Not long ago, I loaded up two of my grandkids and off we went to one of those Mega Hyper Pizza places that latch a vacuum hose to your wallet as soon as you walk in. You know the ones...lots of games, rides, carbs, sugar, overwrought parents and screaming kids.
If you're familiar with this blog you already know my eight-year-old granddaughter Adelia is disabled. She gets around just okay with a walker, but it's a slippery slope. Anyway, we (almost three-year-old brother Che Jr. too) got in my car...wait. Getting in the car with a disabled child and a little boy is, in itself, a turbulent journey. The walker doesn't fit in the car. The seat belt is crammed deep into the back seat on both sides. The car seat is awkward and big. Che Jr. is running into the street tired of waiting on the losers holding him back. Luckily, the walker folds up so you can put it in the trunk...wait. The Incredible Hulk couldn't get that walker folded up. Thirty minutes and three pounds of sweat later we're in the car. I'll just let you imagine what it's like getting out of the car and into the Mega Hyper Pizza place. We made it inside where a great time was had by all...wait. Of the more than 20 Mega Hyper Pizza place staff, not one offered assistance. They stood around watching me struggle to get food from the buffet line, keep Adelia upright, and Che Jr. from getting kidnapped. Parents pushed Adelia out of the way so their kid could get in front of her in line for one of the very few rides that actually worked...wait. It didn't work. A staff member stood idly by while I wrangled Che Jr. and lifted my granddaughter (not an easy task) onto the ride before telling me the ride didn't work after all. They will probably be talking about the crazy lady who got all gangsta over the kiddie train at this year's employee holiday party. I realized that I'd attempted this trip solo because I relied, in advance, on the kindness of strangers. Surely, if it was too hard, someone would help. Right? Another parent or grandparent? Employees who would certainly have been instructed about customer service? Not a one. I pondered this while trying not to cry in the Happiest Fucking Place on Earth. Then, I almost cracked my head open when I fell off my high horse. How many times have I walked past someone struggling without a thought? How many deep sighs rumbled from the back of my throat because the elderly woman in the grocery store went too slow in front of me? How many grocery lines have I left because the developmentally disabled bag kid is working there and I don't have the patience for it? Ouch. I'm not going to be an asshole and say I now know what it's like to walk a mile in Adelia's shoes. I do, however, know what it's like to have walked an inch in my daughter's and son-in-law's. Everyday living with a disabled child, spouse, parent, take your pick - ain't for wimps. You go it alone. My daughter who, by the way, sweetly tried to dissuade me from making this trip by myself called out the Mega Hyper Pizza place management ( 'cause you don't want to mess with her kids or her mama) who then sent a swarm of staff to help, but they quickly lost interest. Welcome to the world for the disabled. It occurred to me that the disabled are the last frontier for causes. Perhaps they need to be transgendered to get attention. We passed laws to aid the disabled didn't we? Yes, but the laws to protect the disabled have very little to do with my point. All the ramps, close parking spots, handrails and widened doorways in the world can't change attitudes or endow anyone with common courtesy. Note to parents - it won't kill little Johnny to wait an extra five minutes to get on the Dumbo ride. And don't get me started on bathroom etiquette. My rallying cry today is simple: Ask. If you see someone (and I challenge you to look for them) who might need help - ask. They'll let you know. Don't be a jerk. Don't raise your kids to be jerks. Are we all really in such a hurry that we need to stampede a kid with a walker or leg braces for a piece of pizza? I promise you, no matter how inconvenient you think it is for you - it's 1000 times worse for them.
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It's funny the things we keep.
Last year, when my mother died and her house sold, we had to clean it out. During our excavation (Mom was a bit of a hoarder) my son-in-law found her medical records. For no known reason, I wanted them. I couldn't bear to part with them. Several weeks passed before I screwed up the nerve to look through them. On paper, thin and delicate as old lace, her breast cancer odyssey unfolded. There it all was. From the lumps, first diagnosed as Fibrosis, to the radical mastectomy. She was 32. I read every word. I'm pretty sure I held my breath the whole time. Even now, I can't glance at the non-descript brown folder without a lump gathering at the back of my throat. Because reading through her medical journey, I couldn't help but see her as someone other than my mother - a real person. A 32 year-old female caucasian housewife to be exact. I thought of her, alone and frightened in a cold exam room. My dad wouldn't have been with her - he wasn't the type. In his defense, this was the early 60's and men stayed out of their wives doctor's offices in those days. I tried to imagine what she might've been feeling and thinking. My mother was not one to identify or talk about her feelings, but it didn't take a shrink to get inside her head. I know her first thought would've been of me. I was only four years old. She and my dad couldn't have children of their own, so after ten childless years, they adopted me. Cancer, often a death sentence back in the day, might keep her from being what she'd wanted more than anything - to be a mom. I knew she worried about my well being. Could I thrive in a world without a mother? Knowing my mom, any questions she might've had remained unasked, to avoid inconveniencing the doctor. Of course it wouldn't have mattered much, pre-surgery they didn't have many answers to give. They kept the best for last - she simply woke up without her breast. That's what they did in those days, lopped it off if they found cancer while the patient still lay unconscious. They didn't get options, or time to think. Like thousands of women before her, when she came to, it was without a breast, and that's how she found out she had cancer. I know she kept what must've been a terrifying heartbreak to herself. That was who she was. As I scrolled through her records, one small sentence struck me: Physical examination reveals a young, nervous, female. It was the nervous that got me. She'd have to have been dead to not feel nervous in that situation. But, of all the illnesses my mother survived, it was the nervous she never got over. Maybe this is when it began. Maybe it started out a kernel, in a child from an alcoholic home, where it burrowed and sprang to life in her early thirties, during her first bout with cancer. No one can know. All I know is her acute anxiety shrouded her life, and mine, until her death. It was the inability to calm herself, to quiet her own mind, that drove her to the many risky behaviors that eventually took everything from her - her money, health and dignity. A cruel,relentless force that she couldn't control. To me, it was the saddest diagnosis of all. It's been almost a year since she passed and I still try to reconcile who she really was with who she appeared to be. I grieve over our conflicted relationship and the wounds we could never heal. Mostly, I miss her. Had she lived, tomorrow would've been my mother's 80th birthday. So, wherever you are Mom, happy birthday. I know some lower level angel is lighting your cigarettes while you lay out your bingo cards. You know what they say, "Talent borrows. Genius steals." And no one said it better than Macy Gray. Every time I hear this song I think of my mom: On and on and on I've searched What I'm lookin' for is not here on earth I can't stand, I can't take no more So I know that I gotta go So long everybody, don't be sad for me Life was a heartache and now I am finally free Don't know where I'm headed, hope I see you someday soon So long everybody, I have gone beyond the moon All I ever wanted, love and the peace and the harmony Just to be, to live and shine, when I get ready I up and fly And I can't remember none of the things that I want to forget It's the best satisfaction no less, ask if I'm free and I'll say, "Oh yes" I know that now, my mom is finally at peace, and free. There’s something so moving about the absolute confidence young children have in our judgment.
They trust us. They believe to their core that we wish them well. Over the past several days, I got to know my granddaughter, and I lived these truths. Amelie lives on the opposite coast so I haven’t seen her as much as I have my other grandkids who live nearer. In fact, it’s safe to say she didn’t know me at all. But, we got on like a house afire. Without a thought, she’d hold my hand. Sit on my lap. Get in my car. She believed everything I said. That, my friend, is a terrifying responsibility. Unfortunately, I’m one of those who can’t see my own life while I’m in it. It’s only in hindsight that I see the light. Like a grain of sand in an oyster, my often-painful life experiences evolve, and become a pearl over time. When my kids were small, I was still a kid myself and unable to appreciate their devotion and dependence. I did my best, but couldn’t see the wonder. For some reason, spending time with Amelie allowed me to fully realize what I’d had…and missed. The way she’d lie next to me on my pillow and tell me her stories, breathless, anxious to please, to get out all the words. And no matter how inane my reply, she'd soak it in, because if I said it - it meant something to her. Despite my many shortcomings, she felt I deserved her attention and affection. Just like that. When asked by her Dad why she felt sad that we were leaving, she said without pause, "Because I love Mimi." Isn't that the way it is with kids? Faster than the speed of sound they fall for you, and you for them. Then, it hit me. I am a lucky soul indeed. Multiply Amelie times six and you’ve got my life. I’ve got six grandkids who fill me up with all things good and true. They like to spend time with me, they make me feel clever and laugh at my jokes. They sing me songs, show me their dance moves, draw me pictures, and call me on the phone. They are funny, smart, eccentric, and they give me so much more than I could ever give them. There’s a lot I don’t know about parenting, or grand parenting – except this: It is an honor to be loved by a child. For a lot of my adult life, I've professed to be an agnostic. I'm usually too lazy to take a stand, so this fit. But really, what I stood for was atheism. Most of the religious turned me off, regardless of their faith. Still do.
And don't get me started on biblical fantasies. Virgin births? Voluntary crucifixions? Resurrections? Eternal life? Indeed. I admired Christopher Hitchens, not only for his superior writing skills, but for his steadfast belief in nothing...right up to the end. During the illness that took his life he said, "If anyone hears me retract my atheism, know that I'm delirious and don't mean it." Then I discovered an uncomfortable truth (are there any other kind?). It's easy to diss life after death when no one you love is dead. When my mother died last year, her death was the first to have a real impact. Ours was an uneasy relationship. Complicated. But I loved her. A formidable presence in my life, her absence seemed (and still sometimes does) intolerable. For the first time, I felt jealous of those with blind faith. I started wondering (hoping) I might see my mom again. Somewhere. But, where? Then our seven year-old granddaughter Adelia got a crushing diagnosis. The odds are high we will all outlive her. If that doesn't turn your absent theology on its thorny crowned head, I don't know what will. So, I've had cause to re-examine what I believe. Not long after my mother's death I found myself on a plane. For reasons I can't remember now, hubby was taking a flight later in the week, so I flew alone. I'm a nervous flyer, even though I've done it my whole life. Not the white knuckle, head in a bag kind, but I think about dying when I'm in the air in a giant tin can. Who knows what goes on in that cockpit? Why is the door always shut? Anyway...I'm superstitious. I always wear the same jewelry when I travel and I would never get on the same plane with a rock star - everyone knows that's a death sentence. This particular flight was turbulent. Way more than normal - that stomach dropping, heart stopping turbulence that has everyone's lips moving in silent prayer. Except for mine, of course. What sticks out in my mind about that trip is the calm. The first thing I thought, well the second after "oh shit" was that my mother had preceded me and would somehow pave the way should the plane go down. She would be there. A tremendous relief trickled down my arms. I spent the rest of the rough flight in peace. Before anyone gets weepy over my religious conversion...it wasn't exactly that. The hyper religious still pretty much get on my last nerve. Bible stories, to me, are just that. And, I don't believe some guy in a white beard and a toga is orchestrating all of our lives. Who has that kind of time? I believe that random shit happens. I believe we sometimes get more heartbreak than we can bear and what doesn't kill us often doesn't make us stronger. I believe the human condition is frail, terribly flawed, and glorious. I believe we all have a responsibility to each other and our place in the world. I believe we don't understand how it all works, what the origins of man really are, or whether or not our behavior impacts the weather. I believe we make our own hell, here on earth. I believe our spirits are separate from our bodies and somewhere in the universe they abide. I believe if we're open to it, the presence of those we loved that have gone before us, can be felt. Some would say my way of thinking is convenient. I've changed what I believe to fit my circumstances. I'm okay with that. If faith is "the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen," then I have it. I believe I haven't lost my mother, nor will I lose my granddaughter. I am assured by this hope and convinced of its truth. We will meet again...on this side or the other. We bought our granddaughter, Adelia, a new bicycle for her birthday today.
I'd guess no one gasped after reading that sentence - hardly earth shattering news. Grandparents buy their grandkids stuff all the time. But, this bicycle came at what feels like an intolerable price, in a way that has nothing to do with money. We have a bunch of grandkids. After the first two girls arrived, we did the usual toy/clothes/crap buying that usually follows for birthdays, holidays, etc. As kids do, they'd lose interest in whatever we'd purchased in about two days. We decided we wanted to give something more meaningful. We opened savings accounts for them, and all those preceding. So, every year, instead of a pile of junk we put money away for each of them to hopefully entice them to go to college. No more gifts. As anyone who has a history with me, or this blog knows - our granddaughter Adelia has lived with an undiagnosed Cerebral Palsy like illness for several years. Specialist after specialist threw up their hands and tossed out CP after ruling out everything else. Ataxic Cerebral Palsy to be exact - which was not good news. They thought...maybe... The hope held firm in the maybe. As long as she went undiagnosed with a maybe trailing there was a chance, wasn't there? Maybe there'd be a medication. A therapy. A miracle. We hoped. Let me tell you what I've learned about hope...it is NOT the thing with feathers that perches in the soul. It's the thing with a boa constrictor's grip that strangles you like prey. We held tight in its grasp, willing and breathless. So, every year we put money in Adelia's account like we did for everybody else. After all, she might go to college. And, every year we'd watch her deteriorate, her struggle more obvious. But, she could probably still go to college. This week, after nearly four years, she got a final diagnosis from a round table of some of the best doctors in the world at one of the finest hospitals - they were half right before. She is Ataxic but does not have Cerebral Palsy. It's a different sort of Ataxia with most of the same terrible, debilitating, life shortening, symptoms and some different ones just for shits and giggles. I won't bore you with the details but the fact that this disease made itself known around the time she turned two means its course is more determined, relentless. Adelia won't go to college. Somewhere in my head, I knew this already. The temporary CP diagnosis should've gotten us all used to the idea, but I couldn't face it and we kept counting on her future. Her savings account proved she'd have one, didn't it? As long as we kept putting money in it her chances increased. Until they didn't. The maybe got lopped off. Now we talk about her quality of life, not its quantity. We're planning for now, not later. We're taking money out of Adelia's savings account to buy her things that she can enjoy now, that might make her living less encumbered. We're going about it like we need to. Her new bike is a special needs, adapted bike...a high-tech, raspberry pink, hella sweet ride. I feel like I'm walking under deep water with lead in my shoes. They call it crying uncle because you're crying while you do it. Adelia got a normal bike a couple years ago, before her mobility was as challenged as it is now. But still wasn't able to do it. "Dad...where's the tools?" she'd ask. "That bike doesn't work." That's Adelia - the bike's broken. She is not. "She's gonna love that new bike, Mom." My daughter, the unsinkable Kayla Mead, tells me. "She wouldn't ever know what it's like to ride one if it weren't for this," she assures. I mumbled something, but I don't remember what. We both go silent. "Don't be sad, Mom." Sad? Sad is an aspiration. I search for comforting words, thinking I've found some, I start to speak but the lump in my throat keeps it down. I stay quiet. "I'm so excited for her to get it. She'll be so happy," Kayla says. I still say nothing. She prods,"Mom?" As always, I'm battling tears and Kayla is propping me up. "Adelia is still with us. We'll have a lot of days ahead of us to be sad," she continues. "But today is not one of them."
I'm scattered.
The last eight months have been tough. Illness, death, surgeries, retirement, moving...all those serious life changes they warn you about. You know, all the stress inducing ones. In the background, a granddaughter suffering with a debilitating disease and to a much lesser, but still off putting degree, this Mother's Day was my first without a mother. So, I find myself in a daily quandary, my brain a-jumble. I stare off into the abyss, overwhelmed, hanging on the ledge not really trying to pull myself up. Getting by is fine for now. I have 3 pairs of glasses and often can't find even one pair. I walk (limp) into a room and can't remember why I'm there. I'll make a phone call and feel surprised when someone I know answers. Making a grocery list feels like writing a thesis. Yet, oddly, I find myself thinking about Father's Day. Perhaps to get a jump on it, to not forget. Even though my father is dead. My husband is a father, my sons-in-law are fathers...so maybe that's it. Or, maybe not. Lately, I've been thinking about my stepfather- who is just as dead as my father. He and my mother were married over 30 years. A miracle of midwestern stick-to-it-ness if you ask me. But, stick with it they did. Until his death several years ago. I've discovered when you're feeling a little beat down, your brain goes places it never would if you felt stronger. You don't have the energy to keep at bay the feelings you'd squashed before, or you realize in a weak moment you feel differently all together. Barely a teen when my mother and stepfather married, I felt no love for him. Just a casual disdain that grew into a lazy hatred then settled into an annoyed apathy. He was an alcoholic. Cruel, unreliable, unpredictable. Both my mother and I knew it from the get go. She married him anyway, as bad men were her comfort zone. I can't say I felt disappointed. Experience had already taught me that fathers were absent, uninterested, unavailable, violent. He ruled our house in a surly silence, where something always felt like it was moving in for the kill. We waited every night till eight o'clock when he'd stumble off to bed, in a drunken haze and our collective sigh of relief signaled safety at last. If you'd asked me to list his good qualities, I couldn't have. But, I would've been wrong. He had some. I just never gave him his due credit. He was the first man to ever tell me I was smart. He was the only parent I had who told me I could, and should, go to college. When I got a B in history because my teacher didn't believe in giving A's he drove to the school, without my mother, and had a talk with the teacher. My stepfather was 6ft. 4in, 250 lbs. He came back with my A. He expected me to get A's and if I didn't, his disappointment could bring me to tears. He taught me to work. He fought my mother when I wanted to get a job while still in high school. He lost. He spent all day catching a rabbit for my science project. He was falling down drunk...but this isn't exactly a Hallmark card, is it? He thought I needed limits set, not money handed out. My mother disagreed. After he had the stroke that signaled his downfall, he mellowed. He became a loving, adoring grandfather to my daughter's daughter. He'd let her do anything to him she wanted. He never raised his voice or his hand to her. But old habits die hard, and I kept watch, a bundle of nerves when they were together. She still points to the stars and reminds us that Papa Ed is there among them. When he finally died, 12 long years later, of various smoking and alcohol related diseases, I felt nothing. Not sad. Not relieved. Now, I feel something else. Not love exactly. But a grateful affection. Not for the man he was, but for the man he tried to be, but couldn't. I'm a wreck.
Hair's on end, clothes on backwards, holes in pants (not the cool kind)….that's when I'm going out. I don't know what's happened to me. Old age? Bad hips? Don't give a shit? All of the above? Back in the day, you'd never catch me out unless I was fully loaded. Hair done, face on, heels. A trip to the grocery store presented a fashion opportunity, not a dreaded chore. Okay, I didn't always look great at the grocery store. Or, maybe I did... Often, I put on a baseball cap and flats for a quick skip to Ralph's or Whole Foods. Of course, my hair was freshly washed, but maybe not blown out. My face wasn't photo ready, but still. A dab of concealer, a hint of blush, a berry lip stain. My baseball cap was cool, maybe something pricey, hard to find, from the early 20th Century, African American Baseball League perhaps - just cause I'm a white girl didn't mean I couldn't get all hip-hop on your ass. And, my flats came from Kate Spade or Tory Burch. Oh, those were giddy days. Last week, I made a mad dash to the grocery store. I'd been cooking for days, getting ready for surgery, putting stuff in the freezer for hubby. I waited till the last possible minute to go. I needed the ingredients in, like, three seconds. So, I grabbed my army green drab jacket (Hubby calls me Castro when I wear it) tennis shoes with no laces, and took off. I didn't look in a mirror before I left. Let's face it. Who cares? I remembered I needed to pick up a prescription. So, I stood in the pharmacy line, waiting. My head itched. I scratched the top. Ack. When did I last wash it? I groped further back. The hair there felt flattened and matted. Bed hair. From which night? I looked around, kinda embarrassed. I noted the quarter-ton woman in animal print leggings, tank top, her braless boobs doing a gelatinous dance around her waistband, and shrugged. Feeling a little better, I patted my hair into place, a reflex I suppose. During the pat down, I hit something crusty. I froze. Crusty? Ewwww. The hair over my ear stuck stiff to my skin. Without calling attention to myself (I kept the gagging sounds pretty well under wraps) I did some more exploration. Whatever crusted to my hair, clung to my ear. I scraped at it and held my finger out. Red. WAS I BLEEDING? Did I have blood RUNNING down my head? OMG. I looked around again, thinking I'd see horrified faces, pointing, or someone motioning the paramedics in my direction. Nope. Just Tina the Tiger in her leggings and long, swaying, boobs, picking the three teeth she still had in the front with a 50% off coupon, not glancing at me at all. Then I did what primates have been doing since we've evolved from the dirt. I smelled it. Hmmmm….it didn't smell like blood. Upon closer inspection it looked a little too orange too. I had no choice. I had to taste it. Marinara sauce... from the pizza I ate at lunch. Huh. I finished my finger snack, got my prescription, and went on with my shopping. In for a pound... If you're ever in the congo and you need the lice picked out of your hair…I'm your girl. "Can you believe it?" I told my daughter on the phone when I got home. She laughed, loud, for like, five minutes. "I'm a hot mess," I said. "No, you're not, Mom," she said. "You're savory….a feast for the eyes." Funny thing about being a mom. Some of it's not that funny.
Don't get me wrong. A lot of it is joyous, glorious, fulfilling. Even when you're sleep deprived, at the fraying end of your rope, wishing you'd had your tubes tied when you were eleven, one look at those tiny, precious faces and somehow it's okay. You have your babies, get to call yourself Mom. Then they start doing shit. You gotta start kissing boo boos. They have to get immunized. They don't like it. Sometimes you have to help the nurse keep them still, hold them down. All for their own good. You tell yourself, Don't cry, Mom. They get pushed off the swing by the little prick next door. Even though their pride is what gets hurt the most, their lip trembles, their eyes fill. They never want to go to the playground again. Don't cry, Mom. They get bit by a dog. Have to have stitches. They hold up pretty well, you're a wreck. The doctor says, Don't cry, Mom. They score the winning point, they hit home runs, they get the starring role in the school play. Don't cry, Mom. They get dumped by the loser you hoped would dump them. They're devastated. You know it's for the best, you wished for it, dreamt of it. But their heart is broken. Don't cry, Mom. Then the worst. They grow up, marry, start having babies of their own. By some cruel twist they want you in the delivery room. It's the most painful labor you've ever had. Don't cry, Mom. Then there's more babies. You don't think they need more. You're not that thrilled even though the first baby is among the finest specimens ever born and your love for them knows no bounds. But they insist and before you know it, between them all they've got six all together. You didn't ask for them, but you've gotta see them. It's love at first sight. Don't cry, Mom. Then one of your grown up babies calls to talk about her baby. The one who's spent 3/4 of her six year life struggling with a still unnamed, Cerebral Palsy like illness. The one who just broke her finger because she can't walk without a walker. And even then... She says they think something is wrong with her baby's bones, the break is odd. She needs one more specialist. She will probably have to use a wheel chair now. The air sucks out of your chest. Your fingers grip your phone so hard they might break. Your heart beats so loud you almost don't hear your daughter say - Don't cry, Mom. I've been brain deep in my malingering manuscript so I haven't blogged in a while. Well, that's one reason. The other is I can't think of anything to blog about. I don't know how daily bloggers do it. I'm not that clever. Anyway...my mind has been taken over by most things dark and usually when I blog it's about things that annoy me. Or, things I'm trying to figure out. I decided to shake it up and write about things I love. Like, really love. Like, couldn't live another day if I didn't have them, love. Things I love so much they put that weird expression on my face. Besides, I can't think of anything better. The Bad Seed. If you've never seen this, your life is not what it could be. Originally a book, then a play, then a movie...which was made even better because the theater cast played their roles in the movie so their performances are over the top to say the least. Their dramatic, back of the house, approach to acting only adds to the creepy campiness of this fantastic film. Rhoda, Rhoda, Rhoda. What to do about Rhoda. One of the first, if not the first, fictional work to explore the nature vs. nurture theory. Are psychos born or made? Is there a serial killer gene? If your mother was a serial killer are you destined to make lampshades and door knob covers out of your neighbors, or perhaps enjoy them with some fava beans and a little Chianti? According to The Bad Seed - of course you are. Rhoda is an 8 year old force of bad genetic nature. She kills those who don't give her what she wants. Clearly, it's not her fault. If that brat Claude Dagle would've given her the award that he won, but she obviously deserved, he'd still be alive today and not floating on the rocks in the lake with tap shoe marks on his forehead. Only Rhoda could make "If I give you a basket of kisses will you give me a basket of hugs?" sound like, "Don't turn your back on me bitch or you're next." It's worth seeing if only to watch two mothers', one the killer's and the other the murdered boy's, mutual meltdown. Mesmerizing. Every year I try to make this a Christmas tradition (aren't we sick of Elf already?) but it never takes. Usually hubby is the only one I can corral to sit through it annually. The egg nog helps. So, I saw the original of this in the LA Times. As you'd expect, I had to have it and I tracked down a copy. This is hanging on my wall, in my house. I don't know what I love about it more...the fact that it's hilarious and tacky, or that everyone who sees it looks at it, then quickly away. Once, the pizza delivery guy asked if he could take a picture of it. If the pizza delivery guy loves it...what more do I need? Presents. I wouldn't want to spend another day in a place with no presents. I'm not one of those "it's the thought that counts," kinda gals. Especially if it's "the lack of thought that counts" sorta presents. I make a list, including website and item number information so hubby can SURPRISE me. Although, he gets surprised too...when he sees the price. But, he's a sport. Or, he's so relieved not to have to come up with something that he'll absolutely know I'll love that he goes with it. This list comes in particularly handy at birthday time. And no, I don't celebrate my birthday week. What kind of chump do you think I am? I celebrate my birthday trimester. No, that is not a typo. It's 3 months of fun and games at our house. We (and by that I mean hubby) do it up right. For 3 months it's all about me and my presents. I don't make him watch the Bad Seed for nothin'. I Love Lucy. For real. If there's a heaven it's at 623 East 68th Street and Lucy and Ricky still live there and Fred and Ethel come in without knocking and mayhem ensues. Whenever I'm in a jam, I think...What would Lucy do? Then I usually don't do it to avoid an even bigger jam. I own all zillion episodes and never tire of them. I laugh like I've never seen them before every time. I can recite dialogue. I have my favorite episode (no, not the candy making one). It's the Ethel Goes to Her Hometown one. Look it up and watch it. You won't be sorry. I love Lucy not just because she makes me laugh, but because Lucy was gangsta. She had creative control over her show (unheard of for a woman in the 50's) and she was the first woman studio owner (RKO became Desilu Studios). Not to mention Desi Arnaz, who originated the concept of re-runs, who gave up salary at the front end to own the show outright and got all the residuals, and created the 3 camera method that is still used today to film TV shows. Yet, he couldn't recognize his own wife in a moustache and a sombrero. Home Town Buffet. Any restaurant with "All You Can Eat" on their sign is my kinda place. Especially if there's 37 tables groaning with every kind of preservative loaded, calorie laden, and artery plugging food imaginable. I love to eat the fried chicken, pasta, tacos, mashed potatoes and corn dogs all on one plate. Some call it gluttony. I call it carb loading. After all I am in physical therapy. I love it that I'm usually one of the only one's there under 400 pounds. I love the old ladies that take huge bags and sneak everything they can out. Including the sugar packets on the tables. I love it that people come at lunch and are still there at dinner. I've heard. Word to the wise: Try to avoid going on crab leg day. It's a life risking proposition. You know you're in deep shit when a brigade shows up wearing headsets so they can put out the call when they find the seafood table. And those big MOFO's can move fast. Run for your life. If you can get your pants buttoned back up. Tasteless Religious Chotchkes. This is Sock Monkey Jesus. Although, Woodstock Sock Monkey Jesus is more apt. Love the Jesus Christ Superstar 'do and the beads. This was a gift from our son. He knows how to get on his mama's good side. Action Figure Jesus. He has wheels on his sandals. If you run him up and down a flat surface really fast and let go of him, he takes off. It looks like he's walking on water. Another gift from our son. He's in the will now. Saint Joseph. I don't even have to hunt any of this down. It comes to me. This guy was found by our gardener. Buried in the yard, in a plastic bag, upside down. If you're up on your Saints (which I am) you'll know that Saint Joseph is the patron saint of property, more specifically houses. If you want to buy or sell a house, you bury him upside down in the lawn of said property. This find was enough to make me take up gardening. Or, give the gardener a tip. Whatever. Freida Kahlo cross. Those are coke bottle caps painted with her image. Including her mustache. And unibrow. Need I embellish? I don't know if Voo Doo counts as a religion. I don't know why not. This was a gift from our daughter, Kristen. Another one in the will. At any rate, whenever I see this I say, "Oh MY GOD! I LOVE this thing!" So that makes it religious. This is an hors d'ouerves platter. The pins are to stick the finger food with. I've used this at countless dinner parties. Not one person has ever taken the stick out of his crotch. And finally, this photo, even though it's not very focused. This is me and my mom at my book signing, two months before she died. That's her. Holding one of the book marks that were made by my good friend Mary Beth in honor of my book. There's something so perfect about my nearly 80 year old mother holding a 13 inch Rob Rhino dick book mark. She said she'd seen better. My mom was the last of the old school broads. I loved that about her. “How hot is it in this hell hole dump anyway?” I sounded a lot like a bitch, but so what? The fat guy behind the counter looked over the top of his bi-focals, silent, sweating, letting that one pass. We stared each other down. He was this close to calling me little lady. They say things like that in the Heartland. Just one reason I hated it. I didn’t have time to pick a petty squabble, so I carried on without pressing. My son gripped my sweaty hand with his sweatier one. We looked a sight. I was too young to be his mother, but still I was. He was too smart to be only a four year-old, but still he was. We spent all our time together, just the two of us – so we made the best of it. There we were, new in town (again), poor (still), and shopping for shoes on the only street with stores. Freakishly, we looked exactly alike back in the day. I was taller. The August humidity beat us down, its assault relentless. I wanted to get out of the blistering store, quick. As usual, I had more need than money. But, I’d grown skilled at account juggling when purchasing anything that couldn’t get eaten or didn’t keep the roof over our heads. What bill would go unpaid so I could buy shoes? My son had no such worries. Happy to be out of our basement apartment with no windows, he talked a blue streak, his still dimpled hand tight in mine. We lived like moles. We’d hit daylight, blink-blink-blink, hard and fast, getting used to the sun. It occurred to me this was not, necessarily, a normal way to live. I knew there was a better way. Just not for people who couldn’t keep the phone turned on because they had to buy Payless shoes. Daniel was a shoe guy, even at four. He led me, arm stretched out like a leash, up and down the aisles. The bubble gum smashed on hot rubber aroma crept up our noses. We sped through the cheap inventory like K-Mart Dollar Days veterans. “Mother (he always called me Mother, but would’ve preferred first names), you won’t believe it.” He hopped up and down, his floppy, worn sandals almost mute on the cheap carpet. He lunged, grabbing up the shoes his dreams were made of like they’d been surrounded by a pack of pleather loving, bargain hunting jackals. There they were – tacky in a lidless box – two toned, brown and white cowboy boots with fringe. Ecstatic, Daniel whooped, elated, pogoing like a jumping bean. Wondering about the ruckus, the fat man behind the counter waddled over. By the time he lumbered down the aisle Daniel yanked his sandals off, leaving his socks on pulled up to his knees (that’s another story) and jerked the boots on both feet. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d seen him so happy, his cocoa colored eyes took up most of his face, glistening with wonder at his luck. “Well, Mama, looks like you gotta little Roy Rogers on yer hands there,” the fat man winked. They say things like that in the Heartland. I smiled, nodded, my face blank as rice paper. Roy Rogers? Dale Evans, maybe. They don’t say things like that in the Heartland though, so my lips stayed sealed. Daniel swiped at his damp brow, skipped, then ran and kept on running, up and down every aisle. “Daniel, stop,” I hollered. Fat man put his hand on my arm to shush me. “Now, Mama, boys will be boys and he’s gotta try out them thar boots, get ‘em broke in.” Boys will be boys - unless they want to be girls. Wouldn’t this porky cowpoke choke on his beef jerky if he knew? Daniel loved those boots because they were the closest things to high heels he could get – boy pumps. He loved their look, the clack-clack sounds, and the added height. Not to mention the fringe that swung in hysteria every time he moved - the closest he’d been to heaven. Even at the tender age of four, it was clear that in the poker game of life my son had been dealt a full house, queens high. But, they don’t say things like that in the Heartland, or anywhere that I knew of, so no one said it. But, like all elephants in the room it weighed a ton or two (tutu and pink feather boa notwithstanding) and we ignored it. Daniel and I pulled it around like the frozen pig fat Oprah plopped down in the wagon on her first weight loss show. It was our secret. He was too young to know much about it, other than he thought other boys acted dumb and he’d rather try on his mother’s clothes than play with guns. He had masculine toys. He loved the He-Man action figures. But, Princess Teela was his favorite. He’d gotten the Castle of Doom for Christmas and Teela always beat the shit out of He-Man and sent him to the dungeon. Daniel knew, in his little boy gut, that I didn’t mind and wouldn’t discourage him. Maybe it was my youth, my blissful ignorance, but I didn’t expect he would be someone else. I didn’t know that I should try to influence his personality, lucky for us. I didn’t love him less or feel disappointment. That was our bond, and the way it went, for years. From the bottom of my scraggly purse, I scraped up the $6.00 to pay for the boots he still had on and we left, fat man grinning and waving us out. Still on his boy pump high Daniel kicked one of the several metal poles holding up the awning running the length of the sidewalk…then the next one…and the one after that. It was unlike me not to stop him. I was hard on him. I didn’t have the slightest clue what to do with him. His wicked intelligence made him seem older and I expected him to act it. When he behaved like a child it annoyed and embarrassed me. After all, at seventeen, I was a child when he was born. If anyone was going to act like a baby, it was going to be me. But, for those few moments, I let my son act like a four year old. A four year old in boy pumps with fringe. He galloped down the sidewalk kicking poles. All dark hair and eyes, plump fists at his sides, his round face broken by his smile, legs askew, kicking up and out, fringe flying. His giddy happiness made us both forget about the stupefying heat. Soon the poles lost their allure and he moved on to the parked cars. First he kicked a couple of tires. Not such a big deal. “Daniel, don-” I couldn’t finish the admonishment. What I wouldn’t have given to kick stuff. How did I get here? Well, I knew how I got there. The problem would be getting out. Dwelling below the surface of the earth, eating Rice-a-Roni only on special occasions, and watching Eight is Enough reruns every night was the same life I’d rebelled against and here I stood, living it. Good move. WHAM! The sound of a plastic cowboy boot toe hitting the metal side of a car door rang loud. Probably time to act like a mother – something I struggled with. Still, I couldn’t fake anger. I hated this town, this life. I had no idea who owned that car but I felt sure I’d hate them too. What did I care? He whacked two more doors before I grabbed him by the arm and went through the discipline motions. “Mother,” Daniel’s gaze bore into mine, tears about to run over. “Are you mad at me? Don’t you like my boots?” He searched me. Like always, he tried hard to read me, gauge my moods to intervene with a quip, a joke or a kiss if he saw sorrow. He hadn’t gone to school yet but he made me laugh harder than anyone I’d ever known. “No, I’m not mad.” I always spoke the truth to him. Another not good parenting plan. “I’m happy for you. And yes, those boots are…fantastic.” He grabbed my hand again. When he held it he really held on, and seemed as he rarely did, like a little boy - at my mercy and small. Like we were the only survivors on the island and he knew for certain holding my hand was the right thing to do, that I could save him. Didn’t he know I was the one who needed saving? When he got older, and things changed, his hands could still break my heart. When his words were bitter, his hands were still sweet. I held his palm up to my mouth and kissed it a bunch, loud cartoonish kisses. He laughed his belly deep, little boy laugh and galloped ahead toward our mole hole, me a little lighter than when I started and Daniel thrilled to wear the most hideous boots this side of Liberace on the 4th of July. Every few steps he’d check behind to make sure I was still there. He feared I’d get lost or fall and hurt myself. He was a worrier, a thinker. I’d smile, nod, and he’d skip on, comforted that all was well. I couldn’t see the future that day, or any other, and I’m not sure what I would’ve, or could’ve changed if I had. But it was all before…the drugs, the alcohol, the disappointments, and the heartbreak - his, mine, and, ours. Before the better angels of his nature got their asses kicked by the darker ones, before our bond severed, brittle and worn, our relationship swirling into a tailspin, both of us in freefall, without the aid of the other. I had my opinion, he had his, and they were not the same. I didn't know what an objective observer would say because I was not one. But I knew this - on that one sweltering day in Junction City, Kansas Daniel was the best little boy in the world and I was his mom. |
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November 2017
IF YOU LIKE THE BLOGS YOU'LL LOVE THE NOVELS IN HER TWISTED CRIME SERIES |