dahl masterpiece James and the Giant Peach, and the film version's inherent inferiority. [audience laughter] I think we can all agree. [audience laughter] He taught me how to throw a baseball, and at one point really believed he could teach my brother the same. [audience laughter] He told us that Darth Vader had to wear that suit, because he'd been injured in a car accident, [audience laughter] and so my brother and I had better always wear our seat belts, [audience laughter] unless we wanted to end up like him. 

 

Imagine my disillusionment when I saw the Star Wars prequels. [audience laughter] Disillusionment on so very many levels. [audience laughter] But anyway, because my dad and I were so close, I knew what ice cream meant. Every time my dad has bad news, he takes us out for ice cream. It's kind of his MO. Don't ever go to the Cold Stone Creamery with my dad. [audience laughter] Just don't do it, unless you want to find out that grandpa has cancer, or your dog's been put to sleep, or your nanny's been fired for stealing your mother's jewelry. Just don't go. [audience laughter] 

 

So, we get our ice cream of doom. And my dad, he takes a deep breath and he says, "The baby your mother is pregnant with is not mine." I can see him looking at me to try to see if I understand, at 12 years old, what he means. As it just so happened, I had conveniently just learned what sex was in school. I understood exactly what was going on here and I understood what my dad was telling me. I can tell how hard it was for him to tell me, and I know that as much as he didn't want to tell all of those other people, I am the very last person that he wanted to tell. And then, he says, "Do you know who the father is?" 

 

And I realize, with sudden clarity, that I do know, that I have perhaps always known, but not realized it until this exact moment. "Andy," I said, and my dad nodded. Andy was my mom's co-worker, this British guy about 10 years younger than her, who would take me and my mom and my brother on little trips and buy us expensive presents. He'd even, oddly enough, gone to church with us. I thought he was our friend. I realize now that I'd been wrong and that I'd been stupid not to realize it. 

 

And as a result, not only had I failed to prevent this disaster, and like every child I truly believed in my heart that I could have with a well-timed tantrum or the right number of slammed doors, but I'd also made it infinitely worse for the person who deserved it the least, my father. I'd been coming home for months saying things like, "Dad, look at the awesome Lego castle Andy bought us." I'd been calling him to say, "Dad, guess what, we taught Andy how to play baseball today," never noticing the tense silence on the other end of the line. Not to mention, I publicly humiliated him by telling everyone about my mother's pregnancy. I was racked with guilt and I was no longer excited about the new baby. 

 

Shortly after this, my parents got divorced, and my mom bought a house down the street from my dad's, because the neighborhood didn't already have enough to talk about. [audience laughter] We were supposed to go down there every now and then when my mom was home. One day, I went down and there was a cake on the table, and my mom said, "Andy and I got married today. Do you want a piece of the wedding cake?" No, I did not want a piece of the cake of lies. [audience laughter] The next time I went down, I was met with an even bigger surprise, this time in the form of a strange pink baby who I was told was my new sister. "Do you want to hold her?" my mom asked. No, I did not want to hold her. I didn't want to look at her, at this baby who had broken my father's heart. 

 

I loathed this horrible creature, and I always would. I decided then, I made a commitment in that moment to hate this baby for the rest of my life, possibly longer. [audience laughter] There was just one problem. I don't know if you've ever tried to hate a baby, [audience laughter] but it is real fucking hard. [audience laughter] Because everything they do is magical as shit. [audience laughter] And this was especially true in the case of my sister Emma, who had a little Pebbles Flintstone ponytail on top of her head. Every night that I was at my mom's house, she would refuse to go to sleep until I'd come up and sung to her, the same song every time, Shoe Box by Barenaked Ladies, [audience laughter] which is an inappropriate song to sing to a little girl since it's about statutory rape. [audience laughter] But she'd heard me playing it in my room, and that was what she wanted, so who was I to argue? 

 

Soon, I found myself bonding with my mom for the first time in a long time over our mutual love for Emma and our mutual hatred of the Teletubbies. And slowly, all my anger fell down like dominoes. When I forgave my sister, it was easier to forgive my mom, and when I forgave my mom, it was easier to forgive myself. I admit I never quite forgave Andy, but that was okay, it turned out his stay with us was only temporary anyway. He met another married woman with children, and started going to church with them, and presumably started this story all over with someone else. As for my dad, I never had to ask for his forgiveness. It was always there. 

 

Emma is 14 years old now, and she's gone from Teletubbies to Twilight, clearly she has questionable taste. [audience laughter] In a few years, it'll probably be Dan Brown novels. [audience laughter] But despite that, we're great friends and I love her very much, and I can't regret anything that happened, because without it, we wouldn't have her, although she never did learn how to throw a baseball. Thanks.