I was my mother’s Pearl Harbor baby, which may be why much
of our early relationship was battle-driven. On December 7, 1941 –that “date which will
live in infamy“ I burst forth on the world - just as the news of Pearl Harbor
was reaching my mother’s delivery room.
The first words my thirty-eight-year-old mother heard - after my first
howl and her Ether wore off were -“We’re in it now.” She soon discovered that those words were a prelude to the
U.S. entering World War II and the howl was just an overture to the tumultuous
relationship she would have with her only daughter.
I can still see her large brown eyes watching
me in stunned horror and saying things like, “If I had you first we never would
have had your brother,” or “If you didn’t look so much like your father’s side
of the family I would have thought there was a mix-up at the hospital.” When I
relay these comments to others they assume I had an abusive mother. That was
not the case. She was appalled by my impulsivity and baffled by inability to
follow what she called “proper” procedure. She battled to keep me under control
with a measure of grace and decorum but it was a losing battle.
Her first warning that I was not going to
be an easy child was on our first shopping trip. This two-year-old explorer
wandered off, something my obedient older brother never did. I was in “Ladies
Shoes” entertaining the clerks with my Shirley Temple imitation. Mom hauled me
into the baby department and bought a blue harness to guarantee safe shopping. At
home I was hooked to a clothesline (like a dog run) so I could play safely in
our backyard. This lasted until a
neighbor phoned to ask, “Why is Carol running around the backyard nude?”
By age seven my cuteness was gone. Mom
looked at her long-legged, skinny, awkward child and enrolled me in ballet, tap
and acrobatics. She was careful to seek out teachers that did not believe in
recitals. She refused to face the embarrassment of smiling at the false
accolades; “Carol is sooo exceptional.”
My 5’2” bun headed, grey haired, determined
mother spent seven agonizing years watching those dance classes, notebook in hand,
writing down every step so she could drill me as I laboriously practiced in our
linoleum lined 50’s kitchen. Dad would walk by applauding enthusiastically at
every off balanced torjété, knobby kneed plié. Mom would look at him and shake
her head as she continued reading: Left hop, right shuffle, step R, flap, ball
change. Years later she confided that she would have given up if I was the
worst one in the class. Since I was only the second worse, we kept going.
In eighth grade Mom let me get a
bra. No falsies like the other girls were wearing. I also got my period, which
meant I was mature enough to ask the male druggist for my own “sanitary napkins.”
They were kept, along with the condoms, behind the counter. I waited until no
other customers were around, and without making eye contact mumbled, “I need a
box of Kotex.” I plunked the money onto the counter, grabbed the item and ran
out the door into Mom’s waiting car. I hurled the bag to the floor and told
her, “You know that It’s embarrassing to ask a man for Kotex, next time you’ll
have to get it.”
A deep voice replied, “Young Lady,
you’re in the wrong car.”
MORE MOTHER DAUGHTER STORIES TO
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