My mother lived for cocktail parties.
She imagined she was born to be the belle of every ball, of course with lots of male admirers - like Scarlett O'Hara, only from Philadelphia. In her youth, she was flirtatious and her jokes were mildly risqué. She believed she was pretty and witty and smarter than everyone else in the room because she could recite poetry. She probably started drinking at debutante parties at age 18 - her formal introduction into High Society, when suddenly it is OK to down tumblers full of gin.
Like all alcoholics, my mother's personal maturation stopped when the hard drinking started. She continued to believe she was pretty and witty long after the drinking made her both dull and extremely unattractive.
My parents married in 1947. My mother told me she did not want any children, but due to the incompetent use of birth control she had my oldest brother the following year, my middle brother the year after that, and then me six years later.
Children were a major problem. All she really wanted to do was drink and go to parties. She would dress up in something sparkly and douse herself with perfume and go off with my father to be witty and pretty. All she needed to achieve her dream was a babysitter.
My mother's very worst memories of those early years did not involve, say, childhood illnesses or accidents. Instead they were called: When the Babysitter Cancelled. Off would come the earrings and the sparkly dress, and out would come the rage and contempt for the three wretched children who had ruined her life.
Usually things went her way because any babysitter would do. Generally they were so old I would have to bring them their dinner in front of the TV and then put myself to bed after watching "Sea Hunt" with Lloyd Bridges. During every show someone had their SCUBA hose cut underwater, and every time I was filled with suspense. I also was absolutely thrilled to have a TV dinner instead of my mother's godawful cooking. I still remember the globule of stuffing hidden under the rubber turkey and gelatinous brown gravy as if they were the finest charcuterie. But I digress.
One evening there was no babysitter to be found, so at the last minute my mother called a random dormitory at Villanova University - you could do that in those days - and asked if anyone wanted to babysit. Someone did! Success! Joy!
The second the babysitter was in the door, my mother was out. I watched the sitter warily. She seemed pleasant enough, but of course she was a total stranger. Carefully she took off her winter boots, and coat, and hat, and mittens, and she had no fingers on her left hand.
I stared at her stubby paw. My blood ran cold. The floor seemed to drop out from under my feet. I was probably about age 5, and it had never occurred to me that people could not have fingers.
I hid in my room upstairs and said I didn't want any TV dinner. In an admirable display of empathy, one of my brothers said I HAD to come downstairs or I would hurt the babysitter's feelings. I reluctantly appeared and sat at the kitchen table, but my stomach was upside down and I was too terrified to look up. Afterwards I went back up to my room alone.
There are at least eleventy billion ways to show your children you wish you never had them. I would learn that hiring a fingerless babysitter was actually one of the more harmless ones.
11/5/2013
Nellie, I love your writing but feel such hatred toward your mother. Keep writing and know that you are not alone.
ReplyDeleteThanks for sticking with me, Shelley!
Delete