True Grit

One of the first things I discovered upon becoming a mother was that there was a notable and disappointing absence of a parenting roadmap. Not even my GPS, that can expertly detect all grocery stores in a thirty mile radius, can navigate me down this path. Nobody can really tell you what parenting is going to be like - no accumulation of horror stories, advice or guidance offered by any pro-moms out there can give you any perspective on parenthood any more true, relatable or relevant to you than it would be to impart to someone who has never tasted alcohol that Grappa tastes like burning. My only solid resource has been to reflect on my own parents - to take what worked for them and apply it to my life, my own 'motherliness' and to learn from the scattered mistakes of our past. Yes, Mum and Dad, I love you terribly - but nobody's perfect. And I have a pretty good handle on parental imperfections. Case in point: When C was four months old I was intent on sanitizing anything that had the remote possibility of coming in contact with his body. So one night, in a sleep deprived stupor, I sanitized a slew of his toys using our microwave bottle sanitizer. Just so happened that one of those toys had a plastic face. And metal parts. That started a FIRE IN THE MICROWAVE. Goes to show you that even the best of intentions can burn your house down. Our house stank like plastic death for weeks.

 

Over the past twenty some months I've found myself unwittingly recycling Mom-isms from my own childhood. It's funny - especially since I spent the better part of my adolescence thinking I knew better. I didn't. And although I live a hundred light years away from my dear Mum and Dad - I know that there is still a bedroom made up of all the trappings of my highschool years. I know there's always a ready ear on the end of the phone. There is always a strong shoulder to lean on and a convincing sentiment that I am strong enough to survive anything. And that whatever my current tribulation is - that it too will pass. Strength is something that my parents have always had - in spades. I just wish that they didn't have such frequent occassions to exercise that fortitude.

 

I won't divulge too much about current circumstances. Suffice it to say that both of my parents are unquestionably tough - and are no strangers to sickness. I started this blog going down a bit of a dark path - because, honestly, the path has lost much of it's light recently. But - upon further consideration - I thought it might be a better excercise to revisit some of the funnier, sunnier and sweeter memories I have of my parents in brighter days past. Because I retain faith that those days will return - that the way won't be quite so deep and dark to walk - and that we'll all be retelling these stories, and more, years and years from now. Where baby C will appreciate them. And be part of them (and be rightfully embarrased by his old fogey parents, and Nana and Granda. Because every kid deserves to be mortified by his elders as a defining right of passage).

 

So here's a sampling of the memories that I carry with me in my pocket - things that give me a smile and a laugh on days like this where the silver linings are running thin:

 

1. When I was in college I traveled from NYC to Jersey to watch my Dad coach his softball team in a multi-state showcase tournament. While there I came down with some kind of killer virus which confined me to my hotel room in a pile of sheets, tissues and self-pity. My Dad insisted that he go to the nearest pharmacy to get me something to help me feel better - when he returned, he handed me a box of children's cough syrup. I looked up at him skeptically. He looked at me, beaming with parental pride, and told me "I remembered you like the one with the purple bear on the box."

 

2. When I was six or seven my parents and I were staying in a cottage on a remote lake when my Mom came down with a hideous pain in her side. We rushed her to the nearest "hospital" (I put hospital in quotes because I think it was a triage center attached to a Piggly Wiggly) at least seventy five miles from the nearest town where a medical degree was not bestowed by a prize won in cereal box or community center raffle. We were informed that Mom had to have her gullbladder removed. As she lay there in bed, I contemplated the impending surgery. "Mom? Are they going to put you to sleep?" My Mom, despite all the pain, collapsed into a fit of laughter. Wiping a tear from his eye my Dad managed to tell me that, no, they weren't going to euthenize Mom like they did Hammy, my pet Hamster.

 

3. Speaking of Hammy: I was about five when my beloved hamster fell ill. My father and I rushed him to the nearest vet. After examining him, the vet emerged from the back room and knelt down to my eye level. He laid a hand on my shoulder and sighed heavily. "I'm sorry, but we're going to have to put Hammy to sleep." I considered this. After a moment I looked up at the vet with big eyes and asked "When is he going to wake up?" My Dad explained that at that moment his heart swelled to the size of a bloated watermelon. My Mom is lucky that Dad didn't immediately run to the pet store and bring home twelve hamsters. We only got one. Hammy II.

 

4. As part of my first Communion each child in my first grade class had to speak with the Priest of our church and confess all of their sins. I have no recollection of this event. But my parents do. The way they re-tell it, when it was my time to confess, I happily obliged and skipped off in my pretty and pure white dress to meet the Priest. As the church was under construction at the time they sat us behind a makeshift partition about five feet tall and sitting about a foot above the floor. We were perched on plastic bucket seats where I sat there, kicking my feet back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth.....and back and forth...my parents watched this intently while the rest of the parents waitedin line with their children. While most kids were in there for a minute or two I had been in there for A HALF AN HOUR!  The longer I was there the more humiliated my parents became - wondering what in the world I would have done that was so evil, so wicked as to merit A HALF AN HOUR of confessing with the Priest. After nothing short of an uncomfortable eternity I emerged from behind the partition, raised my arms wide and declared in my loudest voice so everyone could hear "I AM FREE OF SIN!!!!!"  My parents haven't trusted me since - and it explains why they hired that exorcist.

 

5. G and I have made it a bit of a tradition to 'cottage' with my folks every now and then. My father has always gone to great lengths to use the deep dark wilderness and his status as an ecsentric father-in-law to scare the be-jesus out of my husband at every well placed opportunity. My favorite incident happened after G and I had been dating for a few years (otherwise, he would have been jusitifed in running for the hills). My Dad and I arrived at the cottage we'd rented a few hours before G and noticed something odd lying in the field adjacent to the house. It was a paint ball dummy that, dressed in cargo pants, red stained t-shirt and blue bandana, appeared so real that we actually had to hover over it in the tall grass for a while to ensure ourselves that he was, in fact, made of plastic.  When G arrived some time later my father took great pains in relaying a grave story to us both about how the owner of the cottage had called and asked us to "keep an eye out for his teenage son who was apparently depressed and had run away from home several days before" (morbid, right?) So, sure enough, later that evening Dad is standing at the kitchen window surveying the field when he says "Hey, do you guys see that?" G approached the window and, though the blowing grass, spied what looked like a very, very convincing body laid strewn across the dirt. The three of us set out to investigate - G with a shovel in hand and my father with a video camera (why oh why my husband didn't think to question why we wanted to memorex this moment I have no idea). We're within ten feet of the dummy now and G is holding me back with his free arm (you know, the one not wielding a garden shovel). He insisted I stay back (clearly this was only safe for then men-folk). So I watched with perverse amusement as the two of them inched up on the dummy. I watched as G raised the shovel over his head, muscles flexed and ready to strike. And I watched as he leaned in closer, perplexed, eyeing the unmoving body until he mustered the courage to extend his foot out to tap it and...

"AAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHhhhhh!!!!"

At the sound of the bellowing shout G jumped about five feet in the air before falling into a four letter fueled rant about our prank. Was it juvenile? Sure. Was it more than a little bit sick? Definitely. But I think that was the moment my parents truly fell in love with G. Because they had watched him shield me from "danger". And because he was the kind of guy that was willing to such lengths to protect me that he would beat an already dead guy to death with a shovel. :)

Sure, my family is a little bit nuts. But whose family isn't? And besides that - sometimes it's the crazy moments that reveal just how much you love someone, and how much you're loved. I don't wish a complicated life on anyone - or a life that demands constant strength or perserverence. But what I will say is that through the complications my mother and father have taught me how to be strong and how to assume a position that demands the greatest degree of courage and grit. They have taught me how to be a mother.