Aunt Erma's Cope Book (6 page)

bringing up parents the okay way

the TROUBLE with my kids is they had read too many books on Parent Psychology. They thought they knew all the answers, but the truth is they didn't know me at all.

They corrected my grammar in front of my friends, told me my clothes were too young for me, bugged me about my short hair, and never tried to relate to my problems.

God knows, I had problems. I wasn't popular and wasn't with the “in” group. The in group in my neighborhood were women my age who had reentered the job scene. Every morning, I watched them from my window as they swung to their cars dressed in contemporary clothes and teetering in five-inch heels to their day in carpetland.

From my vantage point, I could only fantasize how they answered phones that weren't sticky, had lunch in a place with live plants, and talked to people who didn't respond with the same two words, “far out.”

The high spot in my week was being invited to a luncheon style show where I pilfered five or six sample vials of perfume that lasted five or six minutes before the alcohol burned off.

The friends I liked my children weren't crazy about. They didn't like Yvonne, who was divorced and dated their former orthodontist, because they thought she was a bad influence on me.

They didn't like Gloria, who always came over at dinnertime and hung around while we ate, because she never seemed to have a home of her own.

And they didn't like Judy, who never cleaned her house and schlepped around in grubby clothes and greasy hair. (They said they had NEVER seen her cleaned up and she set a bad example for me.)

Sometimes I didn't know what the kids expected from me. When I needed them, they were never home.

When they were home they drove me crazy trying out their latest in parent-psychology techniques. I could always tell when they had a new theory they were trying out. I had their undivided attention.

They tried every new theory to come down the pike—active listening, effectiveness training, and transactional analysis.

I wasn't surprised to find the manual Mrs. Lutz mentioned, Bringing Up Parents the Okay Way, in a stack of magazines in the bathroom.

On the cover was a picture of a teenager with an insincere smile. He had put down his paper to give his attention to his mother, who was showing him something she had just read in a book.

I leafed quickly through a chapter called “How to Say No to Your Parents.” I knew how. I just didn't know why. Then my eyes caught a heading called “The Middle-Parent Syndrome. What is your position in the Family?”

That was it. I was a middle parent. No wonder I was weird. I was neither the oldest nor the youngest. I was wedged in the twilight zone where no one ever does anything for the first time, says anything original, wears anything new, or is cute.

My position in the family car bore this out. When I was first married I snuggled up against my husband so close he looked like he was driving alone. When the first baby came, I moved all the way over to the door so the baby could sit between us. With the second child, I hung over the back seat and arrived everywhere fanny first so I could make sure they hadn't fallen on the floor.

With the third child, I lost my front seat and became a part of the back seat so that each child could have his own window.

When car pools became a part of my life, I was returned to the front seat, but as a steady driver. No one ever talked to me or for that matter acknowledged I was there.

When the kids began to drive, I was once more shuffled to the passenger side of the car.

Lately, I had been delegated once again to the back seat when I got a seat at all. I was on to something and I knew it as I feverishly thumbed my way to a chapter on “Growing Up.” It said when we can stand alone without leaning on our children, we have indeed reached the age of independence.

It was confusing. I didn't know what I wanted. There were times when I wanted to be alone. Like when my friends dropped in. I remember one day Yvonne came by to tell me about Elaine's hysterectomy and before she could go into derail, my youngest parked himself between our coffee cups and observed, “Dogs get fat after their operation. I hope poor Elaine can hold her own.”

There were other times when I wanted to be needed and leaned on.

I slammed the book shut. This particular day was definitely not one of those days. There were thirty-five unwashed glasses on the countertop by the sink. I didn't own thirty-five glasses.

The front door had not been shut all the way in two years. There were six cars in the driveway. One of them ran.

The baking soda I had put in the refrigerator to keep odors down was half eaten.

There were black heelmarks on the oven door. The dog looked fat.

I wanted to say good-bye to pure, organic, honey-herbal scented shampoo that cost a dollar fifty an ounce and was at this moment on its side with the cap off running down the drain.

Good-bye to Linda Ronstadt and Billy Joel. Goodbye to porch lights that had to be replaced every six weeks. Good-bye mildewed towels and empty ice-cube trays and labels that read HAND WASH ONLY. Good-bye to lunch meat that dried out and curled up because no one rewrapped it.

All my friends had shed the dependency of their children and were on cruises. I know because there wasn't a day one of them didn't write me.

I was still sorting socks, skimming crumbs off the top of the water jug in the refrigerator, and every Mother's Day feigning ecstasy over a cheese shredder.

One day as my older son was looking for his glasses so he could find my purse and the other one was rearranging the dials on my car radio to a rock station, I knew what I had to do.

I took him aside and said, “You know, as a child who didn't plan for parents, you've done a pretty good job. I know I've goofed up a lot . . .”

“If it's about the cashmere sweater that shrunk, forget it,” he said.

“No, it's just that we can't seem to communicate any more. We always end up shouting.”

“Mom,” he said. “These are the best years of your life.”

I started to cry. “Kids are always saying that. The point of this conversation is why can't you accept me and not my behavior? Why do I have to be perfect? I never seem to be doing what every other mother is doing at the same time she is doing it. The time has come for me to break away and be the person I was meant to be. I think you should move out and get your own apartment.”

I left him mumbling “Where have I failed?”

The next night when Gloria padded in at dinnertime and took her chair, I told her of my ultimatum.

“You're a credit to parents everywhere,” she said. “I hope you're covered by Teenage Apartment Insurance.”

“What's that?”

“It's a new policy for parents of young people who leave to get their own apartments. The premiums are expensive, but they cover loss of furniture up to five thousand dollars, damages to cars hauling away contents of house and restocking of the refrigerator.”

“You're kidding.”

“And you've got a short memory,” she said. “Remember how it was when your daughter went to school? You both rattled around in here without so much as a stick of furniture. The only thing she left was an echo.”

My son must have known my fears, for a couple of weeks later when he said, “I've found an apartment,” he added quickly, “Don't worry. It's furnished.”

My relief lasted only until we looked at it. I've seen recovery rooms with more furniture.

“Do you need a skillet?”

“What for?” he chirped. “I'm only going to be eating one meal a day at home.”

Somehow he instinctively knew the roast beef nights at home and came in like he was on radar. Occasionally on these nights he'd yell from another room, “Do you want this?”

“What is it?”

“The TV set.”

“Of course we want it.”

“You can have the green lamp back for it.”

“This isn't a park-'n-swap.”

Eventually he had it all . . . the afghans my mother had made, the dishes he borrowed for a party and never returned, the typewriter, the window fan, the big pot for spaghetti, the beach towels, the four-wheel drive, and the bicycle that “is just sitting there and someone will steal it and you'll never see it again.”

What really hurt was we hadn't a dime's worth of Teenage Apartment Insurance to ease the loss.

Things eased up a little after he left, with only one child in high school, but it wasn't like having our own apartment.

Gloria was with me the afternoon he became disgusted with me for not having gas in my car which he was borrowing.

“Why do you take all of that?” asked Gloria.

“It's easier than arguing. Besides, he wouldn't yell at me if he didn't love me.”

“Haven't you ever heard of assertiveness?”

“Of course I've heard of assertiveness. Are you saying I'm not?”

“I'm saying if you are, you could sure use a lot more of it. Your trouble is you don't know how to say no and do you know why?”

I shook my head no and hated me for doing it.

“It's because you're very insecure about yourself. You want to be loved and you don't want to take a chance on alienating people.”

“You're wrong,” I laughed.

“Okay, I want you to do something for me. I want you to go into the family room and announce This is my house. I am my own person. I am going to be more assertive.'”

I thought about it a second, then decided to call Gloria's bluff. I went to the living room where my husband and son were watching television.

“This is my house. I am my own person and I'm going to be more assertive.”

My husband looked up. “I can't read lips. What are you mumbling about? Speak up!”

I cleared my throat and started again. “This is my house. I am my own person and I'm going to be more assertive.”

“Son,” said my husband irritably, “turn that sound down. Your mother is trying to say something. And hurry up. State is about to score.”

“This is my house. I am my own person and I'm going to be more assertive ... if it's okay with you.”

go suck an egg

I CALLED it the E. F. Hutton Syndrome.

There wasn't a morning my husband did not sit at the table and read the entire newspaper out loud to me. When he read, everyone within a ninety-mile radius was supposed to stop what they were doing and listen.

He read me the editorials, the weather in Sharon, Pa., what Dear Abby said to the woman whose husband dressed in'the closet, the sports scores, why South bid seven hearts, and what Lucy said to Charlie Brown. (For no apparent reason, he made Lucy sound like Butterfly McQueen.)

The assumption was obvious. I could not read a newspaper by myself.

One day he started to read me a story of a dog who had found its way home after being lost for five years.

“Listen to this,” he said. “A springer spaniel in Butte, Montana . . .”

“I read it already,” I said.

“. . . found its way home after five years when the family vacationed in . . .”

“The Everglades and was lost,” I interrupted. It was like talking to a ballpoint pen.

“During his absence,” he continued, “he served two years in the Army with distinction, saved a child from drowning and ...”

“Made a drug bust in Negates.”

He looked up. “Did you know the dog?”

“I told you. I read it already.”

“Well, why didn't you say so?”

My fantasy was one day to reach over with a pair of scissors and clip out the story he was reading, peek through the hole in the paper, and announce “I got my library card today.”

Assertiveness had never been easy for me. In fact, I still wasn't convinced it wasn't congenital. You were either born with it . . .or you weren't.

Whenever a salesperson tried to follow me into the fitting room, I always wanted to turn to her and say, “The last person who saw me in a pleated skirt went blind.”

But I never did.

I always wanted to turn to my hairdresser and say, “If I wanted hair the consistency and style of a steel helmet, I would have been a Viking.”

But I never did.

But most of all, I wanted to turn to Mildred Harkshorn one day and say, “Mildred, I've had it with you and your super kids who do everything first and better than anyone else. Do you know that I just read where there is a strong correlation between overachievers and the presence of venereal disease in the mother at birth?”

But I never did.

Mildred was a neighbor who had lived through the hedge from me for the past fifteen years with her husband, Leland, and their two children, Dwight David and Miracle. Miracle was a girl. Both could have been poster children for celibacy.

I liked Mildred. I really did. Our children had grown up together, but her kids had arrived late in her life and she somehow felt that since she took so long she couldn't settle for anything less than perfection.

They were born with capped teeth, snooze alarms, and a dry wish.

That set the pace for their entire lives. They were toilet-trained at nine months. Every time I misted my plants, mine lost control. They were weaned off the bottle at one year. Mine went through a dozen nipples a week— shredded by teeth marks.

Dwight David and Miracle received awards for music festival, cheerleading, football, scholarships, and science fair.

Mine got a free ticket for a hamburger and a malt for bringing in fifty pounds of paper for the drive.

I couldn't get out of the school parking lot without Mildred tapping on the window and gushing, “I suppose your son told you about those awful SAT tests?”

My son had never spoken a complete sentence to me.

“I told Dwight David if he blew it he couldn't be captain of the baseball team. I don't care if he was elected unanimously by his teammates. His studies come first ... by the way, did your son go out for baseball?”

My son wouldn't go out for the garbage unless we wrote him a check.

You have to be intimidated by a mother whose children never lied, never talked with food in their mouths, and wrote thank-you notes for a drink out of the garden hose when they played at your house.

If I were ever to become assertive, in my heart, I knew it had to begin with Mildred. She was at her mailbox one day when she yelled, “Hi there. How's your daughter doing at college?”

I smiled and walked over toward her. “Fine.”

“What's that amusing name they call her again?”

“Suds.”

“Here's another letter from Miracle,” she said. “We're so close, you know. She writes me every day. Of course, I suppose your daughter does too.”

“She probably dropped her Bible on her foot and can't get to the post office as often as she would like,” I said.

“Maybe so,” she smiled. “Some young people just simply don't feel a need for family. They view going away to school as an opportunity to break off all family ties and build an entirely new life for themselves.”

I had fallen into her trap again and couldn't bring myself to talk back. What was wrong with me? Why couldn't I say what I felt?

As I walked back toward the house, I saw Helen coming home from work. “Hello there,” she yelled. “Hear from your college child today?”

I would not get caught again. “Oh yes,” I lied. “She writes every day.”

“Is she still so dependent?” asked Helen, shaking her head. “Don't worry. She'll mature after a while and become adjusted. It just takes time for her to be her own person and not a mama's girl.”

I couldn't win.

No matter what my children did, it was wrong. How come my kids were forgetful and everyone else's were “preoccupied”? Mine were fat, but other people's children were “healthy”? If mine were weirdos, theirs were “nonconformists.” If mine were lazy, others were “deep thinkers.” Mine flunked out, but other children were “victims of a poor teacher.”

One night I was watching the Carson show when my husband told me I was sleepy and should go to bed or I'd be crabby in the morning. He turned out the light.

As I sat there wide-eyed in the semi-darkness watching the tube, Johnny introduced Dr. Eduardo Emitz, who had just authored a book called Go Suck an Egg.

There was no doubt in my mind that he was talking directly to me. He said being assertive isn't a luxury, it's our inalienable right. We don't have to feel guilty about it. We don't have to justify it. We don't even have to give a reason for it. Just do it.

He said there was no need to get emotional or hostile about stating your own mind. A simple way to get started was to make a list of things that bothered you and decide first how you were going to handle them. He promised you'd be your own person in no time.

I turned on the light and began to make a list of things that had to change:

I will no longer sit at the breakfast table and have the paper read out loud to me.

Smokers who blow smoke in my face will learn firsthand (within minutes actually) how injurious smoking can be to their health.

I will openly yawn in front of the next person who makes me a sexual confidante.

I will no longer hang on the phone waiting for Lynda to go back and applaud her son's BM's.

I will not collect from door to door for any disease I cannot pronounce.

I will not be upset by my mother-in-law when she calls me by my maiden name.

When I return something to the department store after Christmas, I will no longer wear black and tell them the recipient died.

When summoned to school I am going to assume my child is innocent until proven guilty.

Like Dr. Emitz said, you had to build up to asser-tiveness. It wasn't something you did in a day; you had to take one day at a time.

I started that night when we went to a restaurant to eat. As usual, I ordered my steak well done. When they brought it to the table, I thought I detected a heartbeat.

At first I toyed with the idea of pretending it was ham, but gently I put my fork down and said, “Please takel this back and cook it a little longer.”

“It won't be fit to eat,” grumbled the waiter.

“In that case, I won't eat it,” I said firmly.

Assertiveness felt good and the more I did it, the better I felt.

I demanded my butcher take the meat out from under the pink light and show me his prime rump in the daylight.

When Mayva pinned me down as to how I liked her new blow-'n-go hair style, I told her they didn't blow it far enough.

It was several weeks later when Mildred called to tell me how Dwight David found a flaw in his teacher's theory of relativity and publicly humiliated him in front of fifty students. I started to speak, but couldn't.

“You would think a twenty-year-old boy couldn't be smarter than a big-shot college professor with all those degrees, now wouldn't you? I swear I don't know where that boy gets it from.”

“Mildred,” I said, clearing my throat.

“Do you remember how excited you were when your son passed his eye examination?”

“MILDRED!” I shouted. “Do you know I've just read in a magazine where there is a strong correlation between overachievers and the presence of venereal disease in the mother at birth?”

I rarely saw Mildred after that. When I did she was always preoccupied and didn't notice me or remembered something she had to do and turned the other way. As a matter of fact, the more assertive I became, the less I saw of anyone, including my mother—whom I threatened with a tongue transplant from Rona Barren if she didn't stop relating to the children all my past sins.

What the heck. At least I liked myself for my honesty. I had finally learned how to be a good friend to myself. When I thought about it, I was my ONLY friend.

I took me everywhere. To the movies. The zoo. Long rides in the country. I dined with me over intimate dinners and turned my head with flowers and candy. I knew I was getting too involved with me, but I couldn't seem to stop myself. We got along wonderfully. I knew when to talk to me and when to shut up. I knew when I was in a bad mood and when I wanted to be alone with just me.

I praised me when I did a good job and spoiled me outrageously. There wasn't anything I could deny myself because I was such a wonderful person. If anyone had a snout-full of self-esteem, it was me. People were beginning to talk and spread rumors about my extramarital affair with myself, but I didn't care. What I felt for me was genuine. (I think I even told me I wanted to have my baby.)

I had been my best friend for about four months when I began to notice little things about me that I had never noticed before. When I laughed, I snorted like a motor that had just turned over in a 1936 Chevy. At night in bed, I drove myself crazy flipping over the pillow looking for a “cool” side. When I argued, I smiled. Do you know how disgusting it is to argue with someone who smiles?

Not only that, some of my old habits of weakness were reappearing. Just a few days before I had let someone get in front of me in the express lane with a dozen items and said nothing. I hadn't really taken charge of my own life, I had only enjoyed a temporary attack of independence. I told me if I really loved me I could do anything I wanted. Every evening before going to bed, I did as Doctor Emitz had suggested. I stood in front of the mirror and said “I love you,” to which my husband would always yell, “You say that now, but will you respect you in the morning?”

One morning when I asked me for a cup of coffee and answered, “Go get it yourself!” Mayva appeared and said, “Are you talking to yourself again?”

“What do you mean again?”

“You've been doing it for months now. You don't go out any more or have anyone in. You have no friends and no one calls. You just go around here mumbling 'I'm okay. I'm not too sure about the rest of you,' and there's no one here.”

“Mayva,” I sighed, “in these past months I have found out so many things about myself. Through self-analysis and psychological groping, I have discovered that I am basically a boring person.” She tried to interrupt. “I mean it. The other night I was telling me an amusing story that I have laughed at a hundred times and right in the middle of it, I interrupted me and said, 'What's on TV?'”

Mayva put her hand over mine. “Anyone gets bored with herself if she thinks about herself all the time. It's called the 'Me-too-me-first Syndrome.' Don't you understand? Looking out for yourself is yesterday's leftovers. It used to be in, but now it's out. No one does that any more. Today the key word is commitment. Look around you. Everyone is into causes. Sometimes when you're out, just listen to people. They have goals . . . purpose . . . principles . . . something they believe in and are fighting for. The word today is involvement.”

“You're kidding,” I said. “You'd have thought I would have told me if things were changing.”

“You've been so isolated,” said Mayva, “you probably didn't know it. You've got to get out of this house again and start living . . . see people, go places, do things. Look, if your best friend won't tell you, I will. You're self-centered and shallow.”

I looked in the mirror at my best friend for the past few months and waited for her to say something.

The truth hit me. I didn't love me that much!