Disclaimer: I take no credit whatsoever for any element of this piece pertaining to Beyblade: including characters, setting, etc, etc… It belongs, and rightfully so, to its creator – Aoki Takao.
Of Wives, Mothers, Scientists
By: Dixon Oriole
No one can accuse me of not loving enough. I am a busy woman, a slave to the payoff of her youth's aspirations, and still, I have found the time and patience to love. I have cared until I thought I'd go mad with it – there is nothing wrong with a successful, thoughtful, intelligent, and I daresay, attractive scientist wishing for a little time to her self. And still… and still… this time to my self has stretched and strengthened over the empty years. I am surrounded by people, all of whom remain at arm's length. I do not know how to properly embrace anymore; my son knows, and often he asks it of me – whenever given the opportunity – which is distinctly unfair of him. At times I almost regret the industrious quiet that has pervaded my life, but I've learned that all it takes to prompt a renewed wash of resolve is to remember the way it used to be.
I fell in love before I knew better, and did it, as I did everything in those days, with girlish glee. I was, in fact, little more than a girl – I did not know what I wanted, and when I finally did, it turned out that I'd been blinding myself for years, pretending this man was everything I'd dreamed of. He was nowhere close. He had all of the ambition of a stray dog and the looks to match, so comfortably settled in his niche that it would take nothing short of Armageddon to unsettle him. He'd believed, always has, that he has the power to make others happy. I, however, believe that every one of us possesses the power only to make ourselves happy and should not be deluded over that truth. We should act accordingly, doing what is personally best, and once we are happy – once all of us are content within ourselves, only then can we attempt to branch out. Perhaps I grew to hate him because he was a living example of this philosophy, so happy within himself that he was ready to extend that warmth… when I'd noticed that something at my core remained cold.
I'm exaggerating – I have never hated him; it is simple to mistake jealousy and resentfulness sometimes. I will grudgingly admit that he is a lovely human being: kind, courageous, understandable, comforting… but I cannot pretend that those traits are all I need. Once I had learned the truth, I did not bother to pretend. We split up because of irreconcilable differences. I wanted more, he wanted nothing. He never asked a single thing, a single improvement of me. His life's work consisted of that niche, with me, the naive girl he had first met and fallen for in her entirety, at his side. I could not stand at his side knowing that there I would stagnate, because he wanted nothing more of me, nothing more than exactly what I was willing to give. I despised existing without goals, existing without a reason to make an effort for my husband. I grew fat and lazy with him worshiping and protecting me. I knew that he would adore me from day to day, hour to hour, whether I was beautiful, clever, charming, or not – I knew I could not surprise him because he was aware of my capacity. Or, at least he thought he was.
He could not have grasped my capacity for cruelty. Again, I exaggerate – the trite result of having walked the crumbling tracks of these trains of thought many times before. I am merely recalling the expression on his face when I stated that I was going to take a job in America and he'd not be accompanying me – I'd already known he wouldn't anyway, his niche was not in America. For a moment he was surprised, brows raised, brown eyes that reminded me so much of a Labrador Retriever (too often bent on pleasing his mistress) searching mine for some logical explanation. It did not occur to him, even then, that anything was the matter. Eventually he gave a halting, idiotic smile and asked in the measured voice he usually takes on when reading an interesting article from the newspaper aloud to me (as if I couldn't do it myself…) when I'd be back again, what I'd be up to, whether we could talk everyday or if I'd be too busy, how soon would I be home, what about holidays, what about our son, what the hell about him, did I want him to come to the airport? He did not raise his voice and he did not ask me to stay.
He never asked anything more of me than I was willing to give, and I think, even though he might have wondered why the only photograph I took for my new apartment was the one of our little boy that already resided in my wallet, it did not once cross his mind that something was wrong. I never had to say 'it's not you, it's me' or anything like that – even though in reality it was probably a combination of the both of us, the incredible power of persuasion I hold over certain old friends, and some different way I saw things that prevented my husband's kind of oblivious joy… some different way that prevented me from being at peace with the world, or, at least, that world. I sincerely hoped that returning to America could change things, could shake me out of my fat laziness and force me to remember my beauty, cleverness, charm. I sincerely hoped that running a lab and running with the big dogs in New York City would prompt, well, evolution.
I was not disappointed. Alone within my arm's distance biosphere, I changed: I became the sort of self-sufficient, desirable, brilliant woman and scientist I could not have been (could not even have tried to be) while hampered by a ball and chain. I surrounded myself by people that would not only carry me to the top of the industry and, incidentally, the world, but support me while I was there. I think several of them fell in love with me. I had spent too much of my life and energy already in loving that man and family, and felt the need, still feel the need, to ration it from then on. I did not love any of them in return, those that I stepped on while carving my own niche – which, in the end, bears absolutely no resemblance to that of my husband's and absolutely no room for him, whereas I could still find a way into his… even now, after all of this stretched and strengthened time, after all of those days on end that we have not spoken to one another, and not just because I was too busy. Ugh, the idea of crawling back nauseates me.
Too much is different. I am, simply put, not his girl anymore, and have no desire to be. It's only… it's only that sometimes it'll become very quiet around here, quiet and clinic-clean. Maybe I was attempting to nest when I agreed to assist the representative nationwide beyblading team – working to improve them as a favor for America's branch of the BBA and its chairman, organizing a quaint little project that surprised simply everyone ever told about it, the PPB: Project Power Beyblade. I don't like people that are too simple – my husband was simple –, and so, my only preference in trainees called for teenagers that didn't need a babysitter and could occupy themselves. When all was said and done, I had a group of bad-tempered jocks tagging at my heels. Alright, maybe I wasn't nesting… A mother-figure might have told them to play nice or something, and I did not raise a finger to prevent the kids from being unequivocal brats as long as they simultaneously adhered to the official tournament rules. Their confidence and ambition in winning, so like mine, amused me. So I let the little buggers get away with murder.
Frankly, I hadn't wanted to be bored and alone anymore and, of course, the team loved me. They saw a kindred spirit (troubled youths gravitate this way...) – I was their coach in no time (as the only person remotely capable of keeping them in line) as well as the head of the NYC research department, though the favor hadn't called for it. It is still a sore spot for me to accept that I became involved in beyblading because it was my husband's greatest joy… I suppose one has to suspend disbelief about childishness if they intend to marry a game-shop owner. Regardless, the reason I kept up with the sport was so that I could continue to run with the crowd of old friends (such as a certain chairman of a certain gigantic-and-growing empire that associating myself with could and can do nothing but assist my career) that some part of me was used to, and the simple fact that it was my son's calling. My son – my son is not a simple person, though every once in a while I have to shake myself to believe it. That is perhaps the predominant reason I can stand beside his father, aiding him in whatever jointly-beneficial works, and smile. In a roundabout sense, my son is also the reason I put up with the ass of a boss that comes with my job in PPB.
My son loves me; I have worked hard to make sure of it, despite all undesirable circumstances that could easily drive us apart. It is he and the All-Stars that I hold onto any sense of tangible attachment for – they're kids, they need it. My son is something I can be proud of; though he has a talent for making me incredibly uncomfortable with public displays of affection and acting a bit too much like his father for his own good – a forgivable fault, seeing as he spends most of the year living with the man, surrounded by silliness and acceptance of absolutely everything: from his odd friends (whom I have, in the past, put up a pretense of accepting as well – though every action in their favor has been done for my son only) to his disturbing unwillingness to change (it would appear that stagnation in that environment is a trend). He is useful in a variety of ways, whether to be mentioned in social situations, when I'm feeling momentarily left out of the spotlight, or for such definitive reasons as taming the more sociopathic members of my American Beyblade team (he has done commendably on that front; thank God the child has my looks and… I suppose… that man's earnestness). He is also, more importantly, intelligent.
My husband did not see the use in it, but I cheerfully (eagerly) insisted that, at an early age, the boy have his IQ tested. It had not seemed natural that he smile and laugh in delight so often in the place of tears and indignant screams. I had feared, looking at my husband, that the only charms our son would have inherited from me was a tooth-ache inducing cuteness (hopefully this will develop for him into something more substantial), which I was certain could not protect him long in a world like ours, however admirable a defense it is. There you have it, I am protective of my offspring – so do not accuse me of loving too little. Getting back to it, again I was not disappointed. My son is, for lack of a better word, bright. Over the years he has shown remarkable technical skill, most of which is related to beyblading… We have an educational system worked out for him, joining the primary work of his Japanese public school with my home schooling when he is living here, in America. The schools have always somewhat bowed back to blading whenever there is an overlap, but I will not allow my only son to rot his brain.
Don't get me wrong, I understand fully the great physical and emotional stress that the World Class Beybladers go through – the jet lag of constant travel, nerves of public appearance, not to mention the increasing level of danger they're put in… I have an understanding just short of those actually taking part in the sport. It is not for the weak. But I know my son well – I know his style and his capabilities. I will not allow him to squander his awesome potential, within and without the realm of beyblading, because he was not pushed enough. His father doesn't push, so it's left to me. At times I've felt that I haven't been doing as much as I can on that front – at times I've feared that I was relying too heavily on the usefulness of his strange little friends and my boy's desire to reach the top, but… there is little more I can do to help him while our situation remains the same.
There is quite a bit preventing a mother fromcarrying her son with her to success, however he may deserve it, not least of which the fact that I have been the coach of a rival team. I don't like being accused of playing favorites, as the All-Stars willbluntly attest – nevertheless, I am guilty of giving my boy a little push in the right direction every now and then. I am guilty of aiding him in his endeavors (just short of actions that could sabotage the chances of my American team), employing connections and technology that he'd never be exposed to otherwise. And I… I am… guilty of buying his loyalty. That I can't expect you to comprehend. You couldn't, unless you were there the first time I handed him a little gift into which I'd put a lot of time, effort, and research, and saw the way his face lit up in intoxicating gratefulness. I never found my son's constant joy natural, but I never said that I found it disagreeable.
He is, I repeat, useful. He will only remain useful to me if he loves me – would fight for me, would listen to me above his father and friends (I've had my doubts), – if he's bright, complex, something to boast about at dinner parties, if he has a lust for life and winning and ambition, while he can multitask and think on his feet and take direction… I've missed him on the All-Stars. While my son is useful, spending some of my free time designing blades for him is a small price to pay. I suppose it's also the least I can do; there's this cliché notion of what a mother should be. Something about soup and colds and snowsuits and storybooks… birthday parties and hoards of little children (I prefer a small group of teenagers)… parent-teacher conferences and community involvement and First Communions… maternal instincts… So I'm not a cliché mother – so I'm, ah, not involved in many of those things. It's been a long time since I made soup or went out to buy cold medicine.
Don't feel sorry for my son. Don't pretend that I haven't spent most of my precious years loving enough and am not now due for a vacation. Life will go on the way it has – I am a changed and bettered woman with a new world, niche, to exist within. I have done all I can to be happy within myself, but am, even now, only warm enough to extend it as far as my little boy and my team. The apartment has two pictures these days– a perpetually grinning cherub-faced blonde alone in one, several years outdated and wallet-sized still, and a motley group of five young people smiling (upon my request) rigidly in another. I am proud of them, myself, and my work. I am proud of the present, because I do not believe in being proud of the past if you've had to change. I believe in hard, dogged work towards something more and keeping your goals high. It's my beliefs and goals that have prevented me from being a… loving woman. But I have loved enough. My pride proves as much.
Author's Notes: I have always loathed Judy… Now group with that an overactive imagination, deep-set suspicion, ability to rant and, well… -coquettish smile- My life is a parenthetical phrase.