What happened over the next two hours remains a blur. I’m sure that like many victims of abuse, I have locked those painful memories of those painful two hours deep in my mind, deep in that painful memory-holding place. It would likely take years of expensive therapy or hypnosis to dig them out.
What I do remember is that for the remainder of the trip I pouted about my mistreatment. Their decision was unforgivable. Wasn’t I part of the family? How could they dump me like that without any hesitation? Would they do that at the next campground – leave me on the highway if young children aren’t allowed?
I was determined to not let it go. And I did not. I brought up the injustice of the Oregon Caves incident at any opportunity for the rest of the trip, for the weeks that followed, and really, for the remainder of my childhood. “That is an interesting rock, Daddy. I wonder if it looks like the rocks inside the Oregon Caves? I don’t know because, remember, I didn’t get to go inside.” “What Mother? I’m too young to see Jaws? Perhaps you
could drop me off at a day care center in another state while the rest of you go enjoy it.”
I harped on it so much that it became my family’s way of labeling every perceived injustice. Any time I mentioned feeling left out or perhaps complained about getting a smaller serving of dessert, my brothers and sisters would jump in with, “Oh, great, it’s the Oregon Caves all over again.”
Yes. Yes it is.
Even as an adult my siblings are quick to needle me about the Oregon Caves. Once, my eldest sister visited the site with her own family and jokingly sent back a photo booklet for me as a souvenir. Sure, make light of my pain. Wasn’t it enough that you didn’t let me be a flower girl in your wedding?
Recently, my husband took pity on me and volunteered to take me to the Caves, but I declined his kind offer. It would be too hard, I insisted. It would unleash too many horrible memories. Also, I would then be deprived of the juvenile satisfaction of lording the incident over my family to this very day.
Sadly, the Oregon Caves wasn’t the only painful memory from my childhood. Shockingly, there’s more.
One afternoon as a bored young teen, I began to entertain myself by searching through the upper cupboards in my house. I found all sorts of old black and white photos from my grandparents and old documents from when my dad was in the navy. It was fascinating. But then I happened upon a picture frame that was old, yet clearly never used. I took it out of its packaging and inspected it. It was a long rectangular shape with openings for four 5 x 7 photographs. Well, that seemed odd. I couldn’t imagine why it was bought and never put to use.
I showed it to my mother and asked, “What’s this?”
One thing became instantly clear; my mother would never be able to hide a crime because her emotions entirely transformed her face. She was the picture of guilt.
“Oh, um,” she stalled. “We bought that before we knew about you.”
It took me a few minutes to realize what she was saying. Then it hit me. I was the fifth child. They had bought this frame for their four children, thinking their family was complete. Turns out, I was an accident.
Well this trumped the Oregon Caves. Big time.
It also fueled my fire for months. “Can I join you all for dinner or is there only room for your planned children?” Or “Should the ‘accident’ walk home from school today?”
But what I found most unsettling was not the revelation itself, it was the fact that my mother had kept the picture frame. Why didn’t she donate it somewhere? Was it some sort of passive-aggressive way of letting me know the truth? Or did she think that maybe one of us kids might not survive childhood and later she would look like a genius when she told her friends, “Well luckily I had the foresight to keep this four-slotted picture frame!” What a gratifying reward for her thriftiness.
Though it has been difficult to relive these painful memories, hopefully by doing so I can let go of some of my resentment. Well, that’s not very likely, but perhaps by telling my story, I’ll help someone who has experienced a similarly painful childhood.
Like the celebrities who survived childhood trauma only to triumph later in life, my early suffering has made me the person I am today. And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe we all need to suffer a little.
Hey kids, pack your bags. We’re going on a road trip.
8 weeks, 6 days
My two new favorite words are “Summer School.”
It’s not something we do normally, but Chloe, my high school-aged daughter, insisted she needed to take an academic class during summer so she’ll be able to cram in six zillion other academic classes during the school year. This World History summer school class is in addition to her summer reading assignment of the 700-page Iliad for Honors English. What a fun summer for Chloe!
She’s doing all this because the high school counselors told her she needs to take honors classes to get into a decent college. But I don’t have the heart to tell her that we have no money to pay for that decent college. The last time I checked, the balance of her college fund was $432.
While Chloe is learning the entire history of the world in six weeks and Peyton is taking Cooking “Fun” and “Fun” with Science, Samantha will get her first taste of middle school by taking some “fun” classes there. Frankly, I think that she and her friends have been ready for middle school for quite some time. Somewhere around December, about eighty percent of the sixth grade girls had bra sizes bigger than mine.
Samantha’s elementary school held a sixth grade promotion ceremony during the last week of school. One of the parents put together a slide show. It started with shots of the kids on the first day of kindergarten and continued with photos from field trips, school plays, and also every day frolicking on the playground. The photo montage was set to a medley of heartstring- pulling music. As I watched the show with the other parents, I was surprised to hear the sound of sniffles. Then, embarrassing, audible sobs. Parents were crying all around me.
Honestly people, pull yourselves together. Your kids are going to another school down the street. Not off to war. What is wrong with you sentimental fools?
But then, I went home and it happened to me. As I retrieved some ice from the freezer, a newspaper clipping fell from the refrigerator door. It was a photo of Samantha and me at a school pizza fundraiser, both of us smiling, and sitting arm in arm. Suddenly I couldn’t get enough air.
I didn’t understand. Why was I upset? I didn’t remember feeling this way when Chloe was promoted to seventh grade. What was so different now? Was I worried about losing another kid to the wormhole of snotty answers and teenage sullen behavior? I wasn’t sure.
Then, I figured it out. When my first daughter started middle school I was excited to find out what would happen in this next chapter of her life. But what I learned with Chloe, and remember now, is that in that next chapter I’m a minor character, at best.
I Chat, You Chat
When I work late editing I feel awful about not seeing my kids before bed. Even worse, I can’t call home because it disturbs my co-workers. So instead I log on to instant messenger on my computer so I can talk to my kids at home and feel more connected. Normally it’s great because I can help them with homework or nag them to do something, but then other times they take advantage of my split focus, like this:
Samantha:
When are you coming home from work? It’s so late. Me:
Not for a couple more hours. Sorry. Samantha:
Oh. Did u say that I get my cell phone when Clara gets hers? Me:
No, I think YOU said that - we said you could have one before middle school. :)
Samantha:
But what if everybody already has a phone? :( :( Me:
I don’t want to discuss this when I’m at work. Samantha:
Even Charlotte’s 6-year-old sister Devon has one now. Me:
Devon Schmevin. Besides, her mom told me that her dad got it for her because of their divorce. Do you want Daddy and me to
get a divorce just so
you can have a cell phone? Samantha:
Um.
Me:
Not funny. Samantha:
But, everybody already has a cell phone. Me:
Well good, then you can borrow theirs. Samantha:
Seriously. EVERYONE has one. Me:
What if everybody had a machete? Samantha:
Why, what would happen?? Me:
We would all go around machete-ing each other - now what kind of world would that be, hmmm?
Samantha:
Phones don’t machete people. Me:
Okay, what if everybody had a tiger in their backyard – would you expect me to get you a tiger?
Samantha:
YES, we should get a tiger!!!!!!!! I love tigers! Answer my question!!!!!!!!!!!!
Me:
Okay - you can have a tiger. Samantha:
Daddy wants to talk to u. Here he is. Hey.
Me:
Hi.
Samantha:
Did you tell Samantha we could get a tiger? Me:
I thought it was better than a cell phone. Samantha:
Well, I think it’s time to give her a phone. I think that she is mature enough now.
Me:
Really? But we agreed to wait until before 7th grade. Samantha:
I already told her that it’s fine with me if she gets a phone and if we tell her she can’t now, she will be very sad.
Me:
THIS IS SAMANTHA STILL, ISN’T IT? Daddy would never say that!
Samantha:
No, it’s me, Daddy. Me:
You are one clever child. Samantha:
I am not a child!! That’s not a very nice thing to say about your husband.
Me:
My phone is ringing and it’s your dad’s cell phone number. You’re in so much trouble.
8 weeks, 3 days
The girls have turned up the torture this week by practicing unusual bird noises. “Ca ca! Ca ca!” they keep screaming in unison.
“Listen, I can do a quail! Mckracken, mckracken!”
“I wonder what an ostrich sounds like? Maybe, roooo- ehhh? Roooo-ehhh!’”
God help me.
Their summer school goes through July. It’s the only thing we have scheduled right now. Most of the kids around here have had their summers mapped out down to the hour way back in January. I’ve never been that organized. So when I talk to the other moms about summer plans I cover up my lack of preparation by acting indignant, “I refuse to over-schedule my kids because children need free time. Kids need to be kids.”
I like that I can take the moral high ground on this issue when really I’m just being cheap and lazy.
To add to my angst, my mom called this morning. “If you have any extra time maybe you could come by this week? I should have asked you about this when you were dealing with the cable bill, but I still need to get your dad’s death certificate over to the bank to get that account closed out. Maybe we could go out for lunch after? That would be nice. But I know you’re busy with the kids . . . and all the work that you’re doing.”
The subtext of this last comment: “And too busy for me.” “She has no respect for my work,” I tell Buddy the dog.
“Perhaps she doesn’t realize that you want to sell your children’s book so you can stop working long hours on TV shows and spend more time home with your kids?” Buddy suggests.
“You’re right. She doesn’t get that, does she?”
While normally Buddy has the voice of a simpleton, today I need Buddy to be more profound. More importantly, I
need him to be on my side. Last year I got this clever idea to write a children’s book. After all, I’ve read quite a few of them and so I figured, how hard could it be? Well, it turns out that a lot of people have thought the same thing. So I’m struggling to rewrite it. My mom knows this, but I can tell she doesn’t have much faith in the idea. Who can blame her? She and my dad paid for me to attend a graduate writing program after college and then upon graduation I landed a great job in show business
. . . as a receptionist.
“Your parents didn’t understand how hard it was for a young blonde woman to make it as a writer in Hollywood,” Buddy reminded me.
“That’s right, Buddy. It was hard. I faced a lot of discrimination.”
At least my kids are more enthusiastic. They make suggestions to try to make the book more marketable. My youngest thinks I should swap out all the elf characters with werewolves. You know, jump on that bandwagon. I’m actually considering the idea. But I can’t seem to justify why the werewolves would want to make toys for Santa. More likely they’d want to eat him.
But back to my mom - I get that she wants company and I sympathize with her loneliness, but my brothers and sisters and I all live nearby and we visit pretty regularly. In fact, I was just there with my kids for dinner this past Sunday. I think she feels like I should come over whenever my kids are in school, but I can’t always do that.
Then again, my dad died only two years ago and they were together for sixty. Of course she’s lonely and I’m a crappy daughter for begrudging her pain. I suck.
The rest of my morning is completely shot now. I can’t do anything constructive when I’m plagued by this guilt. I might as well have gone over there and visited her.
But now my youngest daughter is home from summer school and wants me to play that Headbangers game again. “It’s Hedbanz, Mommy.” Whatever.
I can’t play that game again; anything, but that game.
“Cats in the cradle, man,” my husband needles as he plays a game of his own on the computer. He says that phrase whenever I complain about doing little kid things. Yeah, you play it with her then.
The dog also wants a piece of me. He stands at the door and squeaks his damn donut toy, over and over again. “Sorry Buddy, not this time,” I say, now wearing a bright blue plastic strap around my head with a cartoon drawing of a turkey sandwich adhered to my brow.
Buddy dramatically drops his donut to the floor and releases a heavy moan. Then I distinctly hear him say, “You people suck.”
Buddy, You Complete Me
There are were few things more annoying than crazy dog people. They are often worse than new parents in their belief that their dog is more unique or intelligent than other dogs, or people for that matter.
I want to scream whenever I hear a crazy dog person talk about how they have to cook special doggie dinners, or how they had to hire a doggie acupuncturist or aromatherapist, or, most galling of all, that having a dog is as difficult as having children. Sure it is, crazy dog person. Why just this morning I left my children tied to their leashes outside with a bowl of water and a squeak toy while I went off to work to earn money for their college tuition.
However, Samantha’s first word was “dog,” an utterance that began her 10-year mission to get a furry beast into our home. After years of her relentless begging, we finally gave in. But being a sensible, levelheaded person, I announced that we would treat our new dog like a dog. I vowed I would never become a crazy dog person.
Then, like most people who make a vow, I quickly broke
it.
Because dogs are so darn cute and loveable and how
could I have ever lived without one?
In my defense, my transformation into crazy dog person wasn’t entirely my fault. It used to be, that when you wanted a dog, you went down to the pet store and you bought a dog. No questions asked. You potty trained the dog with newspaper swats to the behind, you left the dog outside howling when you had to, and you fed the dog good old-fashioned dog food from a can. The dog was loved and cared for . . . like a dog.
That all changed when pet stores were shunned for adding to the dog overpopulation problem and for being generally sort of awful. Now, we politically correct people are supposed to adopt or rescue a pooch from the pound.
So we did that. But the adorable yellow lab we brought home for a trial visit wanted to do nothing else but eat our cat, so we realized
that not any dog from the pound would do. We needed a mild-mannered and meek dog, one that wouldn’t object to being bullied by our surly cat. So we turned to dog rescue organizations where they presumably knew their dogs’ temperaments better.
After dealing with these rescue organizations, however, I’ve come to the conclusion that these groups are probably more rigorous in their screening than are human adoption agencies. They clearly know and love their dogs, but sometimes it seemed they loved them so much that they didn’t want anyone else to have them. Undeterred, we dove in and submitted to their lengthy screening process.
“Check why you want a dog: Is it for yourself? For your child? For home security?” Oh, this was a tricky one, but I would not be fooled. I knew that if I checked watchdog I would instantly be shown the door. The truth, that it was for my child, was probably also wrong in their eyes. “For self” I wisely checked.
“Are you willing to live with hair on your furniture, stains on your rugs, a warm body in your bed, and an animal that might be destructive at times?”
No. I am not willing to have any of these things. What were they suggesting? Are we not to discipline dogs anymore? I thought the new thing was being the Alpha dog of your house and making sure your hound knew you were in charge.
“Excluding death, what conditions might lead you to give up your animal? Please explain in detail. What arrangements will you make for your dog for after your own passing? What type of food will you serve your dog? Do you have a doggie door? If not, why? Do you have any personal references that can vouch for you as a capable dog owner?”
My head was spinning from trying to determine the “right” answers, but for weeks we played their game and completed an endless amount of questionnaires. Then, once through that hoop, we were allowed to meet the prospective dogs. We learned that each dog came with their own special set of instructions. Most dogs were not to be with children of any age - so much for getting a dog for your kid. Some dogs could never be left alone. The most unusual information card instructed, “Dog must have swimming pool.” Wow, and here I thought a dog would just be happy not to live in a rat-infested alley, digging for moldy food from a trash can. Boy, did he have a good agent.
Is That The Shirt You're Wearing Page 3