In the parental lottery
THIS STORY WAS WRITTEN FOR THE MEDIUM PUBLICATION, THE CHALLENGED.
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Rodrigo S-C asks what we have in common with our mother and father.
They’re with me now. I’ll ask.
- Introduction
I left home in 1972, at 23, a wobbly bird, at best, leaving the nest.
Six decades later, my parents still accompany me everywhere, freely offering advice in the spirit of ‘It’s your life, but here’s the way I see it.’
They used to be inside me, where I sometimes confused their voices with my own.
Today, they’re out in the open where I respectfully listen, even welcoming their advice, no longer defensive, because, all along, they really meant that the first clause was more important than the second.
2. Mom
Here they are, in two-dimensional flesh, in the early 1950s, just before their third son, Pat, would arrive. Peter and I are crawling on the living room floor in the house where my mom lived for more than 60 years.
Do you see the boat-like figure on the mantle reflected in the mirror? It contains dirt and a plant. A decade or so later, it would fall on my aunt Maryalice’s head. Her husband, Al, my mother’s brother, and she were visiting from Des Moines for Christmas. Maryalice would survive with just a cut on her forehead, but died in 1972 of diabetes. One year later, Uncle Al married Jackie, his secretary at Standard Oil.
Mom took an immediate dislike to her, which was naturally reciprocated. She, my mother, sized people up ruthlessly, rendering quick-trigger judgments that abated, when they did, only very slowly. For poor Jackie, it took a decade.
Whenever I meet someone for the first time, Mom’s voice speaks loudly, clearly, and definitively. She truly believes she’s protecting me.
3. Dad
Thirty years later, after raising three boys, they look more relaxed.
Sadly, this wouldn’t last, as my father would be diagnosed with cancer a year or two after this photo was taken. Before that, I remember a Sunday after Thanksgiving, when I was visiting for a few days. Mickey, a cousin and the son of Jean, one of Dad’s sisters, and a part-time actor living in California, had stopped by to see my parents.
It was early evening when Mickey knocked on the door. The dishes had been cleared from the dining room table, and Mom offered pumpkin pie and coffee. The four of us sat down.
An hour later, Mickey was still talking. Abruptly, my Dad pushed his chair back and said, “It’s a little late for me, Mickey, but it was good to see you. Say hello to your mom when you see her later tonight.”
I was the next to fold, about fifteen minutes later, leaving my Mom holding the fort. She always said she liked Mickey from the moment he was born.
Today, and, really, for my adult life, I also tire of company at night. Rebecca’s the same, but, like my Mom, more naturally accommodates. When guests linger too long, Dad’s impatient voice arises in righteous indignation, and I get restless.
4. Conclusion
Unless, knowing what he plans to say, I politely and firmly send him to his room, a soundproof room just as my Dad did to me when I was a mouthy kid.
If I were ever to meet you, dear reader, for the first time, again knowing my Mom is lurking, ready to render a verdict, I would use another tactic, one she used with me a long, long time ago, when I was naughty. She froze me out, no talking, usually for a day or so. So I tilt my head away from her, no eye contact.
Both mental tactics work.
And they’re fun.
Freeing my adult self to make my own judgments and decisions.
Something that would make my wonderful parents very proud.
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Dad died of sinus cancer at 71 in 1993. Mom died of old age at 95 in 2017.
