Forever, Erma

by Erma Bombeck

  Then one day, I think it was the spring of ’85, I dialed the machine and heard it say, “You have reached 555-4455. I promise I’ll return your call (God, I love integrity!). Got a little problem. The beep is broken, but if you’ll just count to five and leave your name and number, I’ll call you right back.”

  You’d have thought my son would have the decency to tell me the recorder was sick. I know him. He had probably abused it in some way, like dropping it from the stove or cutting off its current with its own cord. You know how kids are. They only think of themselves.

  I called the recorder yesterday—just to chat—when a voice said, “Yeah?”

  I said, “Who is this?”

  The voice said, “It’s your son.” It had been three years since I had heard his voice. “How’s it goin’? Are you there, Mom?”

  I told him I was waiting for the beep. He said I just caught him on his way out.

  I called the recorder a little later and we had a nice chat.

  Remembering Children’s Names and Ages—June 14, 1987

  One of the things they never tell you about child raising is that for the rest of your life, at the drop of a hat, you are expected to know your child’s name and how old he or she is.

  Usually, you are given no chance to count on your fingers, make a phone call or dig up a certificate. Out of the clear blue sky, someone will ask, “How old is what’s-his-name now?” and you’re expected to spit it right out.

  With the firstborn, it’s a piece of cake. Everything is significant about the firstborn. But for the children who follow, most parents have to associate the year of their birth with something of major significance. I remember our second child was born the same year we paid off the freezer, and the third one came along the year Sara Lee came out with carrot cake. Or maybe it was the year we put a window fan in the attic. I get a little fuzzy on that one.

  As far as I am concerned, their names are interchangeable. If I yell at the wrong one for something the other one is doing, they credit my account, and the next time they do something rotten, I blame their sibling for something they didn’t do. It beats going through three or four names before I get the right one.

  I suppose all of this belies the stereotype Hallmark mother, but give us a break. Mothers have to remember what foods each child likes or dislikes, who had roseola and mumps, which one is allergic to penicillin and hamster fur, who gets carsick, and who isn’t kidding when he stands outside the bathroom door and tells you what’s going to happen if he doesn’t get in right away. And if they all have the same color hair, they tend to run together.

  Middle names were always hard for me. Maybe if I used them more; but every time I enrolled the kids in a school, they were asked for the full name. To this day I cannot remember their confirmation names.

  One of my sons, who is...let us just say he is older today than he was 10 years ago, accuses me of telling the wrong stories on the wrong kid. I thought he was the one who said cute things that I used to submit to Reader’s Digest, but it turns out it was his brother. Whatever.

  The other night I said to one of them, “Your birthday is coming up. Just think, you’re going to be twenty-...eight!”

  “Nine,” he said.

  “Don’t use that tone with me,” I said.

  “Mom, I was there.”

  “What do you think I did, phone it in? Don’t you think I know how old my own child is?”

  When he left the room, I said to my husband, “What’s his name?”

  Kids Show Up for Dinner—July 19, 1990

  My husband said the other day, “We haven’t seen our kids in a while.”

  “You want to see your kids?” I asked. “I can arrange it.”

  “You’re not going to call and tell them we’re changing the will again, are you? We’ve overdone that one.”

  “No, no. At least one of them will be here tonight for dinner. Trust me.”

  Sure enough. At 6 P.M. we heard a key in the door and our son walked in. My husband was astounded.

  “How did you do that?” he asked.

  “It’s easy. I defrosted and cooked two thin pork chops for dinner.”

  That’s the way it’s been ever since they got their own apartments. I cook enough spaghetti to feed Sicily and no one shows. I nuke two small pieces of leftover pizza for dinner and they fly in from out of state.

  How do they know I’ve cooked for two? It’s one of the great mysteries of child raising. Kids were equipped with radar long before it went commercial. They knew when there were bananas hidden behind the popcorn popper in the pantry. They knew when there was a candy bar in the meat keeper in the refrigerator. It was not possible for a leftover piece of pie to survive a child in search of breakfast. When a dish rattled, they heard it, no matter where they were.

  When you think about it, mothers set themselves up for it. We dedicated our lives to feeding our kids. Nobody went hungry. I fed a cold; I fed a fever. If an infant cried, I stuffed a bottle in her mouth. If a child fell off a bicycle, I promised him ice cream.

  “You may not graduate? Have a piece of cake.”

  “Your car was totaled? Have you had lunch?”

  “You’re not overweight, you’re too thin. Eat!”

  We have created an image for ourselves of being able to feed a crowd on a pound of hamburger and bring forth food when the cupboards are bare. It has always been so. My grandmother would scurry when we pulled into the driveway. She’d open cans with one hand and set four more places at the table with the other. My mother did the same thing when five of us parked in front of the house at dinnertime.

  Now that I think about it—maybe they just wanted to see us.

  Parent-Child Bonding—January 13, 1991

  When my children were born, bonding hadn’t been invented yet. I was given a sedative just before the birth and didn’t wake up until each kid was about two or three years old.

  When my husband bought season tickets to the Phoenix Suns basketball games, we saw this as a time to bond with our children. With 40 home games to view, the combinations were without limit. He’d go with one son one night, and I’d go with my daughter the next home game. Then I’d go with another son, and he’d go with our daughter. This would be an opportunity to have social interaction with one another, find out how they felt about life, and form a covenant of feelings that sometimes get lost in the daily routine.

  At the end of the first quarter in a game with the Chicago Bulls, I turned to my daughter to tell her how close I felt to her when I saw her leaning over the seat in front.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “I lost an earring,” she said. “I think it fell down that man’s pants.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I said. “It’s like going out with Peg Bundy on Married with Children.”

  “Mom, I didn’t do it on purpose,” she said. “I’ll know for sure when he stands up.”

  The man stood up to cheer and got a strange look on his face.

  “Don’t call me Mom,” I whispered. “I don’t know you.”

  My husband’s experience wasn’t exactly spiritual either. One of our sons complained that the seats were so far up he felt rain. My husband told him we were lucky to get them.

  Right after the tip-off, he motioned to his dad to follow him to a closer section where there were vacant seats. His father said he couldn’t do that because it was dishonest. So they sat apart.

  When we tried to establish some kind of human relationship with our other son, we both had the same experience. He was like some wandering minstrel; he was never in his seat. If he wasn’t standing in a line to buy soft drinks and tacos, he was going to the rest room or hanging out with friends. Once when he got back during the fourth quarter, I leaned over and said, “Daddy and I are glad you were born.” He nodded silently and then asked, “Compared to what?”

  When new parents talk about bonding, it sounds so warm and fuzzy. Maybe it works only when one party can’t talk.

&n
bsp; When Grown Kids Come to Visit—December 20, 1995

  Have you heard about the minister who announced on Sunday that he was going to have a praise box for parishioners who would count their blessings and make a donation commensurate with their joy?

  The next Sunday, an elderly lady came to the altar and said, “My praise is my children, who will be here this week for Christmas.” She dropped a dollar in the collection box. The Sunday after that, she once again approached the altar and said, “Thank God they’re gone,” and dropped in $5.

  We all love our children. We anticipate their return home for weeks. It will be like old times.

  It is not like old times. We only think we are going to recapture the early years when they were children and we made the rules.

  I never anticipated that I would have to pick them up at the airport. I’ve mentioned how we met our son at the gate with banners and balloons the first time he arrived home. The next year, we circled the airport, and when we saw him, we slowed down so he could grab onto the antenna and thread himself and his luggage through the window.

  Last year, he called from a pay phone at the terminal and said, “Mom, who’s going to pick me up?” I said, “Who is this?” He said, “It’s your son.” I said, “I have no son.”

  I don’t know why I said that except I just lost it, thinking about going through the maze of Exit, Merge, Stay in Left Lane, Right Lane Must Turn Right, and Cars Left Unattended Will Be Towed Away.

  In earlier days, I was a mother who made her kids pick up their rooms, make their own snacks and put their laundry in the utility room. Now when they come home, I put the rules aside. I am like a concierge looking for a big tip. I follow them around asking, “Are you hungry? Can I get you something? Do you have laundry?”

  I eat when they want to eat, cook their favorite foods just before they tell me they are going out with friends and watch helplessly as they eat their way through a pound of baked ham at three in the afternoon.

  On their visit, my life changes. I have no car. My washer is set at extra-large load and has two socks and a T-shirt in it. The phone rings constantly and is never for me.

  At the end of their visits, we set aside a day, pack a lunch and head for the airport. It isn’t until I return home that I sense how orderly my life has become. I enjoy the quiet. The TV tuner is rescued from the clothes hamper and is returned to its place on the coffee table. The empty milk and juice cartons are removed from the refrigerator. The wet towels are put in the washer. The bathroom is returned to health standards.

  It is my world again. So why am I crying?

  Special People

  Grandma and Funerals—November 20, 1968

  IF I TALK OF my grandmother a lot it is because I spent a lot of time with her as a child.

  I came into Grandma’s life when she was going through her purple-hair syndrome. She was 55 (if you can believe a woman who lied on five birth certificates) but she felt and acted like 35.

  We went everywhere together. On Mondays we played euchre at the Eagle’s Hall; on Tuesdays we played euchre at the Knights of Columbus; on Wednesdays we went to a 50-50 dance; on Thursdays we ate in the dime store and went up and down Main Street making 50-cent payments on her credit purchases. And on Fridays we usually went to a funeral.

  Grandma had an amazing number of friends who conveniently dropped out of sight on Fridays. Most of them were old euchre players who were mourned as if they ran the ship of state.

  Grandma would always take the news of a death very hard with a gasp of, “My God! I don’t have a thing to wear.” Then we would run out and get a new hat, and we were off.

  I never got used to funeral-home conversation. It was rather limited. First, Grandma would ask how the deceased felt on the day she died. They always said she felt wonderful, which seemed to please everyone. Then Grandma would remark on the crowd and how she hadn’t seen so many people since the Turnip Festival at Haysburg.

  Slowly, she would make her way through the flowers and finally arrive at the coffin.

  “She looks just wonderful,” said Grandma.

  “You really think so?” asked the survivor.

  “I certainly do. Last winter I thought she looked a little peaked, but today her color is so good. And the hair style is flattering.”

  Actually, she looked quite dead and a little pale, but Grandma never seemed to notice.

  She would grasp the hand of the funeral director, pump it vigorously and say, “You’ve done a wonderful job. She looks so natural I half expect her to sit up and say hello.” (You would think this would have delighted the funeral director, but he always looked a little uneasy.)

  Then she would return to the survivor and smile. “I know this isn’t important to you now, but she got 18 baskets, five vases, a spray and a nosegay. There are 105 names in the register. For a woman of her age that’s quite a showing.”

  The relative would smile weakly while Grandma continued to compare her to last Friday’s funeral. By the time we left, Grandma had them thinking the deceased would recover.

  Outside in the fresh air I would ask Grandma, “Why do you keep saying how wonderful they look?”

  Grandma looked annoyed. “She’s got enough trouble dying. You want I should hurt her feelings by telling her she doesn’t look well?”

  Love Is a Grandparent—November 3, 1974

  A preschooler who lives down the street was curious about grandparents. It occurred to me that, to a child, grandparents appear like an apparition with no explanation, no job description and few credentials. They just seem to go with the territory.

  This column, then, is for the little folks who wonder what a grandparent is.

  A grandparent can always be counted on to buy all your cookies, flower seeds, all-purpose greeting cards, transparent tape, paring knives, peanut brittle and ten chances on a pony. (Also a box of taffy when they have dentures.)

  A grandparent helps you with the dishes when it is your night.

  A grandparent will sit through a Greek comedy for three hours to watch her grandson and wonder how Aristophanes has time to write plays when he is married to Jackie Onassis.

  A grandparent is the only baby-sitter who doesn’t charge more after midnight—or anything before midnight.

  A grandparent buys you gifts your mother says you don’t need.

  A grandparent arrives three hours early for your baptism, your graduation and your wedding because he or she wants a seat where he or she can see everything.

  A grandparent pretends he doesn’t know who you are on Halloween.

  A grandparent loves you from when you’re a bald baby to a bald father and all the hair in between.

  A grandparent will put a sweater on you when she is cold, feed you when she is hungry and put you to bed when she is tired.

  A grandparent will brag on you when you get a typing pin that 80 other girls got.

  A grandparent will frame a picture of your hand that you traced and put it in her Mediterranean living room.

  A grandparent will slip you money just before Mother’s Day.

  A grandparent will help you with your buttons, your zippers and your shoelaces and not be in any hurry for you to grow up.

  When you’re a baby, a grandparent will check to see if you are crying when you are sound asleep.

  When a grandchild says, “Grandma, how come you didn’t have any children?” a grandparent holds back the tears.

  The Volunteer—June 24, 1975

  I had a dream the other night that every volunteer in this country, disillusioned with the lack of compassion, had set sail for another country.

  As I stood smiling on the pier, I shouted, “Goodbye, creamed chicken. Goodbye, phone committees. So long, Disease-of-the-Month. No more saving old egg cartons. No more getting out the vote. Au revoir, playground duty, bake sales and three-hour meetings.”

  As the boat got smaller and they could no longer hear my shouts, I reflected, “Serves them right. A bunch of yes people. All they had to
do was to put their tongue firmly against the roof of their mouth and make an O sound. Nnnnnnooooooo. Nnnnnnooooooo. Nnoo. No! No! It would certainly have spared them a lot of grief. Oh, well, who needs them!”

  The hospital was quiet as I passed it. Rooms were void of books, flowers and voices. The children’s wing held no clowns, no laughter. The reception desk was vacant.

  The home for the aged was like a tomb. The blind listened for a voice that never came. The infirm were imprisoned by wheels on a chair that never moved. Food grew cold on trays that would never reach the mouths of the hungry.

  All the social agencies had closed their doors, unable to implement their programs of Scouting, recreation, drug control, Big Sisters, Big Brothers, YWCA, YMCA, the retarded, the crippled, the lonely and the abandoned.

  The health agencies had signs in the window: “Cures for cancer, muscular dystrophy, birth defects, multiple sclerosis, emphysema, sickle cell anemia, kidney disorders, heart diseases, etc., have been canceled due to lack of interest.”

  The schools were strangely quiet with no field trips and no volunteer aides on the playground or in the classrooms...as were the colleges, where scholarships and financial support were no more.

  The flowers on church altars withered and died. Children in day nurseries lifted their arms, but there was no one to hold them in love. Alcoholics cried out in despair, but no one answered, and the poor had no recourse for health care or legal aid.

  But the saddest part of the journey was the symphony hall, which was dark and would remain that way. So were the museums, which had been built and stocked by volunteers with the art treasures of our times.

  I fought in my sleep to regain a glimpse of the ship of volunteers just one more time. It was to be my last glimpse of civilization...as we were meant to be.