Forever, Erma

by Erma Bombeck

  And Mike’s mother said, “It’ll come back.”

  Between breaths when Daddy was blowing up the plastic swimming pool, he warned, “You know what they’re going to do to this place? They’re going to condemn it and use it for a missile site. I hope you know what you’re doing. They’ll track water everywhere and have a million water fights, and you won’t be able to take out the garbage without stepping in mud up to your neck. When we take this down, we’ll have the only brown lawn on the block.”

  “It’ll come back,” Mike’s mother said.

  When Mike was 12, he volunteered his yard for a camp-out. As they hoisted the tents and drove in the spikes, his father stood at the window and observed: “Why don’t I just put the grass seed out in cereal bowls for the birds and save myself trouble spreading it around? You know for a fact that those tents and all those big feet are going to trample down every single blade of grass, don’t you? Don’t bother to answer. I know what you’re going to say. ‘It’ll come back.’ ”

  The basketball hoop on the side of the garage attracted more crowds than the Olympics. And a small patch of lawn that started out with a barren spot the size of a garbage can lid soon grew to encompass the entire side yard.

  Just when it looked as if the new seed might take root, the winter came and the sled runners beat it into ridges. Mike’s father shook his head and said, “I never asked for much in this life—only a patch of grass.”

  And his wife smiled and said, “It’ll come back.” The lawn this fall was beautiful. It was green and alive and rolled out like a sponge carpet along the drive where gym shoes had trod...along the garage where bicycles used to fall...and around the flower beds where little boys used to dig with iced-tea spoons.

  But Mike’s father never saw it. He anxiously looked beyond the yard and asked with a catch in his voice, “He will come back, won’t he?”

  Live-in Neighbor Child—September 30, 1973

  There isn’t a family in the world that at one time or another hasn’t had a live-in neighbor child.

  He’s the kid who sleeps in the woodwork, materializes each morning at your breakfast table, spends the entire day with you, and the next thing you know you can’t really remember where he lives or who he belongs to.

  We were sitting around the breakfast table one morning when my husband asked, “How many children do we have?”

  “Three,” I replied.

  “We have four at breakfast,” he tallied. “Which one isn’t ours?”

  I was stumped. One had my eyes, another the same color of hair as my husband, but the other two we both could have phoned in.

  “Okay,” I announced, “will the real Bombecks please stand up?”

  They exchanged glances dramatically. One slid back his chair like he was going to stand up but didn’t. Slowly, the other three rose to their feet.

  “If that doesn’t tear it,” I snarled, looking at Tim, who was still seated. “I not only thought he was mine, I just got him toilet trained.”

  I have often wondered about the mothers of these children who disappear for five or six years to play. Do they rent out their rooms or keep them available? Do they feel guilty when they list them as a deduction on their income tax?

  I think it’s flattering when a child joins your family, but there has to come a time when you send him home.

  A neighbor child has been with you too long when you postpone your vacation because you can’t get anyone to sit with him.

  He’s been with you too long when his teacher wants to have a parent conference with you.

  He’s been with you too long when you punish him by sending him to his house.

  He’s been with you too long when you call his mother and she says, “Huh?”

  He’s been with you too long when he appears with all of you on your Christmas card.

  Tim has been with us too long. The other day a car driven by his father picked him up. Before I realized what I was doing, I was calling the police to report a missing child.

  Kids: Life’s Greatest Mysteries—July 29, 1975

  My goodness, the children have only been out of school for six weeks. Time flies when you’re under sedation, doesn’t it?

  As I was hiding from them in the backseat of the car just last week, it occurred to me that I don’t know children at all. I’m raising three of them, and yet they remain one of life’s greatest mysteries.

  For example, I don’t understand how come a child can climb up on the roof, scale the TV antenna and rescue the cat...yet cannot walk down the hallway without grabbing both walls with his grubby hands for balance.

  Or how come a child can eat yellow snow, kiss the dog on the lips, chew gum that he has found in the ashtray, put his mouth over a muddy garden hose nozzle...and refuse to drink from a glass his brother has just used?

  Why is it he can stand with one foot on first base while reaching out and plucking a baseball off the ground with the tips of his fingers...yet cannot pick up a piece of soap before it melts into the drain?

  Explain to me how he can ride a bicycle, run, play ball, set up a camp, swing, fight a war, swim and race for eight hours...and has to be driven to the garbage can.

  It puzzles me how a child can see a dairy bar three miles away but cannot see a 4-by-6 rug that has scrunched up under his feet and been dragged through two rooms.

  Why is it a child can reject a hot dog with mustard served on a soft bun at home...yet eat six of them two hours later at 50 cents each?

  How come I can trip over a kid’s shoes under the kitchen sink, in the bathroom, on the front porch, under the coffee table, in the sandbox, in the car, in the clothes hamper and on the washer...but we can never find them when it is time to cut the grass?

  Why is the sun hotter delivering papers than it is goofing around...when it is the same sun?

  How come they can’t remember what time they’re supposed to be home, but they remember they did dishes a week ago Wednesday two nights in a row because we had spaghetti and a spoon got caught in the disposal and they traded off?

  I’ll never understand how a child can’t even find his English book when it is under his right hand but can find his mother hiding out in the backseat of a car.

  I Loved You Enough to...January 6, 1976

  “You don’t love me!”

  How many times have your kids laid that one on you? And how many times have you, as a parent, resisted the urge to tell them how much?

  Someday, when my children are old enough to understand the logic that motivates a mother, I’ll tell them:

  I loved you enough to bug you about where you were going, with whom and what time you would get home.

  I loved you enough to insist you buy a bike with your own money even though we could afford it.

  I loved you enough to be silent and let you discover your friend was a creep.

  I loved you enough to make you return a Milky Way with a bite out of it to the drugstore and confess, “I stole this.”

  I loved you enough to stand over you for two hours while you cleaned your bedroom, a job that would have taken me 15 minutes.

  I loved you enough to say, “Yes, you can go to Disney World on Mother’s Day.”

  I loved you enough to let you see anger, disappointment, disgust and tears in my eyes.

  I loved you enough not to make excuses for your lack of respect or your bad manners.

  I loved you enough to admit that I was wrong and ask for your forgiveness.

  I loved you enough to ignore what every other mother did or said.

  I loved you enough to let you stumble, fall, hurt and fail.

  I loved you enough to let you assume the responsibility for your own actions at age 6, 10 or 16.

  I loved you enough to figure you would lie about the party being chaperoned but forgave you for it—after discovering I was right.

  I loved you enough to accept you for what you are, not what I wanted you to be.

  But, most of all, I loved you enough to say no wh
en you hated me for it. That was the hardest part of all.

  Parents Get Apartment—June 6, 1976

  We knew the kids would take it the wrong way, but we had to do it anyway.

  “Children, your father and I want to get our own apartment.”

  One looked up from his homework and the other two even turned the volume down on the TV set. “What are you saying?”

  “We are saying we’d like to move out and be on our own for a while.”

  “But why?” asked our daughter. “Aren’t you happy here? You have your own room and the run of the house.”

  “I know, but a lot of parents our age are striking out on their own.”

  “It’ll be expensive,” said our son. “Have you thought about utilities and phone bills and newspapers and a hundred little things you take for granted around here?”

  “We’ve thought it all through.”

  “Spit it out,” said our daughter. “What’s bothering you about living with us? Did we ask too much? What did we ask you to do? Only cook, make beds, do laundry, take care of the yard, keep the cars in running order and bring in the money. Was that so hard?”

  “It’s not that,” I said gently. “It’s just that we want to fix up our own apartment and come and go as we please.”

  “If it’s your car you wanted, why didn’t you say so? We could make arrangements.”

  “It’s not just the car. We want to be able to play our phonograph when we want to and come in late without someone saying, ‘Where have you been?’ and invite people over without other people hanging around.”

  “What will you do for furniture?”

  “We don’t need all that much. We’ll just take a few small appliances, some linens, our bedroom suite, the typewriter, the luggage, the card table and chairs, the old TV you never use, some pots and pans and a few tables and chairs.”

  “You’ll call every day?”

  We nodded.

  “Mom, do me a favor. Don’t wear those white socks when you meet your new neighbors. And Dad! Let your hair grow.”

  As we headed for the car I heard our son whisper sadly, “Our parents have grown up.” His brother said, “They’ll be back in a week!”

  Children Are Like Kites—May 15, 1977

  I was autographing books at one of those little rattan tables in the bookstore when I found myself looking into the saddest eyes I had ever seen.

  “The doctor wanted me to buy something that would make me laugh,” she said.

  I hesitated about signing the book. It would have taken corrective surgery to make that woman laugh.

  “Is it a big problem?” I asked. The whole line of people was eavesdropping.

  “Yes. My daughter is getting married.” The line cheered.

  “Is she twelve or something?”

  “She’s twenty-four,” said the woman, biting her lip. “And he’s a wonderful man. It’s just that she could have stayed home a few more years.”

  The woman behind her looked wistful. “We’ve moved three times, and our son keeps finding us. Some women have all the luck.”

  Isn’t it curious how some mothers don’t know when they’ve done a good job or when it’s basically finished? They figure the longer the kids hang around, the better parents they are. I guess it all depends on how you regard children in the first place.

  How do you regard yours? Are they like an appliance? The more you have, the more status you command? They’re under warranty to perform at your whim for the first 18 years; then, when they start costing money, you get rid of them?

  Are they like a used car? You maintain it for years, and when you’re ready to sell it to someone else, you feel a great responsibility to keep it running or it reflects on you? (That’s why some parents never let their children marry good friends.)

  Are they like an endowment policy? You invest in them for 18 or 20 years, and then for the next 20 years they return dividends that support you in your declining years or they suffer from terminal guilt?

  Are they like a finely gilded mirror that reflects the image of its owner in every way? On the day the owner looks in and sees a flaw, a crack, a distortion, one tiny idea or attitude that is different from his own, he casts it aside and declares himself a failure?

  I see children as kites. You spend a lifetime trying to get them off the ground. You run with them until you’re both breathless...they crash...you add a longer tail...they hit the rooftop...you pluck them out of the spout. You patch and comfort, adjust and teach. You watch them lifted by the wind and assure them that someday they’ll fly.

  Finally they are airborne, but they need more string so you keep letting it out. With each twist of the ball of twine there is a sadness that goes with the joy, because the kite becomes more distant, and somehow you know it won’t be long before that beautiful creature will snap the lifeline that bound you together and soar as it was meant to soar—free and alone.

  Only then do you know that you did your job.

  Summertime Blues—August 3, 1978

  “Summertime, and the livin’ is easy....”

  There are 35 unwashed glasses on the countertop by the sink. I don’t own 35 glasses.

  The front door has not been shut all the way since June 10.

  The water jug in the refrigerator has a piece of lettuce floating in it.

  The washer has a better pulse than I do.

  There are six cars in the driveway. None of them are ours. One of them runs.

  The phone rings constantly. It was for me once. A kid wanted to be picked up at the ballpark.

  I put baking soda in the refrigerator. Someone poured milk on it and ate it.

  I tried to take a shower by myself. A note slid under the door. It read, Can I split a Pepsi?

  There is a bucket, a volleyball and a stack of poker chips in the middle of the living room. It’s a new game.

  My husband says the house is always hot. Today, I discovered the furnace is on.

  A man selling real estate in Mexico knocked on our door and asked for Mr. Bruce Bombeck. Brucie is seven years old.

  The kids used limes to liven up their Coke. Limes are $1.49 a pound.

  They’re going to put a streetlight at the end of our driveway.

  I found a suitcase full of dirty sweaters under a bed.

  Someone ran through our house with black heel marks that are now permanently transferred to our yellow tile.

  My daughter said my sewing machine needle misses the hole and breaks off on the bobbin plate.

  Someone has been in the hall bathroom with the door locked for 15 days.

  The dog looks fat.

  I found an application for college in the stove drawer.

  Gym shoes that make you jump higher and make more basketball points just went up two bucks.

  “So hush, little baby, don’t you cry....”

  Local or Toll Call Girlfriend?—February 1, 1979

  A lot of mothers I know are downright meddling when it comes to their children’s selection of a boyfriend or a girlfriend.

  They want to know how old, how tall, what their father does, where they live, the scope of their education, what their plans are for the future, and how they feel about children.

  I don’t care about any of those things. All I want to know is, “Is he or she a local call or a toll?” I don’t remember names or faces of old flames. All I remember is their area code. One of my sons once dated an area code 513 for six months. It was marriage by Ma Bell. I figured we were spending $35 a month to share such insights as:

  “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing, what are you doing?”

  “I don’t want to interrupt you if you’re doing something.”

  “I told you I wasn’t doing anything.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “So, what’s new?”

  Another one of my kids showed an interest in a lovely girl who lived just a few miles from us. It was great. I didn’t have to worry about
a deep involvement because they were never off the phone.

  He set his alarm to call her in the morning. At night I used to go in and remove the phone from his ear as he slept. It was like hanging up an umbilical cord. As soon as they left each other at school in the afternoon they would shout, “I’ll call you when I get home!” I offered to feed him intravenously.

  The suggestion by my husband to put a timer by the phone with sand running through was ridiculous. However, I did slip a calendar under his door and circle the month.

  Panic didn’t set in until one day when I was standing near and saw him dial “1.” “Who are you calling?” I asked.

  “You know,” he said, “the same person I’ve been talking with for the last month.”

  “But I thought she was a local call.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “it only costs about eight cents a minute.

  Besides, this isn’t just some silly kid infatuation. This is a person I genuinely care for and want to spend the rest of my life with. She’s important to me. She’s special and there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that,” I said, “because according to the phone bill you owe us $36.86 in long-distance charges.”

  I learned something that day. When toll charges enter the room, love goes right out the window.

  Marching to a Different Drummer—November 3, 1979

  In 1955, I gave birth to a child who “marched to a different drummer.”

  I predicted then if he didn’t shape up, he’d goose-step his way right into the unemployment line or the boys’ industrial school.

  As a child he wandered away from home to see parades...got his arm caught in a construction pipe...and figured out if he coughed on his brother’s cupcake he got an extra dessert.

  He sold our canceled checks door to door, registered us for a free ham (and a visit from an encyclopedia salesman), made the first overseas phone call by direct dialing from a private home without directory assistance and made history by catching a broken leg at camp.