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. 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 on crutches.
Luckily, its temporary. I don't think I have the temperament to deal with all the jackasses that come out of the woodwork when you're impaired. I'd be dragged off to jail, hobbling. Take the TSA. Me on crutches: "I'm not sure how I'm supposed to go through security." TSA Jackass: "They'll hold your crutches when you go through the body scan." Me: "Ummmm...I can't stand up without the crutches. I can't put my weight on my leg." Jackass: "Hmmmm....they'll give you a cane." Note to anyone who doesn't know - you can't just give someone who needs crutches a cane and wish them Godspeed. Walking aids are not interchangeable and should be prescribed by someone with an actual medical degree, not a guy with a bully club and a highlighter pen. Me: "I can't use a cane. That's why I have crutches." Jackass: "Hmmmm...can you take your shoes off?" Me: "Does it look like it?" Jackass pointing: "Well...they'll have to do a full body pat down then. Wait over there. She'll take care of you." TSA World Women's Wrestling Champion: "Can you take off your shoes?" Me: "No." WWW Champ (three times my size, pulling on latex gloves): "I'm gonna have to pat you down. Do you want to go to a private room?" Never go to the second location. Me: "No." Champ (snapping gloves): "Okay. Raise your arms up at your sides like this." She mimics Christ on the Cross as a helpful visual aid. Me: "I can't STAND WITHOUT MY CRUTCHES." Champ: "Hmmm...okay, well...do you have any foreign objects implanted in your body?" Besides that giant dildo? Me: "No." Champ: "Okay....well...front first." So, there in front of an entire airport full of people, the Champ gave me a thorough grope. Zealously serving and protecting her country by ensuring my boobs weren't locked and loaded and a scud missile didn't lurk in my crotch. Champ: "Can you take your shoes off?" Me: "No." I thought we'd covered that. By that time hubby finally made his way through wearing that look he usually reserves for deviants and TSA's. He wasn't allowed to accompany me. He had his own security to maze to meander in case he'd stashed a life threatening quarter in his pocket or the surprisingly deadly extra ounce of shaving cream. Champ: "I need to put those crutches through the scanner." Me: "I CAN'T STAND UP WITHOUT THEM." Champ: "Oh....right...I'll get a chair." I sat. Champ: "Can you take your shoes off?" After I cried Uncle and hubby helped take my shoes off, Champ swooped off with my crutches. After it was determined I'd stashed no James Bond type foolery in them and I posed no threat to national security, they let us go. This trip to the airport was the first I'd been on other than therapy. While on it, I saw the light. For the most part, the general population has an appalling disregard for the physically limited. They shoved past me to get ahead. Can't possibly go half a second slower. They ran me over to get on, and off, the elevator first. They jumped ahead of me to get on, and off, the plane. For me, this is a minor blip in an otherwise healthy life. For my six year-old granddaughter Adelia, it's a lifestyle. She has Cerebral Palsy and can't walk without braces and a walker. Her everyday life is an exhausting struggle to get from point A to B. God forbid she should ever decide to get away from it all and take a trip where she can expect public embarrassment and complete disregard for her dignity as a rule. I learned big lessons that day and will forever be on guard. That old cliche is a cliche for a reason. You can't know what its like to be someone else till you've walked, limped, or rolled, in their shoes. It won't kill me, or you, to take a breath and show some consideration for someone who relies on the compassion of others. We don't really need to harass the disabled, do we?
I read recently that France has lost its chic. Its je ne sais quoi.
Their President is out of control. While the French have always looked gracefully, and stylishly, the other way where "the other woman" is involved, particularly Presidential women, de Gaulle forbid he should comport l'affair on a moped, in the passenger seat, wearing a suit with cheap shoes and a giant Daft Punk helmet. A President cheating on his wife and his mistress with yet a third woman is the height of panache. But, in a bad outfit? Mon Dieu. The French are up in arms. I so get it. There is never an excuse for bad shoes. Except for hip surgery. My once impeccably shod tootsies are mourning their old, fashionable life, when their daily wear looked like this:
The perfect gladiator look. Minus the toga. Wouldn't be caught dead in a toga.
I remembered why these were so awesome in the 80's. Because they're awesome. My leg is coming from who knows where.
Marie Antoinette was so right. Eating cake in these shoes is so much better. That's what she meant, right?
I agree. These are fantastic.
I have hip problems because I apparently only have one leg. But it's wearing an adorable shoe.
There it is! I do have two legs. These are my Goldfinger shoes. I think James Bond would love them.
I'm a sucker for an ankle strap.
Brought these back from Italy. Can you blame me?
A shoe that looks like a velvet corset. Sigh.
Another pair from Italy. Had to.
I can't resist a pink shoe. Or a rhinestone buckle. Or shoes, period.
I hate getting caught on the Yellow Brick Road unprepared.
Gained an ankle strap. Lost a leg.
These are for when I mean business. 5 inches of business.
This is what I'm reduced to after crutches. These might as well be flat. I'm pouting just looking at them.
These are me, now, on crutches. The heel is so non-existent that it wasn't worth showing. Except for its pink. To make myself feel better I bought these in several colors. But still. So, not the same.
If you hear I've bought a moped. Shoot me. 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. “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. Laziness is my most marked characteristic so I don't do New Year's resolutions.
At least not for myself. This year, I decided to turn a new leaf (which is totally different than making a resolution) and make some...for other people. And I'm so lazy that even this is late. What could be more helpful than pointing out everyone else's faults? I consider this a public service. 1. Women of a certain age. Meaning, I'm certain you're still living so stop dressing like you're dead. Age appropriate and giving up are not the same things. Yes, I realize you can go too far (see my earlier post NYDJ). But, you won't die if you wear a high heel now and again. No, it's not easy. It can be painful. Who cares? Have some vanity for Christ's sake. I don't want to hear it. I wear them on crutches. I realize there's an argument to be made that perhaps I wouldn't be on crutches if I wasn't a life long stiletto wearer. I can live with that. At least I didn't go down without a fight. Birkenstocks, elastic waist pants, pantyhose (they don't look good on Kate Middleton, they don't on you either), sweat pants if you're not sleeping...yoga pants if you're not...you get it. Back away from the sale table at Sears and get yourself a Vogue subscription. Come on ladies! We've still got it and we've gotta show it. 2. The entire Medical profession. THINK before you speak. I'm an authority on this. Here's snippets of my recent conversations as proof. Nursey: Do you prefer Kathleen or Kathy? Me: Kathleen Nursey: Okay, great...Kathy...can you spell that? Dr. Doogie Howser: The last time you had a bowel movement was it in shapes? Me: You mean, like animals? Nursey: Do you have a DNR? Me: Ummm...I'm only 51. No. Nursey: So, Kathy, if you go into cardiac arrest and your heart stops you want to be revived? Me: I'm thinkin' YES. Nursey: On a scale from 0-10, 0 being the least, where would you like your pain level to be? Me: Is that a joke? Does anyone say, If you're all out of NO pain...I'll take excruciating? That would be ZERO. Nursey: Sssssss....well...okay...hmmm...how about 5-10? Doctor Doogie: Wow. Alot of these drugs don't work for you... Me: Well, it is the 21st century, there's got to be a lot of choices, right? Doogie: Any suggestions? 3. Annoying dog people. Keep your four legged friend to yourself. I'm allergic to dogs. But, I don't hate them. What I hate is those dog owners who assume you love their dogs as much as they do, so you won't mind at all if their furry beasts jump up on your cocktail dress, or wipe their snotty snouts on your pants. I adore my grandkids. But I wouldn't let them sniff your crotch, wipe their chocolate covered hands on your jacket, or lick your suede shoes. Please, show me the same courtesy. 4. Traffic controller drivers. Just drive. These are those folks who slam to a stop to "let you in" their lane or sit through their turn, two or three times, at four way stops to wave everyone else through. I'm sure they mean well. But, I often find myself in weird, Marcel Marceau type pantomime conversations with someone who can barely see me through their windshield. Using jerky hand motions and contorted facial expressions I struggle to let them know I don't want to turn into their lane. I want to go the other direction. By the time they get the message they've stopped a line of cars two blocks long. Honking, name calling and middle finger salutes commence and I'm still there, trying to turn left. Grrrr...if everyone just follows the rules of the road we'll all be fine. Really. 5. Hoity Toity Restaurants. Call a spade a spade. When did eating out get so complicated? Pan seared? Really. Isn't that just...fried? Charred bread? I can burn my own bread in my toaster at home. Waiter: Our popcorn has an aura of grapefruit essence, rosemary mist, star anise dust and black sea salt. Get out. Do we seriously need popcorn that takes a Walter White style laboratory to make? Or this jewel...Slow baked organic Scottish salmon with Yuzo-koshu crust, baby green vegetables, glazed gnocchi, and smoked bonito flaked orange broth. Huh? Of course it all arrives in a Leaning Tower of Pisa shaped cylinder on your plate which explodes as soon as you try to fork your way through it. It's about 3 ounces of food for $45. And, why are my scallops covered in two kinds of sauce, one a heinous shade of green, on top of a now inedible soaked and soggy bed of lettuce? Couldn't I have had them...pan seared...or at the very least...charred? Don't worry though, you can bring your own bottle of wine...they'll only charge you $25 to uncork it. And don't even try to bring your own opener. I've heard they're not amused. Happy New Year. Get it together. |
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November 2017
IF YOU LIKE THE BLOGS YOU'LL LOVE THE NOVELS IN HER TWISTED CRIME SERIES |