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Confessions of a Latchkey Kid

An archive post.  Feeling thankful this week and missing my Mom.  Enjoy.   

I am the product of a working mother.  Yes, it’s true.  I was seven when my Mom started working and I wore a gold key on a red and yellow lanyard, tucked inside my parochial school uniform.  I couldn’t actually unlock the door, so a neighbor kid would open it and let me in.  My brother, two years older, went to a different school and got home an hour or so after I did.  Today this would be illegal (Illinois’ current legal age for home alone children is 14).  In 1977 it was merely shameful. 

There are a few very potent memories I have about this status of latchkey kid:  one was really enjoying Brownies, but opting out of Girl Scouts after hearing a neighborhood mom complain about driving me home from the meetings.  I could really rail on this witch, but I won’t.  Who am I kidding?  Of course Imma rail on this witch.  First off, why on earth would she say that in my presence?  Secondly, my Mom didn’t drive, so she would be carting my little Brownie ass around anyway.  Thirdly, her own daughter was a Brownie in my class and we lived a half block away, so really?  Finally, I could name names, but the gal’s daughter is my facebook friend, and even though I haven’t seen her since 1983, who would wantto know that about their mom?  I take great pride in keeping that particular sadness to myself and never shared it with my Mom.  Instead, I said something about not wanting to sell cookies, which my Mom was probably pleased as punch to not have to deal with anyway. 

Another memory I have is standing on a street corner with my Mom.  Get your mind out of the gutter, people!  As mentioned, my Mom didn’t drive when I was little, so every morning she would stand on the corner and wait for another mom who lived a few blocks over to pick her up and drive to their mutual job – – an attendance office for a high school in a neighboring suburb.  My Mom left early, something like 7am, so she woke us up early, made certain we were dressed and fed, and took off a little before my brother and I walked to school.  At that age I hated that my Mom worked.  If I’m honest, I think I was ashamed.  And know that I write that only because my Mom is dead and it can’t hurt her to read those words.  Sigh.  Anyway, every morning I would walk out to the corner with my Mom and hang out with her while she waited for the other gal to pick her up.  Many years later, me all grown, my Mom told me that it just about killed her that I did that.  She felt terrible, she said, guilty as all get out, driving away as I waved.  Now I get it. 

A year or two later, my Mom was laid off from that gig and started working at the local library.  For some reason, I liked her working there more.  Maybe because she really liked it.  She stayed in that position through my college years.  God bless her.  This was full-time work and involved two evenings a week.  At this point I was about 10 and my brother 12.  Double digits.  She and my Dad had a very traditional marriage – – she cooked and cleaned and he didn’t.  So for those two evenings, she taught my brother and I how to make dinner.  It was usually just heating something up she had prepared in the morning, but once in a while I cooked a pork chop or a hamburger.  Not a bad lesson for a 10 year old, I think.  This is when we started doing our own laundry, too.  

Another really sad result of my Mom going to work was her cutting my hair.  I had mad curls and screamed every time my hair was washed or combed because of the tangled mess it gravitated towards.  When my Mom got hired she sat me down and told me it was time to get it cut.  Ouch.  This was 1977, folks, so we went for a Dorothy Hamill do.  Word to the wise:  never give your mop top curly girl a short cut.  It just doesn’t work.  Actually my Mom wore that same do from 1976 until she was diagnosed with a brain tumor in 2004.  She was a knockout with it – – it just totally suited her.  When she stopped styling her hair because the tumor had paralyzed her right side, I was shocked to learn her hair was just as curly as mine. 

Bradley Mom 

(Yes, I went to Bradley.)

So what’s my point?  It’s complicated.  Yes, that’s my point:  it’s complicated.  I have mixed feelings about working and mothering, just as I had mixed feelings about having a mom who worked.  In the end, it worked out.  I was a good kid.  Probably the worst that came from it was that I watched too many ABC afterschool specials, which taught me that if you took PCP you would jump out the window of your high school classroom.  I ate too many Ore Ida Crispers and Steak-Umms for afternoon snack.  I was a little lonely.  None of those are the best things, but none are the worst, either.  It’s hard to imagine my little seven year old self alone for an hour every afternoon and I kind of want to give that girl a hug.  By the time I was a working mother, my Mom had already died.  Just five months earlier.  How I wish I could talk about working and mothering with her – – what it was like for her, what it is like for me.  Sigh again.

Engagement Photo 
(This is totally superfluous, but this is why I fetishize the 1950s.  My Mom’s engagement photo.  My Dad was a lucky man.  Seriously.)

So what about you?  Did your mom work?  How old were you?  Did you, too, wear the key on a lanyard and hang your head in shame?  Talk to Mary Tyler Mom about it.

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Thanksgiving: Wherefore art thou?

Thanksgiving Turkey 

I’m cranky.  (Ha!  The seed of all great blog posts.) 

Yes, Imma cranky.  Next week is Thanksgiving.  You remember Thanksgiving, don’t you?  That most bountiful of holidays sandwiched in between the  more commercial blockbusters of Halloween and Christmas.  It seems to have left the building these days. 

Last night Mary Tyler Son and I were walking home from the babysitter when he squealed loudly at the sight of Christmas lights.  He ran ahead to get a better look.  We’ve barely made a dent in his Halloween bag of treats and it’s already time for Christmas.  NO. 

Let’s all decide to put the NO back in November:  NO to premature Christmas.  NO to Christmas music that makes my ears bleed if I hear it before December 1.  NO to holiday sweaters on the racks.  NO to candy canes.  NO to lights on the trees.  NO to Santa Claus.  NO to retailers opening their doors on Thanksgiving, not even having the decency to wait until 3 freaking a.m.  NO.

Truth be told, I hate November.  A few of my facebook friends have waxed poetic about the merits of this month.  “Oh, look, I can see the cranes!”  “I just love the November light . . .”  Are you kidding me?  November sucks.  It is the purgatory of our calendar year.  It is not autumn.  It is not winter.  It just sits there with an ominous foreboding of what is to come in the next twelve weeks.  Old Man Winter is gonna have his way with us here in Chicago and November is his foreplay. 

This month has one thing going for it:  Thanksgiving.  Thanksgiving I like.  Wonderful food, wonderful excuse for a day off.  Wonderful opportunity to think about what you have, even when you don’t have much, and feel grateful for it.  The movies start getting better.  I get to applaud the St. Jude Research Hospital “Thanks and Giving” campaign.  You know the one, where they show the bald kids before every movie?  The one where you are encouraged to give thanks for the healthy kids in your life?  The one that makes every Cancer Parent I know cringe?  I have a fantasy where I stand up at the end of that commercial in the darkened theater and shout, “I lost my bald child to pediatric cancer — it happens and it’s real!”  See?  Thanksgiving even makes me grateful for ad campaigns that feature sick children.  It is a holiday I don’t feel oppressed by.  I heart Thanksgiving.

Except it is vanishing.

Last week I went to Kohl’s after dinner.  I was feeling inspired and truly believed I needed a ceramic turkey.  Kind of rustic looking with a retro vibe.  I was certain Kohl’s would have it, and have it at 50% off.  Kohl’s is the most middle-aged of stores, so of course they would have a ceramic turkey.  I walked to that odd section that carries things the middle-aged housefrau likes, and my jaw dropped.  There were a dozen fiberglass pumpkins with clearance tags and row after row of Christmas ephemera.  Crap really.  Snowflakes and ornaments and Santas and jingle bells and angels.  This was November 8, people.  NOvember 8. 

I meandered to the table linen department — yes, more confirmation I am aging — and saw this pattern duplicated with fabric.  A heap of pumpkins on clearance and aisles and aisles of holiday textile cheer.  Bah humbug.  I mean, it’s not as if I missed the Thanksgiving items.  There wasn’t a run on that desired ceramic turkey.  It just didn’t exist.  There were two gals kvetching about the same thing a row over — “I mean, it’s like we go straight from Halloween to Chrismas!”  Word, sister. 

I am on a personal mission to restore Thanksgiving to its rightful place.  Are you with me?  Repeat after me: 

  • I will be grateful, dammit 
  • I will not kowtow to the consumer gods 
  • I will give Thanksgiving its proper due
  • I will teach my kids about Pilgrims and harvesting
  • I will add root vegetables to my diet
  • I will fondly remember the Brady Bunch episode with Alice gnawing her way through an ear of corn
  • I will put the NO back in November

I say YES to Thanksgiving.  I say YES to gratitude.  I say YES to making my relatives feel uncomfortable when they sit at our Thanksgiving table and are required to articulate what they are grateful for this year (consider yourselves warned, dear family).  I say YES to turkey.  I say YES to Thanksgiving. 

Thank you.

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The Freshman 15 Grows Up: The Miscarriage 20

So my friend and fellow blogger Real Mom Nutrition posted this week about her “Freshman 15.”  It was a good post, kind of a weight gain memory lane, and brought me back to the days when I worried about things like five extra pounds and wondering if I should switch to skim milk (I did and still drink two glasses a day). 

And then the thought “Miscarriage 20” popped into my head.  I’ve had four miscarriages now.  There won’t be another.  My uterus is closed for business.  I am done, which is a shame, as Mary Tyler Dad and I make exceptional kids.   Six pregnancies, two babies, and one child.  Not a great track record. 

With each miscarriage (all in their first trimester) I put on 15-20 pounds.  That makes sense, as with both of my babies I put on 38 pounds, 15-20 of which were in the first trimester.  With the earlier pregnancies, the weight came off quickly.  I would indulge in some Portillo’s and chocolate for a few weeks afterwards, licking my wounds along with my french fries, and then I would get it together.  The weight would fall off. 

After this spring’s miscarriage, the weight did not fall off.  It’s tenacious, this particular Miscarriage 20.  The Universe’s latest laugh.  “Ha,” it chuckles at me, the cruel Universe, reminding me of who is boss.  Not me.  I get it, Universe.  You win. 

I shared the post on my facebook page with the tag, “I am struggling with the ‘Miscarriage 20.’  Are you struggling too?  Can we struggle together?”  The responses were sobering:

  • Stillbirth 50
  • Miscarriage 45
  • Infertility 60
  • Four Pregnancies, One Baby 40
  • Three Pregnancies in Two Years, Two Babies, One Miscarriage 30
  • Putting Self Last 60
  • Single Mom 60
  • Bipolar 50
  • Annual Holiday 15
  • Dysfunctional Family/Grad School/Two Major Depression/Marriage 30
  • Self Esteem Issues from Teenagedom 25

That’s a lot of weight.  And a lot of sadness.  And a lot of french fries.

More than a few comments expressed gratitude about the honest discussion of miscarriage and what it does to us who have experienced it.  Honestly, I am not a good person to ask about this, despite my obvious familiarity with it.  For me, miscarriage does not equal the loss of my daughter.  Four year old Donna that I helped lower into the ground. 

After my third miscarriage, my OB called me at home one day and gently asked if we would try to conceive again.  She expressed concern about my “psyche.”  Now that is good practice — a doc to call you at home just to see how you are — but I didn’t need her to worry about my psyche.  I needed her to worry about my uterus, and leave my psyche to me.  I tried to explain to her that, for better or worse, my husband and I simply have a different continuum of sadness, pain, and loss.  YES, miscarriage is awful and sad, but we’ve known deeper sadness.  Our perspective is inalterably changed.  Sigh.  We gave it one more shot this spring after six months of uber-expensive out-of-pocket acupuncture.  No luck.  Another miscarriage.  Another ultrasound with bad news.  Another D and C.  Another Miscarriage 20.

I am tired of it.  I am tired of looking in the mirror and not liking what I see.  I am tired of the science of “strategic dressing.”  I am tired of the up, down, up, down, up, up, up on the scale. 

Seeing all the empathy shared on yesterday’s facebook thread was a good wake up call for me.  The Universe can have its laughs with us, but there is something mighty powerful about universal experience.  One of the commenters discussed her own recent weight loss, the work of it, but the joy of it, too.  “Self-forgiveness is golden.  Self-loathing must go,” she wrote.  Word. 

I am all about the Transcendentalists.  Have been since I first discovered them in college.  Walt Whitman and Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau are prophets to me.  I will work to remember Emerson’s Self-Reliance in the coming days.  Ain’t nothing gonna change until I do, so it looks like it is time to change. 

Wish me luck.