Family - The Ties That Bind...And Gag! (17 page)

“You're still sore about the mouse, aren't you?”

“I am not sore about the mouse.”

“Your father and I both agreed you were overreacting when you called the Realtor and demanded she list the house immediately.”

“I said I was sorry, so let's forget it. Are all the cars in and the lights out?”

“Ummm. I hope the picture for the Christmas card turns out. Speaking of Christmas, you haven't told me what you want this year.”

“Do I have to tell you? If you really knew me, you wouldn't have to ask,” I said.

“What a thing to say,” he said. “Of course I know you. I know you're practical, no-nonsense, and like things for the house that you wouldn't buy yourself.”

* * *

In all these years, he never knew how I stood in front of a Mr. Fredericks window and lusted. You'd think he knew I always wanted the ultimate nightgown that you had to dry clean ... a gown so filmy that when the doorbell rang or one of the kids came into the room, you had to throw a coat or an afghan over yourself to avoid arrest. It would have enough fur around the bottom to put in fur storage for safekeeping.

I always wanted a jumpsuit made out of fake animal, preferably leopard or cheetah, and fake fingernails so long I couldn't make meat loaf without losing half the hamburger under my nails.

I always wanted a pair of eight-inch-heel bedroom slippers that killed your feet but made your ankles look tiny ... slippers so impractical that the only thing they were good for was dangling from your toe or drinking champagne out of.

I'll get a vegetable steamer. I know it.

“What about you?” I asked. “What do you want?”

Oh, you know me,“ he said, ”I just like to sit around and watch everyone else open up their gifts. I don't need anything ... really."

The reason he doesn't need anything ... really! ... is because every year, three days before Christmas, he buys everything for himself. Last year he brought home packages containing underwear, stacks of shorts, shirts, and socks. As the blood drained away from my face, he displayed a sweater to kick around in, bedroom slippers to replace the ones that had fallen apart, and a money clip that struck his fancy.

I still had my ace in the hole: a bathrobe which he needed desperately. He showed me a wristband to hold his car keys and change when he jogged, a book on fishing lures he had seen advertised, and some great gloves for skiing. The bathrobe he bought was being monogrammed.

“You know what you really need is some help around here,” he said. “What if I got you a housekeeper to help around the holidays?”

“You're too kind,” I said, “but I still haven't gotten over Mrs. Rutledge.”

“I remember it was an unpleasant experience, but I honestly never saw the woman.”

I never saw the woman either. We communicated by notes on the refrigerator. They were usually a day apart.

The first day on the job she wrote, “Mrs. Bombeck: There is a dog's mess at the end of the sofa.” Signed, Wilma.

The next morning I left her a note: “Wilma, I know.” Signed, Mrs. Bombeck.

The following day: “Mrs. Bombeck, what do you want me to do with it?” Signed, Wilma.

A reply was posted the next day: “Wilma, you are limited on options. You can surround it with sand and use it as a putting green, gift-wrap it and amaze your friends, or clean it up. I prefer the latter.” Signed, Mrs. Bombeck.

The next day she wrote, “Mrs. Bombeck: I was going to clean up the you-know-what, but the sweeper smells funny and sounds strange and won't pick up anything. Can you fix it?” Signed, Wilma.

The next morning, a new note from Wilma said, “The sweeper works fine. What did you do to it?”

I wrote a note the following day. “Wilma: I emptied the sweeper bag.” Mrs. Bombeck.

Several weeks passed before a new note appeared. “Mrs. Bombeck: You know that little problem I told you about two weeks ago. I think I solved it. I moved the sofa over it and you can hardly notice it now.” Signed, Wilma.

The note the next morning was short: “Wilma, you're fired.” Signed, Mrs. Bombeck.

Wilma's last epistle appeared the next morning. “Mrs. Bombeck: There is another dog mess I didn't tell you about. It's hard to find. I'm the only one who knows where it is. Good-bye.” Signed, Wilma.

“Our kids think we have everything,” I said, turning off the bathroom light.

“Is that why we get cats in tennis shoes and a kangaroo with string coming out of its navel?”

“They're probably right. We do have everything. At this stage, having them spend a Saturday night with you is worth a gift certificate on the Orient Express.”

“They try,” he said, flipping off the light by his bed. Try! They go through life trying to please us ... looking for approval ... trying to fit into the family puzzle. Sometimes we forget how hard it is to be a child.

In the darkness I reflected on the weekend and drifted to sleep. As I slept, I dreamt that the roles were reversed. My children were the parents ... and I was the child.

It was terrible standing down there wedged among all those knees. I couldn't get a drink of water, mail a letter, or open a door. Cars were worse. If I didn't kill myself getting a window, I just sat there on the seat with my legs sticking straight out, staring at the back of the seat. Every once in awhile, one of the kids would shout, “You know I can't drive and shout at you at the same time,” but that wasn't true at all.

At the supermarket, I was ]"ust standing there when without warning, someone whipped me off the floor and forced my legs through a grocery seat that was so cold my teeth frosted up.

I never got introduced. Sometimes someone would say, “Oh, is this the holy terror you were telling me about?” but for all purposes, I had no name.

I took naps when I wasn't sleepy, ate when I wasn't hungry, had sweaters put on me when I wasn't cold, and got thrown into swimming pools when I didn't want to swim.

I was tossed into the air when I had an upset stomach, forced to go to the bathroom whether I had to go or not, and ordered to stop crying when I had a perfectly good reason for doing it.

Sometimes my kids laughed and when I asked what they were laughing about, they said, “We'll tell you when you're older.”

I never did anything right. I played with chewing gum, wiped my hands off on my dress, leaned back on chairs, made faces in the toaster, and sniffed instead of using a handkerchief. Once when I came into the kitchen with a comb in my hand, I thought life was all over.

The worst was when we went to a house of my children's friends. They said, “Look, Mom, would you and Dad stop dawdling or we're going to be late at Debbie's and Mike's house. And I'm telling you both before we go, we don't want you whining about when we are coming home and running in and out every two minutes to 'tell.' And for crying out loud, take something to do—some of your favorite toys. Mom, why don't you take your needlepoint? That would keep you occupied for awhile. Your home workshop is out of the question, Dad. It's too big. Take something small ... like maybe your key ring to play with.”

At the house, introductions were brief. “This is my mom and dad, but you'll forget their names anyway. Say hello. And would you look at your parents! I swear they've grown a foot since we last saw them. How are things at work? And where did you get that pretty dress? I want you to meet my parents. Mom is forty-seven and Dad is forty-eight. You should have a lot in common. Now run along and get acquainted. Maybe their morn will show you her new microwave oven and their dad his new power mower. Keep it down now. We want to talk.”

Later, as the children were really having a good time, the four of us approached them. “Kids, can we go home now? All of us are sleepy. Besides, Dad has some figures to pull together before work tomorrow morning.”

The kids looked at one another. “Isn't that just like parents. Putting everything off until the last minute. I swear you can't take them anywhere and have a good time. What do you say we get together soon without the A-D-U-L-T-S?”

On the way home the kids said, “I love Debbie and Mike, but their parents are really spoiled. I hope you two didn't drink a lot of liquids or you'll be up all night. And don't you dare fall asleep on the way home or we'll leave you in the car all night.”

I sat up in bed with a start.

“Bad dream?” yawned my husband.

“Keep it down,” I said sleepily. “We're supposed to be asleep.”

“RUNNING AWAY FROM HOME”

Sunday: 9:20 a.m.

I heard the voices all the way to the back of the house.

My daughter was accusing her brother of taking her Jockey underwear out of the dryer, and he was accusing her of not returning his hair dryer. It wasn't a conversation you'd want to put into a time capsule.

I hated mornings. The only way I survived them when they were children was through self-hypnosis. I always thought if the good Lord had wanted me to speak in the mornings, He'd have put a recording in my chest and a string in the back of my neck. I had a basic morning vocabulary of seventeen words: “No. I don't care. It's in the dirty clothes hamper. Mustard or ketchup? In your father's billfold.”

That was it. There were no additions or subtractions in two decades. Mornings were unbearable because not one of the kids had an ounce of organization in his life. They always sat at the breakfast table with a pencil poised over a blank sheet of paper at 8 a.m. and asked, “Now tell me all you know about the Egyptian rulers of the fifth century because if Miss Shorhamm doesn't get a fifteen-page report by 10 a.m., she is going to keep me in the sophomore class for the rest of my life.”

Or they would come dragging out with a piece of blank paper and a pencil and demand a note to get back into class using the Latin word for diarrhea to avoid humiliation.

There was the matter of getting dressed. Somewhere there is an unwritten law that a child will wear to school (a) only what is in the dirty clothes hamper, (b) what needs ironing, (c) what he is forbidden ever to leave the house wearing, (d) what everyone else is wearing (c and d are often the same thing).

No one will ever know the conversations that took place between 7 and 7:30 in the morning.

“Mom, have you seen my navy sweater?”

“The one with the buttons missing and the hole in the shoulder?”

“That's it. They're taking class pictures today.”

It didn't get any better when they got older. They never anticipated anything. They never considered that it might turn cold or that a rain might come up and they would need an umbrella or a coat. They never figured a bank would cash their check on the same day it was received. Time held no limitations for them. They came to me with straight faces the third week of August and said, “Hey, you going near the post office today or tomorrow? I want to get my application in for a college this fall.”

They never figured an airplane would leave on time. Even if they were somewhere on the freeway at the scheduled time of departure, they figured they were in great shape.

“Incidentally,” I yelled to the two who were now snapping at a Danish in mid-air, “What time does your brother's plane leave?”

“Around 10,” said my daughter. “Don't worry. We'll get him there and then we've both got to buzz off.”

“It's 9:20 now!” I said. “Where is he?”

“He's in the shower.”

“He was in the shower last night when I went to bed.”

“Make your point,” said my son.

“Here conies the wethead now,” said my daughter.

“Your plane is at 10,” I said. “I'll get your father. He'll want to say good-bye.”

He grabbed a carton of milk out of the refrigerator and began drinking from it. “Mom, take it easy. You're going to have a heart attack. Do you have a bigger suitcase? I'm going to take some records to the coast.”

His brother volunteered to put it together and left the room.

“How long does it take to do laundry?” he asked.

“My God! You're talking crazy now.”

“I gotta call this guy for an address.” He dialed and I stood at his elbow the entire time with all the hysteria of Butterfly McQueen about to deliver Melanie's baby.

When he hung up, he said, “Let me write down a place for you to go to buy a new mouse for the snake. When he gets hungry, he strikes at you.”

I thought I was going to be sick.

“What time is it now?” he asked.

I blinked.

“That's right. All the clocks blink around here. Hey, guys, let's do it. Love you Mom. See you Thanksgiving. Is Dad around? I wanta say good-bye ... tell him I'll call.”

The other two exchanged hugs and good-byes and piled into the car.

My husband arrived at the door just as they all pulled out of the driveway. “It was wonderful having him home. He looks a little taller, doesn't he?”

“Possibly,” I said. “I guess he talked to you a lot about what he's doing? He'd talk to his father about that, wouldn't he?”

“Did it seem to you he had a handle on things? He would talk to his mother about that.”

“I suppose so,” I said, “but if he had anything definite on his mind, he'd ask your advice, wouldn't he?”

Neither of us said anything for awhile. Then his dad said, “I'll tell you the truth. I never set eyes on the kid the entire three days he was home.”

“I never saw him either,” I said.

“I sorta got a glimpse of him the night he split when we were showing our slides of the Smoky Mountains, but not enough to tell anything. He was here, wasn't he?”

“What a silly thing to say. Of course he was here. I talked with him several times through the bathroom door.”

“Wait a minute,” said my husband. “Does he have a gray sweater with three stripes on the sleeve? I think I saw him one night holding both refrigerator doors wide open like he was a Welcome Wagon lady.”

“That wasn't our son. That was his friend David.”

“I wish I'd known that. I apologized to him for not spending more time with him. I'll say this. He's different, all right.”

Raising kids was like playing poker with strangers. You never knew if you had a bluffer, one with a killer instinct, or one who changed rules in the middle of the game.

I think I was terrified of them from the moment they were born. I never trusted one of them with a mouthful of strained peas. Even after I stopped pinching their lips together and watching them swallow, I was afraid to take my eyes off them lest I get it all back in my face.