Mom & Me Four Archive

    On the day of my father's birthday he was looking forward to early retirement from his Civil Service job in June of that year, when all our family that remained home moved to the U.S. proper from Guam. Although my parents had planned extensive travel for their retirement years, my father was soon to declare that he was going to sit in his rocking chair and drink himself to death. It took him 13 years to accomplish this.
    On the day of my mother's birthday, our family had returned to the states and was living temporarily in Prescott, AZ. One of my sisters was preparing for her hastily chosen wedding in August, less than a half month away. My parents' restless sojourn back and forth (and back and forth) between Texas and Arizona had yet to begin.
    At 55, my father was almost burnt out...glimmers of hope flashed here and there but, mostly, he was tired of life and scared of the emptiness he was sure he faced.
    At 55, my mother was harried but hopeful. She was stressed over the surprise wedding which everyone thought was unwise, but, realizing she could not stop it, fully caught up in the preparations. She was, as well, extremely optimistic about her and my father's "retirement".
    On this, the day after the last day of my 55th year (although I will, officially, be "55", I will begin telling people I am in my 56th year, which is true...an old habit, started when I was much younger and wanted to be much older), I think I can confidently say that I feel quite a bit different about this age than my parents felt about reaching 55. This is not and probably will not be a watershed year for me, as it was for my parents. There is nothing happening that is marking any kind of passage. At 55, I think my father felt "old". At 55, I think my mother felt, "What?!? 55? Well, all right, but I don't 'feel' 55." Me? I'm cruising. I have no problem admitting how long I've been around. I'm just pleasantly surprised that this is what 55 is like for me. I don't feel essentially different than I did when I was nine. In fact, since I'm on the other end of menopause, I probably feel more like I did when I was nine than I have for 46 years.
    On my 9th birthday in 1960, as I was riding the bus to school, I remember looking out through the window and the passing boonies, planning bike trips to the mysteries hidden in dense overgrowth along the route, thinking about how I felt that day: Energetic, hopeful, excited, much too savvy and wise to be "only nine"... I made a decision. I decided that every year on my birthday I would remember that bus trip, how I felt at that time and compare it with how I felt on my birthday every succeeding year. I've done this faithfully.
    I remember much of that day. The day at school even had an auspiciously exciting start: Someone threw a used menstrual napkin into the middle of the playground, around which all of us kids gathered, oohing and ahhing. A presentation about menstruation was planned at school for the 5th grade girls that day. Fourth grade girls, of which I was one, were allowed with parental permission and presence. I was the only 4th grade girl who attended (with my mother). I was pleased because I was hoping the presentation was going to include a Disney cartoon movie about menstruation that I'd seen a few years previous when I'd accompanied my older sister to a similar presentation in California, where we were living at the time. The movie had enchanted me, although I hadn't understood any of it. I loved it, especially a scene wherein a developing girl takes a shower and ice cubes come out of the spigot. This time around, in the 4th grade, when, much to my delight, the movie was shown, I absorbed the mechanics of the process but still didn't relate it to myself.
    I had a family party rather than a neighborhood party. I don't remember why, but it was my choice. Our parents left those decisions to us, past "a certain age", probably school age. My mother had informed me, as well, some months previous to my birthday, that this was the last year I could receive a doll as a present. If I wanted one, I was to pick out exactly the kind I wanted. The only doll I'd ever wanted was a "Muffy" doll, when I was in the 1st grade. The only reason I wanted it was because my oldest sister had one and I idolized my oldest sister. By the time I decided I needed this doll, though, they were no longer being made. The only dolls with which I ever "played" were errant, naked Barbie and Ken dolls belonging to my younger sisters. I used them to instruct my younger sisters regarding the positions of sexual intercourse, including an explanation of what their genitalia would look like and what those organs would be doing in various positions, "...if they had them." I preferred tiny glass and ceramic animals and chess pieces as the animated elements in my fantasies, if I wasn't busy imagining that I was a horse. However, this impending doll hallmark seemed unusually important to me. I figured, well, I'd better pick one out. I did.
    We were also allowed to plan our favorite dinner. I asked for hamburger patties with cheese and pickled beets (canned beets pickled while cooking with vinegar and spices; no sugar). I'm sure I had a cake of some kind, but I don't remember it. Remembering my preferences of the time, though, I probably asked for chocolate without frosting. I was probably told that it would have frosting, anyway, since the rest of the family liked frosting. I probably also asked for ice cream, most likely Rocky Road. If I had made it to the part of the dinner that included dessert (which I didn't), I would have demanded a piece of cake from the center, which would have the least amount of icing, then would have scraped my icing onto someone else's plate.
    During dinner someone made the mistake of asking what happened to us at school that day. When my turn came, I related the playground incident, then went on to extoll the virtues of the Disney menstrual movie, proceeding to explain, in detail, the journey of an egg through female fertility plumbing. My oldest sister turned scarlet with embarrassment. My father, as my presentation progressed, tried, several times, to stop me, until, annoyed and argumentative, I gave up, disgusted, having the last word with, "It's just about a little egg!"
    Dinner devolved from there. My feelings were hurt and I began to cry. I tried to cut my hamburger while I was blubbering, the knife slipped and launched the burger across the table and onto the floor. I left the table of my own miserable accord to cry and pout in my room.
    The doll? I never named it. Feeling an immense responsibility toward it, I taught myself to sew by hand by making her a wardrobe. I asked my father to make her a bed, which he did. Every morning for about a month I'd dress the doll, make her bed, sit her up on it. Every night before I retired I'd put her in pajamas and tuck her back into bed. I didn't play with her, other than that. She was quickly forgotten and discarded sometime before I became a teenager.
    I will, tonight, on this birthday, fix a dinner of food I like, want and haven't had for quite awhile: Marinated, grilled rib eye steak. We'll have small baked potatoes with butter, sour cream and chives. I'll dig all the white stuff out of mine, ask Mom if she wants it, she'll say, "No," I'll discard it and eat the remaining skin. We'll have steamed brocolli with a home made Asian dressing, loaded with ginger, rice vinegar and hot curry powder, a dash of soy, a peanut oil base.
    I was going to forego dessert but suddenly, an hour or so ago, I realized I wanted banana cream pie. This is bizarre. I like bananas but have never relished the idea of banana cream pie, and my mother doesn't like it, either, although she, too, likes bananas. I may have tasted one at some time, I don't remember. If I did, it was probably while at dinner at someone's house and strictly to be polite. Whatever, I decided, I seem to want this, so I'll have it. I considered buying one but figured it probably wouldn't have many bananas in it. I went to the store, even though I made sure all errands were up-to-date so I wouldn't need to go out today, bought bananas, banana flavoring, milk and a ready made graham cracker crust (I don't feel like messing with an original today). When I make my banana cream pie it will be more bananas than cream. I'll include chopped pecans. It occurred to me, on the way home, that I might even add chopped dates and a teaspoon of ginger, out of curiosity. Should be interesting.
    I'll probably let Mom sleep in, at least until I get nervous, which will probably be around 1400. She didn't retire until 0130 this morning, though, so I think she'll be fine. I probably won't encourage a walkering session today.
    She may or may not remember it's my birthday. I think it'll depend on whether she is reminded that it is Halloween.
    Although it's not a doll birthday this year, I am my mother's companion and feel an immense responsibility toward her, which is displayed in a variety of ways, none of which involves making clothes for her. Fortunately, I also have much more interest in her than I did in a doll. I don't expect we'll be watching any menstrual movies, but, this year, for the first year since I turned 9, I feel like I'm again riding that fateful bus. I feel much the same as I did then; I'm even expecting to catch a glimpse of sparkling mysteries, to which I will plan trips.
    Later.