Family - The Ties That Bind...And Gag! (10 page)

Our son, the college graduate. He was so naive when we sent him off to this school. We tried to give him insights that would help him in his first living experience away from the family ... insights that would help him guide his life through troubled waters:

Clean underwear does not reproduce itself.

Classmates who owe you money drop out of school in their freshman year to get in touch with their feelings at Big Sur.

Students who write their parents get remembered in the will.

Deposits should at all times exceed withdrawals.

Pursue every roach as if it were female, pregnant, and crazy to come home with you in your luggage.

A note from the library, telling your parents that unless you return the volume of Erotic Dreams and What They Mean to the library you will receive a blank diploma, will throw your mother into cardiac arrest.

And now it had all come together. They called his name and before he left the stage he checked to make sure the diploma was not blank.

The commencement speaker said the graduates were the hope of the future. He said each of them would create new horizons and focus on their destiny. The band played softly from The Sound of Music in the background and eyes misted as the speaker challenged them to “Climb every mountain, ford every stream, follow every highway till you find your dream.”

The kid couldn't find his car after graduation.

Our son returned to the kitchen and said, “Dad, I've been thinking about what you said and you're right. I've really screwed up and I'm going to do something about it. I'm going back to college for my masters.”

Both of us sat lifeless, our coffee cups frozen in midair. I had given birth to a marathon student. He would be just like Harv Stidwell, a guy I knew in the class of '47, '48, '49, '50, '51, '52, and '53 who was a baton twirler. He had more than 1,500 friendship pictures and was the only student who knew all the words to the school song. Someone said he went right from the GI Bill to Medicare before he graduated one summer with fifteen majors and twenty-three minors.

“And I've even solved the car problem,” said our son. “I'll move back home and borrow yours.”

"MOM AND DAD! I'M HOME!'

It wasn't fair.

I already said good-bye to The Grateful Dead and Chicago. Good-bye to empty milk cartons and dried-out lunch meat.

I said so long forever to porch lights that burned all day and night for three years and to mildewed towels and empty ice cube trays. I'm too tired for my old profession—mothering. You have to be in condition to do that ... like an athlete. I no longer care that my dish towels look like the seat of a mechanic's pants or that my cookie sheet was born the same year as Alan Alda.

No longer can I leap into the air in glorious exhilaration when my laundry smells fresh or glide my hands across a bathtub that doesn't feel gritty.

There was a time when I knew exactly when a kid was going to split and get out of taking out the garbage. They move too fast for me now.

Face it, the body is gone. Legs that used to run trays up to the bedroom eighteen times a day for a common cold have more ridges than corduroy. The form that used to drag out every morning and feed everyone now burrows under the cover like a lump and whimpers.

I'm not ready to open up the kitchen again for three-a-day and a matinee on Saturdays. With just the two of us, the kitchen became a place where we went for a drink of water. To some, a $20,000 drinking fountain might be considered excessive, but we earned it.

We “dine” out now. I wait until the waiter is near the table and drop the name of Mikhail Baryshnikov because I like to pronounce it. My husband sniffs a wine cork and blesses it. We talk about El Salvador. I don't know how long it will last, but right now it's fun being phonies.

It has nothing to do with loving my children. I also have affection for Miss Piggy, but I don't want to turn her underwear right side out before I have to launder them.

It's not fair. The kids come home when they're out of work, out of money, out of socks, out of food, and in debt.

They're never here when they're in love, in the bucks, in transit, in school, and their cars are running.

Well, it's going to be different this time. There will have to be rules.

Anything that dies in the room must be buried before the sun sets on it.

In the event of missing towels, glassware, food, and silverware, a parent has the right to search and seizure.

Parents have the right to break down the door when it is too quiet.

Boxes and luggage used for the return from an apartment/trip/marriage will be left in the garage for thirty days of deroaching before being allowed in the house.

No stereo system will be permitted on the premises without headphones.

Parents are not only allowed to accept payment for their room, but also will insist upon it.

People left in the room longer than sixty days must have a forwarding address.

I honestly don't think it's going to work. Even on short visits, we fall short. Our kids say we support the wrong causes on our bumper stickers. We do not take the world seriously enough. We watch mindless television, and our friends peipetuate foreign imports.

We dress too young. We think too old. We eat too fast. We drive too slow. Our car is too big. Our closets are too small.

Oh God, our closets. There go our closets!

I'll have to revert again to hiding anything of value or having them sift through my things like a discount house on Saturday night.

Oh, I used to be giving, loving, and sharing. But that was before I realized a woman who is giving, loving, and sharing ends up with a drawer full of dirty panty hose, a broken stereo, and a wet toothbrush every morning.

Also, a camera with sand in it, a blouse that died from acute perspiration, a library book with a bent back, a sleeping bag with a broken zipper, a tennis racket with a cracked frame, and a transistor that “just went dead when it hit the pavement.”

I'm a mother. Somewhere it is written that when children have something to spit out, we extend our hands. On the same tablet, it is recorded that sheets that have to be washed in the middle of the night are women's work. It came with the territory. But where does it say I have to loan my car to my kids?

My car is a clean car. A clean car is a happy car. It isn't used to life in the fast lane. It's never been to a rock concert in the middle of a cornfield or a dirt bike race along some dusty road. It hasn't been out past midnight since I owned it and it exudes innocence. It's a lady.

My son borrowed it once ... a night I'm not likely to forget. I was awake when the car spun into the driveway with music so loud my teeth cramped, and I had only to look at it the next morning to see the mud on her grill and the seat belt flapping beneath the door to know that my car had been violated'. She had that “used” and “empty” look about her.

Her motor had been raced. She had blown a speaker. All the push buttons on the radio had been repunched to rock stations. There was a piece of cold pizza in her ashtray. Her antenna was high enough to clear the Rockies. There was a tennis ball lodged under her accelerator.

She looked like she hadn't cooled off in a week. Her gas gauge was on E.

That has always been one of the mysteries of life ... how kids can run a tank of gas right down to the last thimbleful.

It's a gift, really. The car will roll into the driveway, gasp, thrust forward, die, and the gas gauge will drop like a stone to E.

One time I even took one of the kids in the car with me and said, “Do you know where Mother is taking you? We're going to a place where you have never been before.”

“Will there be kids there my own age?” he asked.

“Not many, but mingle and make friends.”

As we pulled in front of the pumps, he said, “What is this place?”

“It's a gas station. You take a nozzle from the pump, put it into the gas tank, and the fuel converts to energy and makes the car run.”

“Are you serious?” he asked.

“Surely,” I said, “you have had some curiosity as to why they put out signs on these that say last stop until free-way?”

“I thought they were rest rooms,” he said.

All over America, wherever teenagers gather, the subject comes up. “Where were you and what were you doing when you found out about a gas pump?”

I looked out the window as the prodigal son poked under the hood of his car. He, too, would have some adjusting. He would return home as a man and be treated as a child once more. His independence would be compromised by, “Where are you going?” and “What time are you getting home?” I remembered when he was a toddler. We had gone to the grocery store and, ignoring my threats, he reached up and pulled over a bubble gum machine that broke and sent colored balls of gum all over the store. He was terrified as I lashed out at him angrily, “That does it, Buster! You will never see another Oreo cookie for as long as you live.”

Tears welled in his eyes as he desperately searched the faces in the crowd for some sign of compassion. Finally, he threw his arms around my knees for comfort. I, who a moment ago had rejected him.

Why me? I was all he had, and he knew beneath the anger the love was always there.

MOMMIE AND DADDIE DEAREST!

Saturday: 9:15 a.m.

“Hey, look who's up!” said one of the boys. “Our sister! What's the matter, did your mattress catch fire?”

“Where's the coffee?”

“If you want a Danish.. .they're history.”

“I do not want a Danish. I do not eat breakfast,” she said tiredly.

“Remember what Mom used to tell you? There was a buzzard following you all the way to the bus stop.”

“Please. What kind of disgusting cereal is that?”

“Fibre-Bran Nuggets. It's caffeine-free, no sugar, no preservatives, and makes its own gravy. Box tops will earn you premiums on African violets and a whoopie cushion for your hemorrhoids.”

“God you're gross!” said his sister. “It looks like Dad is still putting all the old stale cereal into one box like no one notices.”

“Remember the time he combined Chock Full of Pimples with Puffed Crunchees and Cavity Flakes? The milk turned purple.”

“Oh, and remember the cereal embargo. No cereal was to be brought into the house until every cereal on the shelf was eaten. There was an outbreak of cereal incest and we ended up with eight boxes more than we started.”

“Where are Mom and Dad?” asked our daughter.

“Jogging.”

“But the car is gone.”

“You don't think they walk to the jogging path?”

“Are they a pair to draw to ... or what?”

“Frankly,” said a son, “I think we're too old to sit for a Christmas card picture.”

“So, what's wrong with that? Besides, Morn and Dad like having us home. Makes them feel young and needed again.”

“Did you see her last night? She poured me half a glass of milk and told me not to spill it. The woman still doesn't trust me.”

“Why should she?” said his brother. “Your whole life's been a lie beginning with the time you stuffed all your papers down the sewer so you wouldn't be late for a Little League game.”

“You should talk,” he charged. “You were supposed to bring Mom to school when you were caught belching the 'Ave Maria' during Mass and you told the school she was out of town.”

“Hey, what could I do?” he retaliated. “I was thinking of becoming a priest and I didn't want it on my record.”

“If they only knew half of the things we did when we were kids, they wouldn't have permitted us to grow up,” said his sister.

“They weren't perfect either,” said our son. “Mom used to put us outside to play when the chill factor was 70° below zero. She said, 'Get a little fresh air. It's good for you.' ”

“And I know for a fact she gave us tranquilizers on our vacation and told us they were vitamins.”

“No wonder when I crayoned I couldn't keep within the lines.”

“Yeah, but you all got the young parents,” said the baby of the group. “Since you guys screwed up, she came down hard on me so they wouldn't make the same mistake and get the same results. Like how old did she tell you she was before she was allowed to drive a car?”

The oldest said, “She told me she was twenty-one.”

The middle child said, “She told me twenty-four.”

The baby said, “She wanted me to vulcanize my feet.”

“Are we talking about the same Mom? The thin, bright-eyed dark-haired girl who used to read me stories, bake cookies, paste my baby pictures in the album, and giggle a lot?”

The middle child said, “The somber-looking bleached blonde who used to put me to bed at 6:30 and bought me a dog to save on napkins?”

The baby said, “The grayish lady who falls asleep during the 6 o'clock news and is going to show me my baby pictures when she takes the rest of the roll at my wedding?”

“That's another thing. They go to bed right after the 10 o'clock news. Do you suppose they're all right?”

“Their social life is somewhere to the right of a sedated parakeet.”

“You know Dad. He hates surprises. They were going out one night and I heard him ask Mom, 'Am I going to have a good time? Who is going to be there? Will I stay awake? What time are we coming home?' ”

“We were sitting there the other night watching television and the phone rang and do you know what he said? He said, 'Who could that be at this hour?' It was 8:30!”

They thought about it awhile before one son spoke. “Did you ever wonder why Mom got married?”

“That's easy. She needed a personal slave ... someone to answer the phone, get her sweater, find her glasses, and move the garden hose every five minutes.”

“I thought it was to have someone to eat the leftovers that the dog wouldn't touch.”

“I always thought she was doing research and was going to establish the first New York Sock Exchange.”

“Oh Lord. The wash-and-spin Bermuda Triangle. I hadn't thought about that in years. She was rather crazed in the utility room. I thought for awhile she was losing it.”

“Queen of the Static Cling. 1 can see her now on her hands and knees rummaging around the dryer and mumbling, 'If a pair of socks went in ... then a pair of socks must come out.'"

“Remember Dad? He came home once with a dozen pairs of new socks, tore them apart, and threw out one sock from each pair to save her the trouble of losing them.”

“I asked her where my other sock went once and she said, 'It went to live with Jesus.' Parents have an answer for everything.”

“Yeah, every time Mom said, 'I'm doing this because I love you,' I knew it was going to be something rotten. Where do they get those phrases?”

“You mean like, 'This is going to hurt me worse than it does you'?”

“You know what I think?” said the older son. “I think there's a book of them that the hospital passes out on the day they take the baby home from the hospital, Wise Sayings for Parents.”

“I remember Mom telling me, 'When you grow up you'll thank me for being so strict.' I'm grown up and I'm still ticked off about it.”

“Or how about when Dad says, 'Son, I may not always understand you, but I'm willing to listen.' He says that just before he says, 'I don't want to hear anymore. Go to your room.'”

“And if there's anyone in this room who can spread world-class guilt like Mom with that one little phrase ...”

All three of them chanted in unison, “Never mind! I'll do it myself.”

“God, I hated that!” said a son. “I could be watching the last five seconds of a Super Bowl game, with the score even and my team is kicking a field goal, and Mom says, 'Can you get this lid off the pickles for me?' and one-half second later she says, 'Never mind, I'll do it myself.' ”

“Is that the time she used a meat cleaver and a rolling pin to open it and her hand required six stitches?”

“Jesus, that woman can make St. Joan of Arc, St. Theresa, and a thousand women suffering in labor look like terrorists.”

“Hey, aren't we coming down a little hard on them?” asked their sister. “Can you honestly sit there and say you have no regrets about some of the things you've pulled off?”

“Here it comes ... the old killing my goldfish by dropping it behind the dresser and saying nothing while Mom paid $50 for the exterminator because something smelled bad story.”

“That's pretty good for starters,” she said. “How about the time you left the gas grill on all night on the back porch and we didn't have a back porch the next morning?”

“I thought surely they would put me in an institution for that trick,” said the youngest.

“I think Mom aged fifteen years the time you jumped off the roof with her dish towel around your neck saying you were Superman.”

“Get a load of Snow White,” said one of the boys. “I seem to remember our sister requiring stitches on her lip from kissing a boy with braces and telling Mom she fell into the locker.”

“Both of them have a scary quality for knowing what you do when they don't see it or hearing what you mean when you don't say it.”

“You know,” said a son, “you spend a lifetime trying to please them and just when you think you're what they want you to be, they'll pull the string and nearly choke you to death, but all in all they're O.K.”

“Speaking of being asphyxiated, did I tell you I'm moving back home?” said our son.

“That oughta make Mom's Christmas. Knowing her, she's ecstatic,” said our daughter. “She's the original earth mother.”

“I think both of 'em were pretty knocked out. Neither of them could speak.”

“It's not such a bad idea. They need someone to keep an eye on 'em. Have you noticed, it takes two of them to finish a sentence anymore.”

“That's nothing new. Mom's always been a little flaky. Remember when we were growing up? There were only three of us and she could never remember which one she was talking to. She'd go through all the names before she stumbled on the right one.”

“Yeah,” said a son. “Once I wore my PJs wrong-side-out and she called me Dr. Denton for a week.”

“She used to say to me, 'How long do I have to call you before you answer?' and I'd say, 'Until you get it right.' Then when she got the name right, she couldn't remember what she called me for.”

“I read somewhere that every day after the age of thirty-five you lose 100,000 brain cells.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means every day of their lives, the pilot light gets dimmer, the elevator goes to fewer floors, it takes longer for the pot to boil.”

“God, that's heavy.”

“After awhile, it will take two of them to work a parking meter.”

“They'll probably call one of us up to come over and set the FM station on their car radio.”

“We may even find them passed out one day on the kitchen floor from an overdose of bran.”

“It's sorta sad. They used to be such vibrant, active people.”

“Hey, it happens. You're bom. You live, and one day the wavy line on the terminal by your bed gets a hum in it and fades to black.”

There was a long silence. Finally, our daughter said, “Look at it this way. Mom and Dad have led long, productive lives.”

“Yeah,” her brother added, “and someday we'll be in our forties.”

THE FAMILY THAT PLAYS TOGETHER... SHOULDN'T

I threw my body in the $45 hot pink warm-up suit against a tree to stretch the hamstrings that were supported by $80 jogging shoes. Taking off the $12 orange sweatband, I wiped the designer sweat off my face and groaned.

A breathless husband joined me.

“How did you beat me back?” he panted. “I didn't see you on the path. The last time I passed you, you were tying your shoe.”

It was a trick he never caught on to. Every day for four months I started out with him on the jogging path, ran fifty yards, and stopped to retie my shoe. Then I just dawdled and talked.

It made all the difference in my life. When people discovered I “ran,” they began to tell me how healthy I looked and how much weight I had lost.

Perfect strangers would come up to me and ask if I was going to run a 10K Sunday. Besides, it did a lot for my hormonal balance to hear heavy breathing behind me. You can't buy that kind of excitement over the counter.

I sat on the ground and watched my husband perform the cool-down ritual.

“I thought maybe the kids would join us this morning,” he said.

“Are you crazy? Our daughter thinks cellulite is a battery, and the closest your sons ever got to an accelerated heartbeat is when you told them they had to take the bus to school instead of the car.”

“C'mon,” he said, “you act like they're a bunch of couch potatoes. They were always into athletics in high school, remember?”

How could I ever forget those athletic banquets where I sat there hearing about sons I had never known before? Who were these enigmas who were comatose at home and came to life on a school campus?

I sat there stunned one night as the coach put his arm around our son's neck and announced to a crowd, “This boy is probably one of the best sprinters I've had in my entire career here at South High. Hang onto your hats, folks. He set a school record this year by running the 100-yard dash in 9.9!”

Everyone clapped and rose to their feet.

9.9! I figured it had to be nine days and nine hours. I once asked him to run the garbage out to the can and it sat by the sink until it turned into a bookend.

And in a testimonial to another son, a coach said, “I don't know what this baseball team would have done without this boy's hustle. We've had chatterers on the team before who get the boys whipped up, but this one is a world-class chatterer. There isn't a moment when he isn't saying something to spark the team when they're down.”

Our son smiled boyishly and hung his head.

Chatterer? From a kid who spoke only six words to me a week: When you going to the store?

I must have sat through a dozen of these banquets listening to coaches present a courtesy award to our kid who displayed sportsmanship and manners on the tennis court. By pure coincidence, it was the same boy who broke his brother's face the day before for “stealing” a record album from his room.

I was numbed by the announcement that one of our children threw a ball weighing eight pounds a distance of 100 feet. He couldn't throw a six-ounce Saturday edition of the newspaper from his bike to a porch on his paper route.

“Have you forgotten how your son got an award for picking up wet towels and suits for an entire swim team and couldn't pick up his own feet at home?” I asked.

“You know how kids are,” he said. “They're two personalities. One for home and one for show. We're blessed. You and I share the same interests, the same values, the same respect for one another. That's why we're such a good team. We work well together and we play well together. Even when we play Trivial Pursuit.”

Give me a break! You show me a woman who plays Trivial Pursuit with her husband and I'll show you a woman in a singles' bar.

My husband had a smirk on his face from the minute he threw the dice and read the question, “How many stars are in Orion's belt?”

The entire family huddled over the Trivial Pursuit board, snickered, and nudged one another.

“She doesn't know that,” said my father. “Give me the dice.”

“How do you know I don't know that!” I snapped.

“Mom,” said my son, “anyone who doesn't know what candy bar is made in Hershey, Pennsylvania, cannot possibly know how many stars are in Orion's belt.”