July 17, 2007
My Mother’s Footsteps
It was a hot summer day, most likely in July. The year was 1989 and I had lived a full decade on this planet Earth.
My mother, a former school teacher, instructed me to go outside and play because I was driving her crazy. She asked me to take my younger brother, Nathan, and younger sister, Rachel, outside with me. She didn’t want to hear another one of her children say, “I’m bored” and when she gave us her stern face we knew she meant business.
Nathan wanted to play baseball. At six years old, he was a wild and rambunctious boy. Sports, karate and tackling his sisters were his favorite things to do. Rachel was four years old and desperately wanted to play Barbies on the front lawn. I was too cool to play with dolls. My idea of playing with Barbies was to chop off all their hair and twist their heads around like Linda Blair in The Exorcist.
We came to an agreement to play an inning of baseball. Naturally, I would bat first because I was the oldest. Nathan would pitch to me and Rachel would be the catcher.
What a stupid, stupid idea. Stick the four-year-old behind the batter. It was inevitable that she’d get smacked with the bat. And she did. Rachel was struck in the side of the head and the bump that resulted was as big as the damn baseball. Goose-egg my arse!
I felt terrible. It was an accident. I didn’t realize she was standing up to catch the ball.
The screaming was unbearable. I just knew I was in trouble. I could feel the thunderous footsteps of my mother running down the stairs and through the front screendoor.
“Who did whatever it was that made Rachel cry?” she demanded.
I was crying and scared and could barely speak through the sobs.
“I….it was…accident…didn’t….mean…to…!” I shrieked.
Nathan was running in circles with his arms extended at his sides like an airplane. He was probably trying to fly away from this situation because he knew he’d get in trouble, too.
“You were supposed to play outside! Not kill eachother!” my mother yelled.
I’m pretty sure the entire block heard her lecturing about safety and following the rules and watching younger siblings so that they don’t get hurt. I think she mentioned something about brain damage and what she will tell the doctor if Rachel dies in her sleep. That’s my mother’s signature trait. Scaring us into behaving better.
“I’m sorry,” I cried.
I know my mother knew I didn’t mean to whack my sister. I know she really didn’t believe my sister was going to die. It was her own guilt seeping through her tough mom exterior. She entrusted me, a ten-year-old, with watching my brother and sister and didn’t realize I wasn’t quite mature enough to do a good job the way an adult would.
It’s not that I was a stupid kid. I think I was very responsible. As the oldest of four children, I was forced to grow up quickly. Especially when both my parents held jobs to make ends meet. I had to pull my own weight, and the weight of my siblings. That’s just the way it was.
I started to remember the day I played baseball with my sister’s head after an incident at home.
I wanted to take a shower after a long day at work. Dawson said he wanted to shower, too. I allow this because we don’t have a bathtub and it’s so much easier than dragging out the kid tub that he’s absolutely too big for.
I imagine many people will think this is strange, a child showering with his parent, but Dawson is nearly three years old and I think that’s a bit too young to let him shower by himself. Besides, he can’t reach the shampoo just yet.
After we were done, I wrapped him in a towel while I dried myself off and wiped the water off the floor. Dawson always refuses to stand on the bath mat because he says it’s scratchy on his toes.
As we were heading upstairs, Dawson tripped on his towel and bumped his upper lip on the bottom step. Of course he started to cry and scream and I tried to calm him down as I carried him upstairs.
“Shhh. Dawson it’s okay. You’re alright,” I said.
Then I saw the blood. All over his mouth. I thought for sure his tooth had been knocked loose. I tried to get him to rinse his mouth out, but how do you tell a toddler to gargle?
I got some ice, a washcloth and glass of water to try to investigate the source of the bleeding. The mommy guilt was in full force. I started to cry. I started to panic.
Oh my God. What did I do? I should have carried him up the stairs. I should’ve known the towel would cause him to trip. What was I thinking? I’m a terrible mother. What will I tell the doctor or dentist when his tooth falls out?
And then a baseball bat hit me in the head: I am turning into my mother. I’m following in her thunderous footsteps.
When did this happen? When did I start to act like her, think like her, speak like her? How do I make it stop? Do I even have control over this? Is it genetic?
Did my mother think the same way on that summer day in 1989? I should have been outside with the kids. The dishes and cleaning could wait. What was I thinking? I shouldn’t have trusted a child to watch her brother and sister. I’m a terrible mother. What will the doctor say if I have to take her in?
My mother was not a bad parent. She did the best she could to raise four children. I should be grateful to have learned so much about good parenting. But can I not learn from her mistakes as well?
Isn’t it wise to think back on my own mother and decide what parenting skills I want to emulate and which ones I want to nix? Just because I want to parent differently doesn’t mean I’m saying my mother was wrong or a bad parent. Right? Is it really so bad that I want to parent differently but yet the same? Does that even make sense?
Maybe the guilt never goes away. No matter how hard you try to control it and not worry about it, the guilt is still there, waiting backstage until it’s next appearance.
I believe it’s just part of being a mother. This is part of the job. I just wish I’d read the job description a little more carefully so that I was prepared.
But then I realized, there is no preparation for motherhood. You just do it, live it, breathe it, sleep it. I’ll forever be a mother. The job never ends. I don’t think I want it to end, either.
It turns out that Rachel didn’t suffer any brain damage as a result of her injury (unless bad taste in men counts?) and Dawson didn’t lose a tooth, he just bruised his gums.
As for me, I’ve learned it’s okay to be like my mother, just as it’s okay to not be like her.
Afterall, I am my own person, but I’m also my mother’s daughter.
July 16, 2007
Too Much Under My Sk*rt Today
First, I want to thank everyone who offered advice, kind words, thoughts and prayers during my moments of insanity regarding my friend’s death and my worries about funerals and wills and life insurance. Your kindness means so much to me and I’m still going to reply to each of you individually when I have a few moments to breathe.
I know I haven’t written a post in several days and I’m sorry for that. Life has been crazy and busy and chaotic and wonderful and sad and happy and exciting and dull, all at the same effing time. How is that even possible?
I’m following in the blogsteps of dear Mocha and giving you a bullet post. It seems like so much has happened and I have to cram it all in before I forget what I wanted to post.
- After writing this post, I had a long talk with Doug and my parents and sister and brother about wills. I’ve assigned my brother Nathan as guardian and my sister Rachel as secondary guardian of Dawson. We will be making a first draft of a will in the next few months, too. As for cemetary plots, my father told me not to worry about those yet, but we will include these wishes in the legal documents.
- I’m freaking out about BlogHer. I’m no longer nervous about going to this fabulous conference. Now I’m worried about losing my luggage or laptop on the darn Greyhound. I’m freaking out about cab fare (it’s 3 miles from the station in Chicago to the Navy Pier — can’t be that expensive right?) and other insane travel things.
- I am panicking about not being home the next two weekends in a row. This coming weekend Dawson and I are headed to Pulaski Polka Days with my parents and siblings. Doug is stuck working all weekend. I fear he might not miss me. He’ll probably bask in the glory of having the bed all to himself and no toddler temper tantrums to deal with. I’m afraid I won’t pack all the things I need to pack. Ugh! Same thing for the following weekend when I head to BlogHer. Will I miss my baby? Can Doug handle four days along with Dawson? What if I forget to pack something?
- I have no time for a manicure or pedicure in a salon (actually, I can’t afford one). Will it be a terrible thing to do one myself for these trips I’m taking?
- I won the contest at Sk*rt!! I can’t even believe it myself! I was stunned! And then they announced me as the winner and it’s all real! Wow. Fantastic!
Okay. I know I’m forgetting to write stuff, but my brain is going millions of miles a millisecond. It’s advisable that I just stop writing and breathe.
**Updated — See! I knew I forgot to mention that I have new photos up at Flickr! Photos from the beautiful Grotto Shrine are here. Boating and Fishing photos are here. You can find new Hwy 10 construction photos here (for all you locals).
This photo of the buzzing, bumbling bee is my favorite.
