Hands, Feet and the
World
Still Summer 2010
“Stay a child while you can be a child.” -Stephen Sondheim
I
MEAN, really, how hard can it be to take care of two children under the age of
four (one being the bad seed, Rhonda was her name in the movie, so from now on
to protect the innocent and that’s me of course, we shall refer to her as
Rhonda) for a few hours a day, while their mother naps upstairs in the master
suite? I MEAN, my mother did it and she wasn’t allowed to nap, she wasn’t
allowed to take a break for that matter. My father had her so busy preparing
meals, baking from scratch, cleaning and disinfecting the house, making my
clothes, making our lunches, even creating the art work that hung on our walls.
One of my most vivid images is of what seemed to me at the time to be a
life-size piece of artwork that hung above our TV set in the family room. It
was a replica of The San Gabriel Mission made out of titles, a mosaic so to
speak. I clearly recall the recreation of this historic establishment that was
in fact about fifteen miles from our house and in the town my mother grew up
in. I remember the kitchen table
being strewn about with pieces of tiles, some cut into squares, some not,
burlap, and the smell of glue: talk about a craft project, this was hardcore.
The mission was all traced out and my mother cut each tile into the appropriate
size and color and then glued it to her masterpiece.
I
also remember when I was in high school a project of hers where she used tiny
scrapes of material to reproduce Monet’s Lily Pads. I didn’t think much about it at the time, but now that I
look back with some perspective, it was pretty damn impressive. As the years marched on and we kids
flew the coop and she traded in one husband for another, these creations became
less and less until they were non-existent. I wonder what made her stop and if
her being suffered in some way from their exit.
I
digress, back to the bad seed. For over a year now, I traded in my pumps &
twin sets (let’s be real here: if
I’m wearing a twin set, I’m pretty sure I’m dead) for child chasing shoes &
spit up wear, in a sense Garanimals for adults. Remember those? If you paired
the lions or graffics like in concentration, you’d have an outfit that matched
– walla!!! If I had a device like that to date I would save myself a ton of
time in the morning, as it is, these days, I can barely pull an outfit together
– I barely recognize myself when I look in the mirror. I gain weight; I shove
mac & cheese, turkey dogs, cheddar bunnies & alphabet cookies into my
mouth at every turn. I read children’s library books until I’m blue in the
face. I come up with clever games, cookie baking sessions, day trips &
special projects to amuse the youth and in return I am screamed at, told “I
hate you” and bit on the arm on more then one occasion by sweet, sweet
Rhonda……man oh man and I’m praying for a lightening storm. I know in my heart
that all children aren’t bad, the bad seed’s brother is a joy and delight, but
he is sadly, ignored and over looked by all of Rhonda’s drama. I have a butt
load of nieces and nephews and they were all great kids who I enjoyed spending
time with every chance I got, but this is another tale. I find myself dreading
going into work and feel like I’ve pretty much just traded one bad job for
another.
I
thought hanging with kids all day would bring back my innocence, remind me of
the simple things in life and give me a fresh lease on life. I thought that I
just might look back on my youth and find joy and memories that have been lost.
And some days were just like that –carefree stolen moments that felt like
summer could last forever and when I got home at night I could still feel the
cool grass on my bare feet…..not a bad way to send a work day.
Yes
I am a slave; a slave because I have to make money and, because I’m working
like a dog, cooking and cleaning for other people and then going home and
having to attend to the like for myself. There is no joy, there is only dread
and I cannot continue to live like this – it’s not good for me, or The Bad
Seed. I need to chart an escape route and come up with a plan of action.
Perhaps
it’s time for Rhonda’s mother to stop ordering take-out and reclaim her place
at the dinner table and face her children instead of running away from them.
Maybe she needs to build herself a replica of The San Gabriel Mission. If I
stop coming she will step back into her rightful role? But, I know too well
that I will simply be replaced – a role I have come to know all too well. My
thoughts return to my own mother and I know at times I was the bad seed; we
definitely charted some rough storms together.
On
a recent Mother’s Day I was perusing the card section of some local drug store
while nearly puking in the Hallmark section. I seemed to always find my way to
the blank card area, as they say less is more. At the more appropriate and
realistic blank card section, my eyes spot Monet’s Lilly Pad and I’m
transgressed to a time a place that seem to be in a galaxy far, far away. I make a note to self to ask my mother
why she ceased with her artwork. I know
presently that she is having issues with the working mechanics of her hands. I
think of my art and how in the recent years I’ve let it ride on the back
burner, again, are we more a kin then I’ve let my thoughts allow? Until now I
never thought we had much in common or shared many traits, with most of my
family in general I felt like a foreign exchange student that stepped out of
the sanctity of her room every now and then to forge for food….perhaps once
again, my perception is askew. Motherhood is not something I understand from
first hand experience, though I have loved many children in my lifetime.
Regardless of the roads we take or the paths that end up choosing us, I believe
in my heart that we all try to do our very best. Maybe Rhonda’s mother just
needed a little more time to except her faith, maybe I provided her with a
brief sabbatical – who knows. When the moment of truth chimes from the eternal
grandmother clock – in that millosecond in the darkest moment in the night…..I,
truly know my calling, my faith – the issue at hand is when the cock crows and
the dawn does its dance…..will I step up to my plate, to my faith?
“The hand that rocks
the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.” -W. R. Wallace
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