Read an Excerpt
1
How I discovered I was living
with a teen-ager
In my mind, I always dreamed of the day I would have teen-agers.
Young boys would pinch me in the swimming pool and exclaim, “Gee, ma’am, I’m sorry. I thought you were your sensuous daughter, Dale.”
The entire family would gather around the piano and sing songs from the King Family album. And on Friday nights, we’d have a family council meeting to decide what flavor of ice cream their father, Ozzie, would bring home from the ice-cream parlor.
It never worked out that way. Our teen-agers withdrew to their bedrooms on their thirteenth birthday and didn’t show themselves to us again until it was time to get married. If we spoke to them in public, they threatened to self-destruct within three minutes. And only once a young boy grinned at me, then apologized quickly with “Gee, sir, I’m sorry. I thought you were Eric Sevareid.”
Heaven knows, we tried to make contact. One day when I knew our son Hal was in his bedroom, I pounded on the door and demanded, “Open up! I know you are in there staring at your navel.”
The door opened a crack and I charged into my son’s bedroom shouting, “Look Hal, I’m your mother. I love you. So does your father. We care about you. We haven’t seen you in months. All we get is a glimpse of the back of your head as you slam the door, and a blurred profile as the car whizzes by. We’re supposed to be communicating. How do you think I feel when the TV set flashes on the message ‘IT’S ELEVEN O’CLOCK. DO YOU KNOW WHERE YOUR CHILDREN ARE?’ I can’t even remember who they are.”
“I’m not Hal,” said the kid, peeling a banana. “I’m Henny. Hal isn’t home from school yet.”
Another time I thought I saw Hal race for the bathroom and bolt the door.
“I know this isn’t the place to talk,” I shouted through the keyhole, “but I thought you should know we’re moving next week. I’m sliding the new address under the door and certainly hope you can join us. I wouldn’t have brought it up, but I thought you’d become anxious if you came home and the refrigerator and the hot water were gone.”
A note came slowly under the door. It read, “I’ll surely miss you. Yours very truly, Hartley.”
Finally, my husband and I figured out the only way to see Hal was to watch him play football. As we shivered in the stands, our eyes eagerly searched the satin-covered backsides on the bench. Then, a pair of familiar shoulders turned and headed toward the showers.
“Hey, Hal,” said his father, grabbing his arm. “Son of a gun. Remember me? I’m Father.”
“Father who?” asked the boy.
“You’re looking great, Hal. I remember the last time I saw you. You were wearing that little suit with the duck on the pocket. Your mother tells me you’re going to be joining us when we move.”
“You have me confused, sir,” said the boy. “I’m not Hal, I’m Harry.”
“Aren’t you the guy I saw poking around our refrigerator the other night? And didn’t you go with us on our vacation last year?”
“No sir, that was Harold. Incidentally, could you give me a lift to your house? I’m spending the night with Hal.”
We thought we saw Hal a few times after that. Once when we were attending a movie and they announced a car bearing our license number that had left its parking lights on, a rather thin boy raced up the aisle, but we were never sure.
Another time at a Father-Son banquet, someone noticed a resemblance between my husband and a boy who hung on the phone all night mumbling, “Aw, c’mon, Wilma,” but that was also indefinite.
One day in the mail I received a package of graduation pictures and a bill for $76. It was worth it. “Look, dear,” I said to my husband, “it’s Hal.” Our eyes misted as we looked at the clear-skinned boy with the angular jaw and the sideburns that grew down to his jugular vein. It made spotting him at graduation a snap.
“Son of a gun,” said his father, punching him on the arm, “if you aren’t a chip off the old block, Henny.”
“Hartley,” I corrected.
“Harry,” said a mother at my elbow.
“Harold,” interjected another voice.
“I’m Hal,” said the boy graduate, straightening his shoulders and grimacing.
“Hal who?” we all asked in unison.
Sibling bill of rights
I know it is too late now, but I have long felt that I was foolish not to limit my family … to a parakeet with his tongue clipped.
That way, I would have escaped a confrontation with the Sibling Bill of Rights.
For years, I have deluded myself into believing I was raising children. Wrongo. I am not raising children at all, but cold, austere computers who are equipped with memory banks. When one child is fed a gift or a favor, the eyeballs of the other one roll around wildly. His entire body shakes, a buzzer sounds, two bells ring and a voice says mechanically, “They never bought me a watch until I could tell time.”
What the memory bank lacks in logic, it makes up for in sheer volume.
One will say, “You got the biggest piece of pie for supper. That means I get to sit by the window the next time we go on vacation.”
Or, “Richey’s broken arm cost $55. Since I wasn’t stupid enough to break my arm, can I have the $55 for a car?”
Or, “I made the last tray of ice cubes. That means you have to pass ball with me the next time I ask you.”
It is not important that they cannot remember where they left their Sunday shoes. What is important is that they have retained in their memory banks how much allowance they received in the third grade, what they got for their second birthday from Grandma Tibals, the exact hour they were put to bed when they were five and the precise moment they stopped getting those lousy home haircuts.
The memory banks go into full gear at bedtime.
Teen-ager: You little creep. You used half a can of deodorant. I wasn’t even allowed to use deodorant until last year.
Little Brother: Can I help it if you’re a late smeller?
Teen-ager: Keep it up. I’m going to tell Mom why she has ants in her registers. You think I don’t see you kicking your crusts down there. When I was little I had to eat everything on my plate.
Little Brother: And I’ll tell her how you stare at me at the table and say “eeeeeee” under your breath.
Teen-ager: You get away with murder. Just because Mom and Dad had you late in life (twenty-six!). Do you know how old I was before I got my first bicycle? I was five. You got one before your diaper dried out. And the bike I got didn’t have five gears and a hand brake. I got one with the skinny tires and dumb-looking bell and we wore fat pants that always got caught in the chain. (Editor’s Note: The more this story is told, the more primitive the vehicle becomes until he will eventually be driving a chariot in a loincloth.)
Little Brother: Big deal. I gotta do my homework.
Teen-ager: Wow. If that doesn’t beat all. I didn’t have homework until I was a freshman.
Finally, I could stand it no longer. “Boys!” I yelled, “I want you to run down to the shopping center and get some bird seed. Petie acts hungry.”
I saw their eyeballs start to roll. Bodies began to shake as a buzzer and two bells began to sound. Finally, a voice said mechanically, “We never get to eat before we go to bed.”
“It’s simple,” said the other voice, “Mom always liked the bird best.”
