DECEMBER 7, 2008 7:45PM
At least that is what the stupid adults and sympathy cards said. The adults all gathered around and told the 10 year old girl, me, a fable similar to this fairy tale titled "mother was called home by god and won’t be baking cookies anymore".
The sympathy cards weren't useful either. Most of them came from people who couldn't gather up the nerve to say anything in person but thought that Hallmark could. The messages were pretty much the same. Your mother is near, but you just can't see her. Your mother is just traveling for a bit on a special special journey. You get the picture.
After a couple of weeks of daily casseroles, and when all the people went home it was clear I was on my own. My father was MIA, which means he sat mutely in a chair smoking cigarettes for the next 5 months and then started going out to places to meet women. He bought me a dog to keep me company.
Shepherding myself through puberty was going to be a bitch. Or at least I would be playing the role of the bitch. I had no idea what hit me, but the mood swings were incredible. And there was the little matter of the most useful sign of puberty: getting one’s first period.
At least I knew what that was, sort of. I had gotten a small one when the mother was still residing on Chestnut St and baking cookies. Of course she didn't manage to tell me in advance that this might happen so when it did I thought I was done for. I remember hiding behind my bedroom door whimpering, wondering who was going to replace me as the youngest kid once I was finished bleeding to death. Fortunately she got out the requisite equipment and showed me the instructions on the Kotex box which thankfully meant she didn’t have to actually
Also, preceding her demise came the training bra. When a note got sent home from the gym teacher saying um, it might be time for a brassiere, she hustled me to the nearest department store for my training bra. What is it with gym teachers? Did I mention the gym teacher’s name was Mr. Oleander? The woman at the store who felt me up in the dressing room in order to determine I needed an AAA cup told me to wash it every evening. So I did. Little house on Chestnut St. had one bathroom. I had three older brothers. Any guesses on who got teased the most in that house?
All this was really nothing compared to that year after my mother was summoned to that nice place called heaven (said another Hallmark missive) and left me alone with a neurotic father. My brothers were old enough to leave home and they did exactly that as quickly as they could load up their clothes and vinyl records into their cars.
It was pretty much me and the dog. So my job, the worst job I ever ever had was to launch myself through puberty and into young adulthood with a modicum of dignity and hopefully a wit or two intact.
It surely was not a paying job, but someone had to do it. I'd like to see the job description for that one on Craigslist.
- Wanted: one angel to avenge hell on earth shepherding the soul of a pubescent young teen into a human being.
- Duration: a year or more.
- Terms: no pay now, but rewards galore later on when your own soul needs saving.
- References: must have proof of standing strong through the fires of hell and living to tell.
Next, I tried eating chocolate chip cookies. A new bakery opened in our neighborhood and they made freshly baked cookies every afternoon. Those were better than crappy sympathy cards, but when I couldn't fit into my one-piece gym suit I knew I might be in trouble. There are only so many times you can tell the gym teacher you have your period in a month. The fourth time he was on to me.
I had never purchased hygiene products before and since my father wasn't really out of the chair yet, it was up to me. I had to first ask for money. Fortunately he wasn't asking questions. Next, I had to hike to the drugstore to purchase the box of kotex. In the 60's boxes of kotex came in one size, huge. And they were behind the counter so you had to ask for them. Of course a man old enough to be my grandfather ran the drugstore and I stood staring at the tobacco for a long time before I mustered up the courage to whisper to him that I needed kotex. The box was humongous. It was bad enough they didn't have a bag big enough for it, leaving me to walk 6 blocks with a giant box of Kotex. If someone had bothered to capture that image on film, all you would see is a box of Kotex with legs and knee sox walking down the street.
The other problem I had was what to do with the training bra. I was still washing it every night, but it was getting a little worn out and I had a feeling it was too small. I only knew that because I was sure that the reason to endure having a bra on was to support two breasts, not four. Every time I wore it I produced four of them. I was sure that was not right, but there was no one to ask. So I just wore my brothers’ baggy sweaters that they had left behind.
The next perplexing dilemma was the crazy teenage complexion. I was getting zits and I didn't know what to do. I tried to use my allowance to buy stuff I saw in magazines but nothing worked. I even raided my former mother's dressing table. My father had yet to touch any of her stuff so it always looked like she just stepped out to the store. A bit creepy, but that was a good thing for me because I got to lift the goodies. I tried on the cold creams, the make up, the perfume and finally just started removing the stuff piece by piece to my room.
Then I raided her drawers and thank you lord. There was a god. She had bras. Many of them. And they weren't training bras either. I found some that sort of fit if I used safety pins, and I had two breasts again. It was a miracle. I almost forgave her for leaving.
It was a year and twenty-two days when my father, who had gotten off the chair finally, remarried a woman 1/2 my mother's age and only a year older than my big brother. I didn't care.
Even after I tested every possible job requirement in order to get at all of her qualifications, including nerves of steel, she was willing to take the job. And believe me, the woman stood though the fires of hell to get me through the remainder of puberty.
Thankfully, I was gainfully unemployed once again.
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Comments
Ooooooooooooh. I'm Paul Bunyan's sister!
Thank god for step parents
Yes. True Hyblaean. I probably should tell her. She probably knows it, but I am sure she might like to hear it. I am sure I was the step child from hell.
That photo just cracks me up, still, after all these years. We are 8 years old and she comes up to my elbow. But still friends after all these years and she still comes up to my elbow.
That photo just cracks me up, still, after all these years. We are 8 years old and she comes up to my elbow. But still friends after all these years and she still comes up to my elbow.
I was always the tall girl when I was a little kid too but I stopped growing somewhere around age 10 and have been the exact same borderline short, pretty average height ever since.
Puberty is hell. Puberty without your mom around? A true testament to what an awesome person you are that you handled it so well on your own.
Puberty is hell. Puberty without your mom around? A true testament to what an awesome person you are that you handled it so well on your own.
Thanks Jess. You are so sweet. I only handled it well after I was 40 I think.
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