Mother's Day

When you are nine years old and your dad dies, the most important thing in the world is to make sure your mom never re-marries. The thought of another man in your life or hers is unbearable. My mom never remarried. I do not know if it was because she was following my wishes, or her first marriage was so difficult she had nothing left for another try. Over the many years following my father’s passing, I honored my mother on both Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day since she assumed both roles in my life. The story of how that started was posted on this blog last year in June. I think it is worth repeating.


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I remember the first father’s day without my father. It was June 1970. It was towards the end of 4th Grade. We were still in school back then well towards the end of June. I only wish my children spent as much time in School now as we did back then. We would go until the third week in June, and started again the day after Labor Day. We did not have “Institute Days”, “Half Days,” or “Teachers are just sick of teaching so keep all your kids at Home Today Days”. If we wanted to stay home for a personal reason such as a religious Holiday, an illness, or a death in the family, a note was required. It was more like a Vacation Day taken from a full time job if you were lucky enough to have a job that gave you Vacation Days. I have no idea if my father’s factory job at Zenith offered him Vacation Days, but I cannot imagine it did. I bet he had a time card and would have to punch in, but I will never know.

My father died in March of 1970 in a car accident. Decades later when a co-worker of mine lost her father she came to my cubicle seeking a soul mate, someone who could “feel her pain” and understand what she was going through. Soon, most of the girls from the office joined us. We were a close knit group of young women working long hours for pennies at a non-profit agency. We had all gone to the wake for “Jane’s” (pseudonym) dad the day before. Her father died of some disease. Jane asked me how my dad died and I said “in a car accident.” Then in all her innocent overwhelmed state she asked me “Was it a bad accident?” I paused for a while and then in my polished dark humor which one can only develop if their childhood has seen a trauma or two, I replied: “Well, he did die. How bad did you want it to get? The guy had the nerve to wreck the car too!” I started laughing at my own joke and soon everyone who had gathered in my cubicle was hysterically laughing including the girl who had just buried her own father. It was probably my comedic delivery with the exaggerated waving hands and escalating voice that drew the laughter, but no matter, it still provided a much needed emotional release.

I learned at a young age to use humor as a way to cope with answering awkward questions. I have my father to thank for that. But back in 1970 I was a 9 year old child faced for the first time with the dilemma of getting out of an uncomfortable situation. Mrs. English, my 4th Grade teacher stood at the front of the class and said that the day’s Art Lesson would be to make a Father’s Day card. She passed out the blue construction paper and told us to get our crayons out. We sat in rows of wooden desks nailed to the hard wood floors along with our chairs. None of the furniture moved so if a kid was overweight he/she would have had a hard time “squeezing” in between the desk and the chair attached to it. Everyone else in the class would notice. This was one major incentive not to stick out by being overweight when I was growing up.

The first person in each row was given a small stack of the construction paper and told to take one and pass the rest back. I got my piece of paper and passed the remaining pieces behind me while trying not to turn around much so none of the other children would see my frightened eyes. I did not know what to do. Everyone in the class had a father except me. Or at least that is what I thought. I can never know for sure I guess. But I know everyone else knew I did not have a father. They knew when I did not come to school for an entire week that previous March. They even had an Art Lesson where they made Condolence Cards for me which one student and her mother brought to our apartment while we were sitting shiva. I will be 49 this July and I still have the box of those little hand made condolence cards from my 4th grade classmates. Was that their first experience at having to express sympathy? I still think about things like that and I just add it to the list of more things for me to never know.

I was going to have to figure it all out for myself that day with my crayons. This was the first time I stared at a blank piece of paper and felt both confused and determined to put something on it. Mrs. English did not offer up any alternatives for those of us who may not have fathers, or who may not know where their fathers were, or who may be wanting to write something other than “Happy Father’s Day” like “Please stop hitting us when we make mistakes” or “I wish you could hear me when I talk to you” or “Please stop drinking so much.” The kids in those situations were also going to have to figure it out for themselves. We did not know each other back then, but eventually as adults we were able to spot each other. Most of us really don’t know what is going on in someone else’s world. When you “become an adult” while you are still a child, life hands you many insights, and suddenly you are filled with secrets you think no one else will understand. As a child, your home and your family is your whole world. You don’t know what all those “other” worlds look like. Then when we are old enough and brave enough we begin speaking honestly about how we grew up and what went on in our own little worlds of alcoholic parents, divorces, physical abuse, and death. It was always there but we kept it to ourselves either because we were embarrassed or we simply did not have the tools to really understand and express what was happening. As an adult I now realize all those kids with bad behavior were simply manifesting some toxic experience in their family. It always has to come out some how. As children we cannot control how it is going to come out, but I think age and wisdom can provide the proper pathways to help us navigate through the rough passages. The goal is to experience and release it all in the least damaging way possible. Hopefully we learn coping skills we can transfer to other areas of our lives. Because our fate is not determined by what happens to us as much as it is by how we cope with it all.

On Father’s Day of June 1970 I quietly sat at my desk and made the most beautiful and meaningful Father’s Day Card of my little life and it was addressed to My Mother. It was the beginning of many years when I would give my Mother a card on Father’s day. After all, she was doing both jobs after my dad died, hers and his. So Mom, Happy Father’s Day. I love you.


Benita
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Now what? Mother’s Day is rapidly approaching, and while I am a mother, I am no longer a daughter. I am half of who I was. I know I should not let some manufactured holiday effect me, but it will. I want to find joy in my children but my sadness over losing my mother is inescapable. I feel guilty because I think it will make my children think they are not enough to make me happy on Mother’s Day. And I know that I need to make that my goal: One day, let the love of my children consume me and finally submerge the sadness into its’ rightful place, deep down in the lower chamber of my heart. That is what my mother did after losing her sister, her husband and her own mother in less than a 4 year span. Where did she find the strength?

My mother found her way back to joy and love. She was complicated and there were times of terrible stress, but looking back there was a lot of laughter, traveling, and slumber parties (for me, not her). That is how I will have to honor her eventually. By making sure my kids feel I put their joy and happiness ahead of my confusion and sorrow I will be teaching them the lesson I learned from Becky, my mother. But I am not ready just yet. What will I write this year on Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day? I don’t know, but I only have a few days left to figure it out. I only wish Father’s Day came first, but then again, in my case, it never really mattered.