Motherhood, The Second OldestProfession (12 page)

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

I cannot possibly improve or add

anything to this anonymous letter

received in May, 1982, from a mother

in upstate New York.

She belongs in this book.

Anonymous

Dear Erma:

You feel like my best friend. The only thing that surprised, me -was to find out that I am taller than you.

Anyway, I have something I want to talk to you about. There is no solution to this. I just want to let you know we exist, we are human too and we hurt with the helplessness I can't begin to describe.

I belong to a group of people that doesn't even know it's a group. We have no organization, no meetings, no spokespersons, we don't even know each other. Each of us, as individuals, are way in the back of the closet with the rats and cockroaches. We may not even be any different from our neighbors. We look the same, talk and act the same, yet when people know our secret, they shun us as lepers.

We are the parents of criminals. We too love our children. We too tried to bring them up the best way we knew how. There is small solace in reading of a movie star or politician's kid being arrested. It helps but little to realize that our pain is not confined to the poor. (Although studies have shown that a rich kid is more likely to be sent home with a reprimand from the police, where a poor kid will wind up in jail.)

We are the visitors. Mother's Day, Christmas, our kids cannot come to us, so we go to them. For some of us, the hurt is so unbearable, we cut out the cause—we give up on them. Some parents don't visit, don't write, don't acknowledge the living human being they bore.

I have not yet given up on my son, though the court has. I still cry, and plead, and encourage and pray. And I still love him.

I search my memory. Where did I fail him? My son was planned, wanted, and was exactly the all-around kid I had hoped for. I spent lots of time with him, reading stories, going for walks, playing catch, teaching him to fly a kite. We went to church together every Sunday since he was 4. He did all right in school and his teachers liked him. He had lots of friends, and they were always playing ball or going fishing, all the regular kid things. He was on Little League. I went to every game. He won a trophy for All-Stars. He was just a regular kid.

That's only one. Mine. There are thousands of them. Criminals with ordinary childhoods. We, their parents, trying to live ordinary lives. And maybe being ostracized by family members and certainly by society. (“Maybe it's contagious!”)

Tomorrow is Mother's Day. My son is running from the police. I didn't do it, I don't condone it, nor try to Justify what he did. But I still love him, and it hurts.

I hope you can find room in your heart to accept us, who love the children society hates.

I'm sure you understand why I just cannot put my name. Thanks for letting me get it off my chest.

“Mom”

And I know you know that this is not a made-up letter. I'm real. I wish I weren't. Happy Mother's Day.

“Don't You Dare Bleed on Mom's Breakfast”

A lot of things have been done in bed in the name of love . . . but nothing comes close to the traditional Mother's Day breakfast in bed.

On this day, all over the country, mothers are pushed back into their pillows, their bird of paradise (which blooms every other year for fifteen minutes) is snipped and put in a shot glass, and a strange assortment of food comes out of a kitchen destined to take the sight out of a good eye.

A mixer whirs out of control, then stops abruptly as a voice cries, “I'm telling.”

A dog barks and another voice says, “Get his paws out of there. Mom has to eat that!”

Minutes pass and finally, “Dad! Where's the chili sauce?”

Then, “Don't you dare bleed on Mom's breakfast.”

The rest is a blur of banging doors, running water, rapid footsteps and finally, “You started the fire; you put it out!”

The breakfast is fairly standard: A water tumbler of juice, five pieces of black bacon that snap in half when you breathe on them, a mound of eggs that would feed a Marine division, and four pieces of cold toast. They line up on the bed to watch you eat and from time to time ask why you're not drinking your Kool-Aid or touching the cantaloupe with black olives on top spelling out m-o-m.

Later that night, after you have decided it's easier to move to a new house than clean the kitchen, you return to your bed, where you encounter beneath the blanket either (a) a black jelly bean, (b) a plantar's wart, or (c) a black olive that put the o in m-o-m.

And if you're wise, you'll reflect on this day. For the first time, your children gave instead of received. They offered up to you the sincerest form of/flattery—trying to emulate what you would do for them. They gave you one of the greatest gifts people can give: themselves.

There will be other Mother's Days and a parade of gifts that will astound and amaze you, but not one of them will ever measure up to the sound of your children in the kitchen on Mother's Day whispering, “Don't you dare bleed on Mom's breakfast.”

'Is Anyone Home?'

In 1981, Miriam Volhouse was the only full-time, stay-at-home mother in her block. She was also named in the school records of seventeen kids who listed her under IN CASE OF EMERGENCY CALL . . .

Occasionally Miriam was tempted to join her friends in an outside job, but she resisted because she considered herself a conscientious mother and “rapping” with one's children was important.

Each evening when Miriam heard a door slam, she'd yell, “Mark, is that you?”

“What do you want? Buzz is waiting. We're going to shoot baskets.”

“Can't we just sit and have a conversation?”

“I gotta go,” he'd say.

Miriam would pour two glasses of milk and put cookies on a plate and grope her way through the dark living room. “You in here, Ben?”

“Shhhhh.”

“So, what kind of a day,did you have? I'll bet there are a lot of fun things you'd like to share. I tried a new recipe today and ...”

“Mom! Give me a break. I'm watching ‘M*A*S*H!' ”

When another door slammed, Miriam would race feverishly in time to see Wendy writing a note, “Don't wait dinner. Choir practice.”

“Wendy, I want you to know I'm here if you want to rap about anything . . . like I want to know how you feel about life.”

“I'm for it,” she said, pulling on her coat, and then added, “Mom, you've got to get something to do. You can't lean on your kids all the time for companionship.”

As Miriam drank both glasses of milk and ate the plateful of cookies, she felt rejected. No one was ever home when she was. Kids shouldn't have parents, if that's how they're going to treat them. What if something happened to her? Who would know? They were selfish and thought only of themselves. She couldn't remember the last time they sat down and talked with her about her problems or her day. How did other mothers get their children to talk to them?

She found out. Miriam got a job.

Every day between 3 and 6 pm Miriam felt like an 800 number for free records. Her kids were on the phone to her every three minutes, each time with a new trauma. She couldn't get them to stop talking. In desperation, Miriam posted a list of rules regarding phone calls.

1. If there is an emergency, ask yourself, “Will Mom drop dead when she hears this? Can she find a plumber after six? Will she carry out her threat to move to another city and change her name?”

2. If there is blood to report, consider these questions:

Is it yours? Your brother's? Is there a lot? A little? On the sofa that is not Scotchgarded?

3. When every kid in the neighborhood decides the house would be a neat place to play because there's no adult at home, ask yourself, “Do I want to spend my entire puberty locked in my room with no food and no television? Do I need the friendship of a boy who throws ice cubes at birds? Will Mom notice we made confetti in her blender?”

4. Only a fool calls his mother and says, “There's nothing to do.”

One night, as she was racing through the kitchen and running the hamburger through the dry cycle to thaw and delegating chores to the kids, her son said, “If you're not going to stay home and take care of us, how come you had children?”

Her other son said, “There's no one here anymore when I come home from school. You used to bake cookies.”

Her daughter said, “Sometimes I think mothers are selfish. They don't share any of their innermost thoughts with you, like how they feel about life ...”

“I'm for it,” said Miriam, tossing the salad.

Primer of Guilt

“Bless Me. Everybody for I Have Sinned”

Abandoning children and responsibility, leaving them helpless and alone with a $200 babysitter, a $3,700 entertainment center, a freezer full of food, and $600 worth of toys while you and your husband have a fun time attending a funeral in Ames, Iowa.

Buying a store-bought cake for your son's first birthday.

Cursing your only daughter with your kinky red hair and your only son with your shortness.

Dumping cheap shampoo into a bottle of the children's Natural Herbal Experience, which costs $5 a throw.

Explaining to “baby” of family why the only thing in his baby book are his footprint, a poem by Rod McKuen, and a recipe for carrot cake.

Flushing a lizard down the toilet and telling child it got a phone call saying there was trouble at home.

Going home from the hospital after hysterectomy and apologizing to kids for not bringing them anything.

Hiding out in the bathroom when the kids are calling for you for you all over the house.

Indulging yourself by napping and when caught with chenille marks on your face telling your children it's a rash.

Jamming down the sewer three newspapers you promised your child with a broken arm you'd deliver for him.

Keeping Godiva chocolates in TEA canister and telling yourself kids don't appreciate good chocolate.

Laundering daughter's $40 wool sweater in hot water.

Missing a day calling Mother.

Never loaning your car to anyone you've given birth to.

Overreacting to child who found your old report card stuck in a book by threatening to send him to a box number in Hutchinson, Kansas, if he talks.

Pushing grocery cart out of store and forgetting baby in another cart inside until you have turned on the ignition.

Quarreling with son about homework only to do it for him and getting a C on it.

Refusing to bail out daughter who lives by credit cards alone.

Sewing a mouse on the shirt pocket of son who is far-sighted and telling him it's an alligator.

Taking down obscene poster from son's bulletin board just before party and substituting brochure for math camp.

Unlocking bathroom door with an ice pick when a child just told you he's not doing anything only to discover he's not doing anything.

Visiting child's unstable teacher at school and telling her, “I don't understand. He never acts like that at home.”

Writing a postdated check to the tooth fairy for a buck and a half.

X-raying for a swallowed nickel only after you heard it was a collector's coin worth $6.40.

Yawning during school play when your daughter has the lead—a dangling participle.

Zipping last year's boots on your son when you know they will never come off without surgery.

What kind of a mother would...

give up sighing for Lent... when she's Jewish?

Rose

Rose had been playing the game of “musical mother” for over five years now. Next to the lottery, it was the biggest game of the twentieth century. It required anywhere from two to eight players. The rules were simple.

Take one widowed mother and spin her around until she comes to rest with her daughter in Florida. Daughter in Florida has four months to con her brother in Chicago to take her. Brother in Chicago keeps her until he can spread fifty pounds of guilt on his sister in California.

The mother always loses. Rose had logged more air miles than a space shuttle astronaut.

Ever since the death of her husband Seymour, four years ago, Rose changed bedrooms every four months. She fantasized about a rest home and allowed herself the luxury of contemplating a room of her own—a place w here she could talk when she felt like it and be surrounded by other people with irregularity problems.

Her children wouldn't hear of it. They had a rcsponsibility to take care of her and she had the responsibility of enduring it.

Every night, no matter where she was, Rose indulged in the practice of calling on Seymour's presence for a nightly conversation.

FLORIDA (July)

"So, it's Florida. It must be July. How are things with you, Seymour? Irene, Sam, and Sandy met me at the airport. Your grandson is a scarecrow. Twelve years old and he can't weigh more than fifteen pounds. How could he when there's nothing in this house to eat? All the bread is frozen and every box in the cupboard has grains of wheat growing on it and natural stamped all over it. I don't want to worry you, but he'll be dead by Chanukah.

"I'm in the guest room, as usual. Remember the recovery room just before you died? Same decorator. They store everything here. I sleep next to a ping-pong table and an ironing board that hasn't been down since they moved here.

"Nothing has changed with Irene. Her ice cubes still smell like melon, and she thinks dust was put here to measure time. Where did we fail, Seymour? It's a good thing you aren't here to see it. The woman doesn't even wash her dishes in sudsy water and rinse them before putting them into the dishwasher.

“I have to go now. Irene is having theme week in the kitchen and tonight it's Korea's turn. I starve to death with chopsticks. See you later when the rates go down. That's a joke, Seymour.”

FLORIDA (October)

"You there, Seymour? So, how do you like my hair? Irene thought I ought to wear it pulled straight back and into a bun. I think it makes me look older. If you think it makes me look older, give me a sign, like lowering the humidity here to 96.

"I fainted twice today. Do you remember those copper-bottomed pots and pans we gave Irene for a wedding present? You wouldn't believe, Seymour. I saw them today and said, 'Tell me those aren't the pots and pans your father and I bought you.' She said, 'What's the matter with them?'

"I said, 'Would it kill you to sprinkle a little cleanser on them each time you use them? You weren't raised to let your bottoms go.'

"Nothing much happening. I paid my health insurance. Irene and Sam wanted me to go with them to the Levines' for dinner, but the last time we went out I was washing out cups in the sink and they were in the car blowing their horn at me and I almost passed out. It isn't worth the aggravation.

“I heard Sam on the phone talking with Russell, so it looks like I'll make my annual visit to Chicago. A lot of people winter there. Stay well.”

CHICAGO (November)

"Hello, Seymour. Guess who? There's something I've got to know. When you went to heaven, did you have a five-hour layover in Atlanta? If you did, I'm not coming.

"Your son looks good. Barbara looks as good as can be expected. The children still have no necks. I wonder why that is. Russell has a neck. My theory is that all four of them are cold all the time and trying to keep warm.

"Barbara and I play thermostat roulette each night. I don't see how she stands it. She said the other night, 'It's healthy to sleep in a cool room.' I said, 'Who sleeps? I'm afraid to nod off or I'll never wake up again.' You remember that movie where it happened to Ronald Colman, don't you?

"So, the woman tries. Four children. She has her hands full trying to get David toilet trained. She got him a little potty seat that plays music when he tinkles. It should play 'The Impossible Dream.'

"And she waits on me hand and foot. Fills up my plate, does my laundry, reminds me to take my pills and turns my bed back into a sofa every time I go to the bathroom.

“Playing any golf? Talk to you soon.”

CHICAGO (February)

"Be honest with me, Seymour. Is it me? Or are the winters getting longer? I stood at the window today and for the life of me couldn't remember what green grass looked like. I asked Barbara and she just stood and looked at me. She probably can't remember, either. I paid my health insurance. Mostly, I watch a lot of soap operas. It's a shame you can't see them. They're enough to start your heart beating again. Went to the dentist today and he said I should have my bridgework redone. Hang onto your billfold, Seymour. It will cost $4,000.

"When I told Barbara she said, 'You're seventy-two years old. What do you want to get your teeth fixed for?'

"Russell talked with Judith today. He said she's lonely after the divorce and wants me to visit.

“All of a sudden, I feel very old and very tired. Maybe when I get to California, the smog, brush fires, floods, and earthquakes will cheer me up.”

CALIFORNIA (March)

"I know I just got here Seymour, but I had to talk with you. Our Judith has had a face lift. At forty-three, how far could it have fallen? I thought she looked different when I saw her. She has a surprised look on her face twenty-four hours a day.

“Your grandson Marty and I had a long talk coming in from the airport. I told him about my bridgework and he said the same thing you did—'Go for it.' ”

CALIFORNIA (April)

"Seymour, we've got to stop meeting like this. That's a joke. It's good to hear you laugh. I made a friend today. You know how I hate dryers, so 1 took a couple of Marty's shirts and stretched a line out back. 1 met a woman visiting her son next door and—are you ready? She hangs shirts by the tails, too, instead of the collar.

“She invited me to a funeral tomorrow. I might go ... just to see something sagging again. You'll probably find out anyway, and I want you to hear it from me. Judith is dating a man called Patrick. 1 said to him, 'What's your family name?' He said, 'Murphy.' I said, 'What was it before?' He said, 'Before what?' I don't think he's Jewish. Why am I being punished?”

In May, Rose was suspicious that her life was about to change. Usually her trip to Florida was confirmed by this time.

There had been phone calls. A lot of them. Judith talked with Irene and Sam in low, serious voices at night. Russell and Barbara talked with Judith, who nodded occasionally and said, “I noticed.”

In June, Judith summoned her mother to the kitchen for a talk. The entire family had noticed behavior that was “erratic.” Barbara expressed concern that Rose stood near a window in Chicago and mumbled, “Admit it, God, Chicago was a big mistake!”

Irene had reported tearfully that she peeked in her room one night to find her in deep conversation with the ping-pong table. It was their consensus that Rose should be put in a home.

The room was sparse, but Rose could fix that. She'd get her rocker out of storage and some pillows and glassware she'd saved. But before she unpacked, she had to get in touch with Seymour. “You there?” she asked looking toward the ceiling.

“Listen, you're not going to believe this, but I had to go to Atlanta to get here. I'd have thought California to Colorado would have been a straight shot, wouldn't you?” Out of the corner of her eye, Rose noticed another resident of the home who had dropped by. “Wait a minute, Seymour, there's someone here.”

Her visitor said, “You're talking to Seymour? My husband died two years ago and talks about a Seymour all the time. Does he play golf? What's his handicap?”