Tag: Love

chapter 2

Looking back, I don’t remember a time when she was dependable.

The first time I remember her forgetting me, I was in first grade.

The final bell rang, and children poured out of the school building into the arms of waiting parents. One by one, they disappeared. Cars pulled away. Teachers gathered their things and headed home.

I stood on the curb and waited.

The afternoon air grew colder. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets, then tucked them under my arms. Still I waited.

Eventually, there was no one left but me.

Our house wasn’t far from the school. I had walked there many mornings, holding Daddy’s hand or following a familiar route, but I had never walked home alone. Standing there with no other choice, I started walking.

My fingers were so cold they ached. Then they went numb.

I remember trying to retrace the route in reverse, hoping I was going the right way. Every corner looked unfamiliar. Every block seemed longer than it should have been.

Then finally, I turned the last corner and saw our house.

Relief rushed through me.

I ran up the back steps and grabbed the screen door.

Locked.

At six years old, I didn’t stop to wonder why it was locked. Years later I would realize the obvious—that someone had been inside all along. But at the time, all I knew was that I was cold, alone, and scared.

Daddy wouldn’t be home until after football practice. After dark.

I sat on the steps and waited.

Then, as suddenly as if she had appeared out of thin air, she was there.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Maybe she explained. Maybe she didn’t. If she did, I don’t remember.

What I remember is that it happened again.

And again.

Soon, being forgotten became normal.

When the last child left school, I knew what that meant. I would be walking home.

Most of the time she was there when I arrived. Sometimes she bought me a chocolate Coke at Rexall Drugstore. Sometimes she took me to the library and let me pick out a book.

Back then, I thought those things were treats.

Now I wonder if they were apologies.

Either way, Daddy never knew.

He was busy teaching school and coaching football, basketball, and track. His days started before sunrise and ended long after dark. While he was working, I learned to keep secrets.

Especially the ones that hurt.

By second grade, football season had become my favorite time of year.

I loved pulling on my Cleveland Tigers cheerleading uniform and walking into the stadium beside Daddy. I loved the smell of popcorn drifting from the concession stand. The girl behind the counter always handed me a free bag because I was the coach’s daughter.

It made me feel special.

The first game of the season, she promised she would pick me up after school.

Not only promised—she gave instructions.

“Don’t leave,” she said. “Don’t walk home. Wait for me.”

I believed her.

All day I watched the clock.

When the final bell rang, I ran outside expecting to see her waiting in the new car Daddy had bought her.

She wasn’t there.

Still, I wasn’t worried.

She promised.

So I waited.

The crowd thinned. Cars disappeared. Teachers left.

Soon the playground belonged only to me.

I climbed onto the merry-go-round and lay on the cold metal, slowly pushing myself in circles with one foot.

Waiting.

Watching.

Believing.

After a while, I realized I needed to use the bathroom.

The school was locked.

I crossed my legs and tried not to think about it.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours.

I stood in the middle of the merry-go-round and rose onto my tiptoes, stretching my neck as far as it would go, convinced that any second I would see her car coming down the road.

That was when it happened.

Warmth spread down my legs.

For a brief moment, it felt like relief.

Then the autumn air hit my wet clothes.

The warmth vanished.

I stood there shivering, staring down at myself, humiliated and alone.

Finally, I started walking home.

I don’t remember what excuse she gave that day.

I don’t remember whether she apologized.

What I remember is that we never went to the football game.

In fact, after that day, we never went to another one together.

Some disappointments are so ordinary when they happen that you don’t recognize them as heartbreak until years later.

This was one of them.

Do-overs

In my last post I told you how much I missed my kids.  Nothing’s changed, but I wanted to share a few tips with you so that you wouldn’t have to experience 1,500 miles of distance between you and your children like I have to.

First of all, I always told my kids that they could go anywhere.  I told them not to limit their college selections based on close proximity to home but rather to use that time to go out and see the world.

What was I thinking?

When Stephen was a senior in high school we took him to Los Angeles and it was during that trip that he decided he wanted to live on the beach and go to college at UCLA.  Courtney’s junior year we took a trip to New York and that’s all it took to convince her that she was destined to attend New York University.  What were we thinking?

The summer of 2006 was horrible.  Courtney graduated from high school and was headed to NYU and Stephen, after 2 years at the University of Oklahoma, had been accepted at UCLA.  In August, we rented a U-Haul and drove Stephen’s belongings to California, then boarded a plane to New York to get Courtney situated in the Big Apple.

In a one week time frame, my kids were bi-coastal.

I cried the ugly cry all the way home from New York.  Then I spent several months drowning my sorrows with double stuffed Oreos.

It was awful. I gained 30 pounds and slept with my cell phone in case they called.

I thought that raising my kids to think for themselves was the right thing to do.  I figured that the worst that could happen would be that they would vote for a Democrat.  Boy was I wrong.

Now Stephen is working and living in Houston, and in a few months he will be transferring to Denver.  Courtney has decided that pursuing a career in screenwriting will mean that she will move to Canada after she graduates.

If you don’t want to end up like me, with an empty nest, here are my suggestions:

1.  Never take your kids to vacation spots that are also college towns.

2.  Aside from the geography that they study in 8th grade, don’t tell them that life exists outside a 50 mile radius.

3.  When they question the existence of  cities like New York City or Los Angeles, LIE.  Tell them those aren’t real places, just Hollywood fantasy.

4.  Most importantly, lay on the guilt.  Tell them how sad you will be if they move away. And,

5.  If all else fails, bribe them.  Or lock them in their rooms, whichever comes easier.

I am proud of my kids.  I live my life vicariously through them.  Stephen spends every third or fourth weekend in Mexico or Italy vacationing.  Courtney is being mentored by the best writers and moguls in the media world.  Stephen makes more money than his dad does and Courtney is becoming a very sought-after entertainment graphic designer.

I don’t know whether to be jealous of them or excited that when they put us out to pasture, they’ll be able to afford designer Mu Mu’s for me and a room with a view for their dad.

Important things I learned from my dad

Dear Dad,

I just wanted you to know that the things you taught me and the example you set for me made me the woman, wife, and mother that I am today.  In spite of all the times I slammed my door, argued with you, and pouted when I got mad – I was listening.  At least most of the time.

You taught me how to remove stitches when I was 10 – who needs a doctor when you can do it yourself?

You taught me that coconut cream pie and a Coke is the REAL breakfast of champions

You taught me that Christmas trees don’t have to be purchased – there are plenty available off the side of the road, over the fence and through the woods – you just have to bring your own saw and HURRY!

You taught me that “IT’S NOT TO REASON WHY, IT’S TO DO OR DIE”

You taught me how to drive a stick shift – or, rather, you frowned and yelled a lot and I cried – but I learned and I’m the one who taught my kids

You taught me that when you disciplined me it was hurting you worse than it was hurting me – hmmm, still not quite sure about that one

You taught me not to do as you DID, but to do as you SAID – I’ve used that one a few times myself

You never swore, except to Pete, whoever that was

And most importantly, you continue to teach me that I can count on you and you will always, always be there for me.

That was proven first in 1972 when our life became just the two of us.  I can never thank you enough for taking on the responsibility of raising a 9-year-old me.  That was not easy, I’m certain.

“I cannot think of any need in childhood as strong as the need for a father’s protection.” Sigmund Freud

Freud was right, but not just in childhood, forever.

Love,

Your daughter