We’re finally out of the projects and in our forever home.
The story of getting the house in the first place is just wild. As Mom tells it, I got the sense she would almost rather go to jail than be denied a mortgage just because she was a woman. Sometimes, I think she may have been a reincarnated Suffragette. I’m not privy to what changed the banker’s mind. Mom would not have played the sympathy card. For all we know, she stood right up on his desk and demanded it. Perhaps he was afraid. Come to think of it, there are other ways—probably business as usual back in the day—but the thought leaves me weak with disgust.
Other than the banking drama, the whole thing was just one more shuffling of our stuff from one address to another. Although now, with my own bedroom, I could toss and turn in the squeaky coil bed without reprisal.
Stability comes with homeownership, disjointed as that ‘stability’ was. That house meant we could stop bouncing around—my previous record of five schools in five years—and progress through the school system with our classmates until cap and gown time in 12th grade.
While visiting Mom as an adult, she gave me a folder of papers—cards written by my 2nd-grade classmates as I moved out of that school into another. I nearly cried. The messages were so sweet—how they liked me as a friend and how they would miss me—messages most likely copied from the blackboard to practice cursive writing. Surrounded by their friendship, I had no idea. I was numb.
It was here—at this house—that Ralph decided he would no longer be called Ralph. Unless you addressed him by his given name—Leonard—he would not acknowledge you. Six years old, straight-backed, unbending. I thought at the time how powerful he was to assert himself that way. And damned if we didn’t all comply. From that time forward, he was known as Leonard.
I also had some new boundaries—not by choice, mind you—that designated me as the childcare provider and housekeeper.
A little backstory:
Mom fired the first daycare provider for beating two-year-old Peter for wetting his pants. His bottom and the backs of his legs were black and blue. Mom was apoplectic and took the heavyset, brusque Mrs. C to court. I don’t recall the outcome—except to say the C’s would not return our yellow rain slickers and boots as a way of lodging their displeasure. Aside from the traumatized toddler and lost clothing, I understood the gravity of it. Mom no longer had daycare.
Then there was the German lady who spoke broken English. We were required to take our naps on the cold concrete utility room floor. It was our own apartment, so I’m not sure what that was about. It wasn’t like we’d dribble on her upholstery. I guess she wanted us out of the way and didn’t (or couldn’t) climb the stairs to check on us if we napped in our own beds. The utility room was at her convenience. Once Mom found out, Mrs. German Lady was gone too.
In our ‘forever’ home, my brothers went to the lady down the street after school, Mrs. Klinger. I was too old for daycare at eight. Mrs. Klinger—a grandmother—was round, bosomy, and kind.
Leonard was matter of fact about the care. She was a necessity. Peter was all snuggly and ready for hugs, and she was all too eager to oblige.
In hindsight, regarding all this daycare business, Leonard really didn’t show much emotion or opinion at all. He just went along with the program. My memories involved Peter—his beating, his squishy hugs. I have no emotional recollection of my own, except to say I felt like the observer.
Several years later—into adulthood, Mom commented that affection isn’t given to children who don’t ask for it. She lamented that Leonard so desperately needed it, yet he never asked. My thoughts: who’s to know if his silence was due to fetal and infant programming or personality style?
The boys now had an eight-year-old monitoring them. An eight-year-old with no skill set in which to nurture these youngsters. Although, compared to the child beater and the German lady, I’m selling myself short. In addition to being frustrated yet kind to these rascals, my skill would be knowing how to call Mom at work when one of them split their head open while bouncing on the furniture or throwing rocks down the hill.
The school year was easy. I just had to be home after school, no friends or after-school play for me. Summers were bittersweet. Happy to be in July’s overcast heat, bored to be left out of summer camp, friendships, and the basic enjoyment that I’ve heard comes with childhood.
Paper bag lunches prepared—obliging Leonard with mustard all the way to the edges—the kids were off to their day camp. I guess that was some reprieve—having them at camp instead of putting up with their ‘younger brother’ antics all day long. Although, it was imperative—demanded—that I be there to see that they got on the bus and to greet them at the end of their playful day.
Saturdays were for cleaning. The clutter, dishes, and laundry were saved for Saturday. As a matter of fact, dishes weren’t done unless there weren’t any clean ones left in the cupboard. Chaotic. No sense of order. Should I take charge and delegate to the others? Probably not. That sounds like responsibility without authority. Or do I take charge and do it myself out of necessity? Along with their privileged lives of summer camp and mustard requests, the boys weren’t required to lift a finger—except for taking out the trash—even if the trash run was in the middle of the night. Seriously! I was informed they might turn gay if required to wash a dish or clean their room. (Holy shit. Did I just write that?) I wonder if Mom considered that she was raising someone’s future husband, so a little bit of accountability would have been a plus. Would she have married the likes of those boys?
As I got older, Mom and the boys knew I would eventually do all the cleaning—consequently, nobody touched anything, cleaned up after themselves, or offered to pick up their laundry from the floor. When I was old enough to have a ‘date’ for the Saturday matinee, I’d stay up late Friday—sometimes till 3 or 4 in the morning—cleaning, power nap for a few hours, then be picked up at noon for the date. The ‘still of the night’ buoyed my spirit in cleaning up all their trash. For one thing, it would have crushed me to clean during the day and watch them all going about their lives while I serviced the household. Oh! And lest we forget…there was ironing!
Mom continued her unpredictable rants—her depression or mood swings maintained their advantage. If she had a foul encounter at work, we were the brunt of her frustration. If money was tight, we were sacrificed as witnesses to her derangement.
Food was in limited supply, so imagine our surprise when she threw her full dinner plate at the kitchen wall over somebody’s bewildered infraction. The mess dripped from the wallpaper, leaving a greasy imprint which outlined the hanging pots and pans—forever etched as the day Mom was angry about…what exactly?
Or the time she slammed the scissors into the kitchen table to make her point. That table went on to be repurposed into a coffee table decades later…with a visible gouge, lest we forget.
When I became a mom, I chose to clean after hubby and baby were sleeping – if you have little kids, you’ll understand. And it gave me solitude and peace. My toddler would exclaim the next morning, “Look, Mom, the angels came last night!”
“They sure did, baby.”
