If Life Is a Bowl of Cherries, What Am I Doing in the Pits? (3 page)

Last year, we allowed our children to pack

their own suitcases for our vacation. One wore a baseball cap and a pair of brown corduroys for an entire week. (We told everyone he had brain surgery.)

Another brought one coat... an old army jacket belonging to his father. (He looked like a deserter from the other side.) The other one packed one pair of shoes... a red-white-and-blue pair of sneakers with stars. The only time he didn't look out of place was under a basket in a coliseum.

Last week, all three of my children looked worse than usual as they headed for the door. “Why do all of you look so rotten today?” I asked. “Are you in a school play or something?”

“No, we're having our class pictures taken.”

It figures.

Haven’t I Always Loved Whatshisname Best?

A woman starts thinking of a name for her baby from the minute she knows she is carrying one. She will write it out, say it aloud, try it out on her friends, and embroider it on little shirts. When the baby is born she will whisper the name softly in its ear, write it on dozens of announcements and file it in the courthouse records.

A few years and a few kids later, she can't remember who you are.

I've heard mothers go through ten or twelve names before they get lucky and hit the right one. (Once I wore my PJ.s wrong side out and my mom, thinking it was a name tag, called me Dr. Denton for a week.)

Children seem to think there is something Freudian in the entire exercise. The old if-my-mother-really-loved-me-she'd-remember-my-name trauma. This is hogwash. I love Marc... Mary... Mike... Mil... Massa... whatshisname with the same affection as I love Bet... Bronc... Evely... Mar... Tri... you know who you are.

Our neighborhood psychiatrist bears me out. He said there is nothing you can generalize from mothers who can't put a name to their children right off the bat.

It used to be a good day for me when I could remember what I called them for, let alone remember who they are.

In talking with a young married the other day, it was revealed that he was one of seven children and not once when he was growing up was he ever called by his real name. “I guess it was because there were so many of us,” he said, “that it confused my mother.”

I hated to shoot his theory down, but for a long while I was an only child and still got Sara... Bet... Mild... Vir... Edna. Finally, in desperation, my mother would shout, “How long do I have to call you before you answer?”

I'd yell back, “Until you get it right.”

“Was I close?” she'd shout.

“Edna was somewhere in the neighborhood.”

“I always liked Edna,” she mused. “I should have named you that.”

“Then why did you name me Erma?”

“Because it was easy to remember.”

“Why Can't We Have Our Own Apartment?”

We knew the kids would take it the wrong way, but we had to do it anyway.

“Children,” we said, “your father and I want to get our own apartment.”

One looked up from his homework and the other two even turned down the volume on the TV set. “What are you saying?”

“We are saying we'd like to move out and be on our own for a while.”

“But why?” asked our daughter. “Aren't you happy here? You have your own room and the run of the house.”

“I know, but a lot of parents our age are striking out on their own.”

“It'll be expensive,” said our son. “Have you thought about utilities and phone bills and newspapers and a hundred little things you take for granted around here?”

“We've thought it all through.”

“Spit it out,” said our daughter. “What's bothering you about living with us? Did we ask too much? What did we ask you to do? Only cook, make beds, do laundry, take care of the yard, keep the cars in running order and bring in the money. Was that so hard?”

“It's not that,” I said gently. “It's just that we want to fix up our own apartment and come and go as we please.”

“If it's your car you wanted, why didn't you say so? We could make arrangements.”

“It's not just the car. We want to be able to play our stereos when we want to and come in late without someone saying, 'Where have you been?' and invite people over without other people hanging around eating our chip dip.”

“What will you do for furniture?”

“We don't need all that much. We'll just take a few small appliances, some linens, our bedroom suite, the typewriter, the luggage, the card table and chairs, the old TV you never use, and some pots and pans and a few tables and chairs.”

“You'll call every day?”

We nodded.

As we headed for the car I heard one son whisper sadly, “Wait till they get their first utility bill. They'll be back.”

Is There a Life After Mine?

No one knows what her life expectancy is, but I have a horror of leaving this world and not having anyone in the entire family know how to replace a toilet tissue spindle.

It's an awesome thought to have four grown people wandering around in a daze saying, “I thought she told you how,” and another saying, “If I knew she was sick, I'd have paid attention.”

The tissue spindle isn't the only home skill that has been mastered by no one at our house. Consequently, I have put together a single family survival manual when Mom is gone.

REPLACING TOILET TISSUE SPINDLE

Grasp old spindle and push gently to one side where there is a spring action. The spindle will release and you discard the old cardboard. Slip on new roll and insert one end of spindle in the spring-action side and listen for a click into place.

WASHING TOOTHPASTE OFF SIDE OF WASHBOWL

Before toothpaste is allowed to harden/become a permanent part of the enamel, swish water from faucet over affected areas and give a gentle nudge with washcloth or hands. Sink will be ready for next slobee.

TURNING ON THE STOVE

Hot meals require a hot stove. If the stove is gas, ignite by turning dial or handle while holding match over burner. If stove is electric, take forefinger and push firmly on button of desired heat. Caution: Do not put food directly on burner, but put it in a pan first.

CLOSING A DOOR

This looks harder than it is. When door is ajar, make sure it is free of foreign objects (children, feet, packages), then grasp it firmly by the handle and give it a push until you hear it click. Slamming the door will not make it close any firmer than a push.

TURNING OFF A LIGHT

The same principle is used in turning off a light as in turning it on. If it is a wall switch, you flick the switch up or down until you no longer see the light. If it is a chain mechanism, you compress chain between thumb and forefinger and give it a tug. The light will extinguish.

OPERATING A CLOTHES HAMPER

Don't be intimidated because there are no dials or instructions on the lid. Bending from the waist you simply pick up a sock, a pair of pants, or a towel, lift the lid of the hamper and feed soiled clothes into it. The Good Fairy will take it from there.

Keep this manual handy for easy references. If I have to take these skills with me when I go... I'm not going.

“Why Can't Our Average Little Family Get Their Own TV Series?"

The other night I was watching a situation comedy series of a typical, American family. This family laughed until they got sick.

Every time Daddy opened his mouth, he was a scream. The mother was a stitch. And the kids were absolute geniuses at spewing out hilarious retorts. I looked around at our group. My husband was deeply depressed over the paper. He's looked like that since he let his G.I. insurance lapse.

One child was on the phone insisting, “I don't believe it!” every minute and a half. Another was locked in his room with the stereo on and the other was staring morosely into the refrigerator waiting for something to embrace him.

“You know the trouble with this family? We're not funny. All the other families in the world are sitting around throwing away one-liners and having a barrel of laughs. The six o'clock news gets more laughs than we do. We've got to get with it or we'll never get our own series.”

The next night as I heard my husband's car in the driveway, I shouted, “Hey Gang. Heeeeeeereeeeee's Daddy!”

“Well,” said our son, “if it isn't our father whose wallet is full of big bills... all unpaid.”

“What's the matter with you?” asked my husband. “You're on your feet. Has your car been repossessed?”

Dyyyyyynnnnnoooomite!" said our youngest. (I almost fell out of the chair.)

“Hey, Mom,” said a son, “what do you get if you take a fender from a Chevy, the chrome from a Ford and the hubcaps from a Pontiac?” I shook my head.

“Six months!”

“A rubber hose up your nose,” I said amid laughter.

“So,” said my husband, “I thought you were going to straighten up the house.”

“Why?” I said nudging him in his ribs. “Is it tilted? Incidentally, did you hear Mel just got a poodle for his wife?”

“I wish I could make a trade like that.”

“Hey, Dad,” said our daughter, “the dog just ate Mom's meatloaf.”

“Don't cry,” he said, “I'll buy you another dog.”

My mother poked her head in the door. “Got any coffee?”

We all slumped in our chairs exhausted. Thank God for commercials.

3

Who Killed Apple Pie?

It's a frightening feeling to wake up one morning and discover that while you were asleep you went out of style.

That's what happened to millions of housewives, who one day looked into their mirrors and said, “I do not feel fulfilled putting toilet seats down all day.”

Women were sick of pushing buttons. Besides, the buttons were pushing back. There was a housewife in Michigan who was vacuuming her carpet one morning and leaned over to pick an object off the floor. Her hair was pulled into the machine by the underside brush roller, causing her to fall on top of the vacuum and sustain electrical shock to the left side of her head.

They no longer bought the theory, advanced by a British Medical Association, that doing housework was the secret to female longevity and that all that exercise would prolong life.

As I was on my knees one afternoon, hoisting the bunk beds on my back and trying to put the slats back into the grooves, my husband asked, “What are you doing down there?”

“Prolonging my life,” I said dryly.

“Those things fall out all the time,” he said. “Why don't you get some slats that are longer?”

“They were longer when we got them,” I said.

“Are you going to start that business about inanimate things being human? You're going bananas being cooped up in this house. You should get out more. After you get all this stuff fixed up around here, why don't you do something you've always wanted to do?”

I sat back on my knees and reflected. What I always wanted to do was run away from home. You all know the feeling. You diet for two weeks and gain three pounds. You break your bottom to get to a White Sale only to discover that all they have left are double top sheets, single contour bottoms, and King pillowcases.

Your best friend (whom you have always trusted) calls and tells you she just found out how to bake bread. Some wise guy just wrote “HELP” in the dust on the draperies.

You pick up a movie magazine in the supermarket with headlines reading JACKIE ONASSIS' SPENDING HABITS SUGGEST MENTAL DISORDER and realize you've had the same disorder for years.

The cheerleader on your high school cheer squad just became a grandmother. The supermarket just discontinued your silverware pattern and you spend forty minutes ironing a linen dress and it doesn't fit you anymore.

You drive into a drive-in bank and the car just ahead of you gets a flat. You see your neighbor going to the office and yell, “I hope you find eraser droppings in your IBM Selectric.” And you can't take it anymore.

Then one day in a leading magazine, I saw a story called, “Today's Woman on the Go.”

At the top of the article was a picture of a well-stacked blonde at a construction site with a group of men around her while she read blueprints to them. I noted her shoes were coordinated with her Gucci yellow hard hat.

The second picture showed her in a pair of flowing pajamas standing over the stove stirring her filet-mignon helper (recipe on page 36) while her husband tossed the salad and her children lovingly set the table.

It made me want to spit up.

I wanted to be “on the go.” (I was half-gone already.) Imagine! Every morning going off to carpetland... to fresh bread for lunch... to a phone that wasn't sticky with grape jelly... to perfume behind each knee that spelled madness to stock boys.

And I said to myself, “There, but for the grace of a babysitter go I.”

Once I made up my mind, I interviewed sitters for six months. It's depressing when you realize no one wants to be paid for what you've been doing for years for nothing. I talked with one who could only work until the children came home from school. Another believed in naps until age thirty-five, and there was one who worked for one day and quit saying, “Do you actually expect me to work in a house where the water jug looks like snow falling in a paperweight?”

Other women, I was to discover, had the same problem. A friend of mine who is a registered nurse said she had a shattering experience. She found a “gem” who was willing to sit with her children if she left explicit instructions. The first day she left the following note:

"Greg gets 1 tsp. of pink medicine in refrigerator at 8 AM. and before lunch. He has impetigo, so wash your hands good with soap and water and don't let him use anyone else's glass.

"Paula gets 1 tsp of orange medicine in brown bottle at 8 A.M. and at lunch. There's plenty of lunch meat, peanut butter, etc., for lunch.

"Paula has to be taken to the potty every two to three hours. There's a potty seat upstairs and a small chair in Rec. Room.

"Don't let dog in the chewing gum. He craves it but has to be taken to the vet to remove. He gets pills once a day (not birth control) for slight infection. Get Frank (who is in and out all day long) to hold him so he will not bite.