Mother

It flew in a gentle, but precise arch, tossed by an expert hand that had practiced the motion hundreds, if not thousands of times, wheeling through the air and landing with a splat! next to me.

“Wipe up the table,” my mom called from the sink.

I huffed at the audacity of asking me to wipe the table after I’d just got done clearing the dishes.

“Ugh! Come on! I already helped!!!”

I can’t see it, but I can feel her smirk.

By this point in my young life, as the preteen monster that I was, my mother was also well practiced in ignoring my whining attempts to bait her. I huffed one more time, just to make my point, but then I turned to the warm rag and wiped the table. I let a few crumbs fall to the floor, just so she knew she hadn’t won.

Oh, Nadine. You think you’re such a little rebel. I see those crumbs, little lady. But, it’s ok. I won’t tell you this now, but I’ll let those crumbs slide. I’ll let a lot slide with you, for now. I know you think you’re a handful, and maybe your grandparents make you feel that way, but you’ve always been such an easy kid and I haven’t always given you an easy life. I’ll allow you your little crumb tantrum and just be glad that I got off so easy, that you don’t hate me, yet.

I remember little moments like this, still. Little, seemingly inane, glimpses into the life we had. I don’t know how many times this particular scene played out, her washing up, standing over the sink, not doing anything very interesting. I feel, in my memories, like it happened hundreds of times, but it may have only been once. This memory feels so warm to me, so desperately important that, although I could never explain it, I understand why I saved it. The big things, the huge, life altering things, are not always so clear in my mind. But, things like this are crisp.

————

In our little kitchen on Juniper Drive, the oven timer went off. The wait had been agony and I was crawling out of my skin waiting for her to retrieve our work from the oven. She put the tray of hot chips on the counter next to the container of cinnamon sugar mix we’d prepared. She tossed the chips in the mixture in small batches, and the sweet spicy tang that tickled my nose was sublime.

“They’re too hot,” she said, calmly, “let them cool for a minute.”

“Mom, they’re fine! C’mon, let me try one! Just that little, broken piece right there!” I could see her weighing my proposal, but she didn’t give in. So, I waited. That minute, those long sixty seconds that are always unbearable for a kid of seven or eight, I waited. To have the thing I most desired so nearly within reach, only to be held back by this gatekeeper! It was almost too much. But, lucky for her, I held it together, somehow.

I’m almost tempted, Nadine. Maybe this is one of those lessons you can only learn one way. But, I guess I still put too hot things in my mouth, so maybe it’s something we never really learn. That incident, not long ago, with the baking cocoa that you were just desperate to taste, that was funny. Your grandma and I got a kick out of that. But, I don’t think I can just watch you hurt yourself when I can protect you. Unsweetened, bitter chocolate is one thing, pain is another. I would do anything to protect you from pain. I haven’t always made the best choices in my life, haven’t given you the life I wish I could, but I can do that much for you. I will always do my best to protect you.

I can’t remember exactly what had set my mom and I on this project of making our own Cinnamon Crispas™️ at home. It might have been a school assignment, but it might have just been one of those things that seemed to pop into her head randomly. I think I get that from her. Out of nowhere, sometimes, I just really need to make banana bread. Those times, when we did things together, happened less and less frequently as I got older, after my sister and brother came. I mean, I get it, now. But, I did feel the loss of those moments, working together, being a team. Finding a sweet spot between things that kids do and the things that grownups do. For example, as angry as it made me, Mom wouldn’t let me drive her car, even though I was as mesmerized by the gear shift as Aurora was by the spinning wheel. But, making those sweet treats was an intersection of kid and grownup, and that made it special and important.

————

“Don’t put quarters in your mouth. Do you have any idea how filthy those are?”

“Hmmm?” (reluctant spit)

“The clothes are almost dry, ok? Then we can go home”

To a young child, I don’t think there was anything more boring than going to the laundromat with my mom. The weekly trek to that very yellow place, with those cold chairs that always seemed cracked in just the right place to bite my legs when I sat on them, was the worst. In that environment, it seems, even my most beloved toy, became gray and dull. The book that I would read for hours at home, finding new and magical things in the pictures every time I opened it, was suddenly just paper. Nothing could protect me from the draining powers of that place. At least at grandma and grandpa’s house she could wash our clothes there while I played or watched cartoons. I never quite understood why she had to drag me along with her.

I’m sorry, Nadine. I know this makes you miserable. If there was another option, I’d take it. I wish I could trust your father to watch you, but he’s half in the bottle already, today, and wholly unreliable. It’s always been us, like this. It’s always been me doing my best, finding ways to see you’re taken care of, and it hasn’t always been easy. It’s been a juggling act. I wonder if you’ll remember how Toni used to babysit you when you were small. She and I worked opposite shifts at Safeway, and we’d trade you off at the time clock. Do you remember the girls at the home where you father and I used to work and live? They loved watching you while I worked at night. I’d play you that Smurf’s tape and we’d sing along together before you fell asleep and I had to leave you to work. Will you remember that? I hope you don’t. I hope you don’t remember how hard things have been. And, I hope you don’t swallow that quarter like the dime last month.

————

I slept.

”Jesus, Alan.”

Your diaper is on backwards. How can your father be so much older than me and still be so immature? I grew up overnight when you came along. Him, not so much. Would he have gotten it right if he wasn’t so drunk? And, look at you, Nadine. You’re so peaceful in your crib. You always are. You always sleep so soundly, all through the night. You have no idea, do you? You don’t care about your diaper. You don’t smell your father’s breath. You don’t blame me for him. Not yet. I’m afraid you will. You’ll see, someday, how stupid I was. How my stupidity made this man your father. I could’ve given you a better dad. I could’ve married someone good and solid. But, maybe he’ll surprise us, huh? Maybe he just needs a little time to adjust, and then he’ll stop the drinking and the gambling. He’ll stay out of jail and he’ll take care of us. He just needs time. We’ll be alright.

———

My mom was so young when she got married. She apologized to me once for giving me such a terrible father, an alcoholic, drug addicted repeat offender from whom I inherited a few wonderfully self-destructive traits. I thought it was a strange thing to say. I understood how shitty he was, but if she’d married someone else, I wouldn’t even be here to care one way or the other. I don’t really remember him, if I’m being honest. He’s a caricature in my mind, flat and one dimensional. I know about him, I know what he was, but I don’t know him. On Father’s Day, I thank my mom for working herself half to death to make sure I had everything I needed. I think, briefly and detachedly, about how strange it is that I don’t even know if Alan is alive or dead, and that I don’t really care. I think about how much I love my mother and how I have no frame of reference for the word “dad”.

Having now been through two divorces, myself, I don’t blame her. I understand what it can feel like to be in thrall to a bad boy. Thrall, from the old Norse, meaning a person who is in bondage.

My mom was my whole world. As I got older and had to share her, I was bitter about it and I gave her a lot of grief, I’ll admit. I didn’t really hate my siblings. But, things just got so complicated after they came along, and I missed those moments. Cleaning up the dinner table at grandpa’s house, baking together, riding in the car, one shining trip to Disneyland, and, somehow, even the laundromat. We didn’t always have a lot, but we had each other, and those days are mostly rosy in my memories.