Laughter is good medicine ...

October 19, 2008

Patti and Honey Gail drove over from Little Rock for a short visit ... Arriving Friday afternoon. Going back Sunday. They stayed at the Howard Johnson motel which is only two blocks from our apartment.

Karen joined them every minute she wasn't working or sleeping.

We missed Carmen.

I loved the roars of laughter as childhood memories were rearranged almost beyond recognition. shamelessly, they slanted facts to prove they had been perfect children with a mean mother. Karen told how I spanked her in the yard in front of her friends when she was eight-years-old. She recites that sad tale at every family gathering, and it becomes less accurate and more interesting with each telling. .

Here's the true version: Carmen, Karen and Honey Gail - ages 10, 8 and 6 - had permission to play up and down the sidewalk in front of our house. The rules were simple. The children must stay within sight of their own front door. They must not go into anyone's house. They must not go into anyone's back yard without my knowledge and permission. I must be able to walk outside, look up and down the street and see them instantly. They knew the rules well.

So, what happened?

It began to get dark. I looked out the front door. No girls. I went out on the front porch ... Still couldn't see them. Moving a little faster now, I walked out to the sidewalk and looked up and down the street. Neighborhood boys were throwing a ball down that way. Unknown girls were skating over there. Two young hoodlums were pounding each other's small noses bloody under the bushes next door.

But, where were my daughters?

Worse case scenario raced through my brain ... They'd been kidnapped. I began to scream but since there was no air in my lungs to push the screams past my paralyzed throat, the sounds simply reverberated inside my skull. Oh, merciful God, my darling babies had been kidnapped. Oh, they were so sweet and good and innocent. They had no sweaters and the night air was getting cold. Honey had only picked at her dinner. She'd be hungry again soon. Cold, hungry and scared. My three little girls. Where were they? OhmygodOhmygodOhmygod. My precious dear sweet darling perfect babies. Kidnapped. OhmygodOhmygod.

Mid-silent-scream, I saw my children - my rotten no-good children - emerging from a backyard five houses down. They hopped on their bikes, right in my line of vision, and began leisurely pedaling home.

My heartbeat ceased roaring in my head and resumed a normal pace down where it belonged. My lungs expanded with sweet evening air.

I was waiting.

I picked them off their bikes - one by one - as they rode into the yard. The palm of my hand made swift contact with the seat of their pants. Were neighborhood children watching? I didn't know who was in the audience. I didn't care.

An angry mother is a terrible thing to behold.
A scared mother is worse. Much worse.

This incident happened in the early seventies before laws had been established to protect children's behinds. If it had happened last week, I'd be in jail today.

During her growing up years, Karen used reams of notebook paper to make lists of grievances against me. My sins were itemized and detailed and sorted into categories. I don't know how she was able to fit in school work after all the time-consuming list-making she felt driven to do.

If Karen had remained childless she'd have had to invest in Office Depot's largest four-drawer file cabinet just to accommodate the ton of charges against me. The birth of her second child, John, encouraged her to give it all up.

He began making lists before he started first grade.

I volunteered to buy his paper.