paper.
Grandpa spoke up again and called me a great little helper who would be so happy in my new family, which would consist of my father’s youngest sister, Peggy, and her husband, Richard. “They have a little one now, Kimmy,” Grandpa tossed in, like a baby was a prize. “Won’t a sister be fun?”
How could I tell these sweet old people that I had no desire to have a sister or to have fun or to be in the company of more young people?
How could I tell them that I knew they were pulling a fast one on me too?
I had already overheard them bad-mouth Richard during cocktail hour. Grandma called him “a divorced Mormon,” which equaled “useless son of a bitch” to a devoted Catholic woman like Grandma. Grandpa had said he was “steamed” at Peggy for marrying Richard before she had finished college. They had both refused to talk to their youngest daughter for the better part of a year after she had gone against their wishes with the good-for-nothing Richard.
I knew I could not say anything to change the situation or their minds. Who was I? I was a child. Eleven years old. Nothing.
Instead, I hung my head and just cried. All my plans were about to change—again.
TEN
IN STEAD
EVEN UNDER THE BEST of circumstances, it is difficult to be a mother. No matter how wondrous my own children were—my Spencer and my Josephine—there have been many dark nights and confused days. When Spencer was little, needing to be close and yet possessing a busy quality that had him wrestle me more than he cuddled me, I was tired. Sleep deprivation lasted almost five years. Nights of unbroken sleep had vanished and as a result, I was crabby and short tempered. A permanent furrow worked itself between my brows creating a nearly constant expression of exhaustion, worry, and selfdoubt. For many years, Spencer had a full-time view into this face of distress.
The laundry list of motherhood challenges included breasts that would not cooperate with the mandated rule of nursing, frustration over the lack of privacy and solitude, and the loss of my identity as a career woman, which was then replaced by the lowly position of being a housekeeper, diaper changer, park squatter, and swing pusher.
For a long time—even as I attempted to press these feelings down—a part of me also resented the neediness of the children. Why couldn’t they just grow up, keep themselves and their rooms tidy, and get jobs to help support themselves?
Having come from my own childhood, where there had been no evidence of childishness, I was restless with the slow, agonizingly slow, process of getting on with it. What was this need within Spencer to stop and examine the bark of a tree for an hour? How could any child be fascinated, for several weeks, with the opening and closing of the lid on a Fisher Price CD player? What about this throwing himself down, in a busy coffee shop, and screaming at the top of his lungs while pummeling the floor with his fists?
And Jo? How did I, this dark and intense soul, have such a light little girl who found endless delight with flowers, who gathered dolls in groups and talked to them in a language no one could understand, and who needed—no, insisted—on wearing every single princess dress she owned and changed her name from Jo to Belle for a full year?
My kids were just so ... childlike.
Their very nature was perplexing to me. Vexing at times.
And more, I was plagued with a sense that I, due to my own dark past and resulting cynicism, would deprive them of that natural joy of being unbound, innocent, and free. How could I be a guide for such creatures as my own children? How could I turn off my own impatience and be as present to the joys of life as they were? How could I be the mother they needed instead of the person I was?
When I moved from Grandma and Grandpa’s trailer—when I came out of retirement—I found myself in a community called Stead
“I’m in Stead,” I’d say to myself just to hear the word come
Grandpa spoke up again and called me a great little helper who would be so happy in my new family, which would consist of my father’s youngest sister, Peggy, and her husband, Richard. “They have a little one now, Kimmy,” Grandpa tossed in, like a baby was a prize. “Won’t a sister be fun?”
How could I tell these sweet old people that I had no desire to have a sister or to have fun or to be in the company of more young people?
How could I tell them that I knew they were pulling a fast one on me too?
I had already overheard them bad-mouth Richard during cocktail hour. Grandma called him “a divorced Mormon,” which equaled “useless son of a bitch” to a devoted Catholic woman like Grandma. Grandpa had said he was “steamed” at Peggy for marrying Richard before she had finished college. They had both refused to talk to their youngest daughter for the better part of a year after she had gone against their wishes with the good-for-nothing Richard.
I knew I could not say anything to change the situation or their minds. Who was I? I was a child. Eleven years old. Nothing.
Instead, I hung my head and just cried. All my plans were about to change—again.
TEN
IN STEAD
EVEN UNDER THE BEST of circumstances, it is difficult to be a mother. No matter how wondrous my own children were—my Spencer and my Josephine—there have been many dark nights and confused days. When Spencer was little, needing to be close and yet possessing a busy quality that had him wrestle me more than he cuddled me, I was tired. Sleep deprivation lasted almost five years. Nights of unbroken sleep had vanished and as a result, I was crabby and short tempered. A permanent furrow worked itself between my brows creating a nearly constant expression of exhaustion, worry, and selfdoubt. For many years, Spencer had a full-time view into this face of distress.
The laundry list of motherhood challenges included breasts that would not cooperate with the mandated rule of nursing, frustration over the lack of privacy and solitude, and the loss of my identity as a career woman, which was then replaced by the lowly position of being a housekeeper, diaper changer, park squatter, and swing pusher.
For a long time—even as I attempted to press these feelings down—a part of me also resented the neediness of the children. Why couldn’t they just grow up, keep themselves and their rooms tidy, and get jobs to help support themselves?
Having come from my own childhood, where there had been no evidence of childishness, I was restless with the slow, agonizingly slow, process of getting on with it. What was this need within Spencer to stop and examine the bark of a tree for an hour? How could any child be fascinated, for several weeks, with the opening and closing of the lid on a Fisher Price CD player? What about this throwing himself down, in a busy coffee shop, and screaming at the top of his lungs while pummeling the floor with his fists?
And Jo? How did I, this dark and intense soul, have such a light little girl who found endless delight with flowers, who gathered dolls in groups and talked to them in a language no one could understand, and who needed—no, insisted—on wearing every single princess dress she owned and changed her name from Jo to Belle for a full year?
My kids were just so ... childlike.
Their very nature was perplexing to me. Vexing at times.
And more, I was plagued with a sense that I, due to my own dark past and resulting cynicism, would deprive them of that natural joy of being unbound, innocent, and free. How could I be a guide for such creatures as my own children? How could I turn off my own impatience and be as present to the joys of life as they were? How could I be the mother they needed instead of the person I was?
When I moved from Grandma and Grandpa’s trailer—when I came out of retirement—I found myself in a community called Stead
“I’m in Stead,” I’d say to myself just to hear the word come
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