Good-Enough Parenting--His Story

We were at table with some friends recently, talking about the foods we used to like as children, when my husband said, "I made pancakes for lunch one day when I was in kindergarten."

"How nice," we said.  "Did your mother help you?"

"No," he said.  "The day I made pancakes I was alone in the house."

We put down our forks and, bit by bit, got the story out of him.  It seems that, arriving home for lunch and finding the house empty, he decided to take matters into his own hands.  He found the box of pancake mix, measured some into a bowl and poured in the milk.  Then, having lubricated the griddle with Crisco, he set it on the stove and turned on the gas.

While the griddle was preheating, he went into the next room and dialed his girlfriend's phone number.  The girl's mother answered and wanted to chat, but he was worried that the griddle would overheat.  He finally got rid of the lady, ran back into the kitchen, climbed up on a chair next to the stove, and started ladling batter onto the sizzling griddle.

We stared at him with our mouths open.  "What?" he said.  "I knew how to make pancakes.  My grandfather had taught me.  Besides, that was nothing.  I was babysitting my brother and sister when I was eight."

"You were?" we chorused, the food now cold on our plates.

"Sure.  When my parents went out they would put my brother and sister to bed.  I got to stay up and watch TV."

"But," I said, putting aside scenarios such as fires, gas leaks, and sudden fevers that might deter parents from leaving an eight-year-old in charge, "weren't you scared that a robber might come?"

"No, no," he said.  "I knew where the .22 was kept, in my parents' bedroom closet.  I knew perfectly well how to handle a gun.  I'd done lots of target practice with it in the woods."

This was childhood in the 1950s, not in a sharecropper's cabin in West Virginia but in suburban New Jersey, in a household of caring, college-educated if possibly over-optimistic young parents.

There is a lot of criticism today of fathers and mothers who overprotect their children. Helicopter parents, I know how you feel!  I refused to go to a Rolling Stones concert with my once gun-wielding, pancake-making spouse because my baby had developed a couple of funny-looking spots on her forehead.  To you I dedicate this story of pancakes and guns, not as an example but as reassurance.  Kids, mostly, can survive anything.

(For a completely different story of childhood survival, check tomorrow's post.)

What I Wish I'd Said To My Mother

My ninety-five-year-old mother is deeply demented, and there's not much I can do for her on Mother's Day.  She nevertheless still likes to eat, so I'm sending her a soul-food sweet from Spain:  chocolate-covered orange slices.  She won't know who they're from or why she's eating them.  All I'm hoping is to give her taste buds a momentary thrill.

As recently as three years ago, however, I could have given her a much bigger thrill, one that would have stayed with her for a long time.  I could have recounted some of the ways in which she had been a good mother to me.

I could have said, "Remember how you used to read over my high school term papers and make suggestions on how to improve them? You taught me how to think."

I could have said, "You used to make fantastic sauces.  No two were ever alike and none could be repeated because you invented them on the spur of the moment.  But they were terrific."

I could have said, "You made me feel loved every minute of my life, which created an expectation in me that others would love me too, and that helped me to find and keep love."

But instead of saying these things, I would go out and buy a gift, making sure that it arrived on time, and write "Happy Mother's Day" on the card.  Not bad, but I could have done better.  Unfortunately, at the time I lacked the imagination to realize that parents need to hear from their adult children that they did in fact do a good job of parenting.  Or at least that they got some things right.

I did once years ago, quite by chance, say to my mother that her relationship with my father had taught me how to be married.  I was surprised when she burst into tears.  Now I know how she felt.

"How sharper that a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child," poor sad King Lear complained.  I can think of a corollary to his words:  how sweeter even than chocolate-covered orange slices it is to have a child who is grateful, and tells you so.