Although I lived most of my weekends with grandparents thankfully my mother made every effort to keep me living with her during the week. Obstacles were numerous for my mother Elle as she had to work a full time job during the day and then work part-time several evenings per week. I remember her working evenings at a huge Bingo hall. Occasionally I tagged along with her on nights when Gran was there playing Bingo. I could sit with Gran trying to occupy myself as the evening passed. I was quiet and well-behaved for them so it wasn’t too difficult.
After Great grandmom died there was no one available to help my mother so we began a routine when I was in the first grade that played itself out for years. I awakened in the morning to a clock radio that played my favorite station. This became increasingly important during my teen years when there was no real life without the radio or records playing. Somehow I got myself out of bed most mornings and proceeded to get ready for school. In the early grades (until mom felt I was old enough to safely walk to school) mom paid extra for the service and made me take a bus to school that picked me up every morning at certain time on our street. If I wasn’t there on time I missed the school bus.
It amazes me now how often I was able to get myself ready for school and to the bus stop in time. I was quite young, only about six or seven and I honestly did not have a routine or know what to do in the morning to get myself ready. I never thought it through but somehow I got dressed and ready enough to leave the house in the nick of time. I still have a school photo from the second grade where my hair was not combed or fixed before leaving home that day. I did not know that our school photos were scheduled for that day so I came back looking rather homely with my long messy locks.
There were too many days when I failed to get my young self to that bus stop in time. Missing the bus was a chronic problem. Solving it was also my own issue to deal with and each time I chose between one of two alternatives. Occasionally I would go knock on the door next and ask for help with my plight of missing the bus. The father of the family next door would then drop me off in his car at my school on his way to work. Sometimes I’d be forced t listen to his mini-lecture about how often I missed the bus. Naturally I listened to his reprimands and admonishments in silent agony. Mostly when I missed the bus I would resign myself to staying home that day. Eventually mom would arise and get herself out the door to her job and I would spend the day alone playing or watching television. My favorite game was playing school. I had a blackboard on the wall in my bedroom and I became the strict teacher to numerous imaginary students.
I had little way to learn many skills such as time management. To this day the passage of time never quite feels as it actually is. It could be 10 am or 3 pm and my body can be clueless. Fifteen minutes or two hours may have passed without me aware of much difference. Since I was usually late or arriving in the nick of time, I am still bored and uninterested to arrive any place early. I don’t know what to do with myself if I show up early so I end of stuffing in another productive activity that results in my just on time arrival. This is also why I carry books everywhere- in case there are spare minutes in between events. The virtue of getting some place fifteen minutes early seems more like a waste of valuable time than a positive quality. The struggle with time was excusable and sad while a little girl but now it could be categorized as a character flaw- something I need to grow up and out of.
Preparing breakfast for myself was more than I knew how to do so most mornings in those early grades I ran for the school bus without any breakfast. My mom was always asleep in the morning. She never was a morning person and the fact that she was able to keep her day jobs must have been due to the skill she brought to the business when she did arrive late for work or after missing a day of work because she just couldn’t get out of bed to ever make it in that day.
As I grew older there were too many mornings when my mother forced me to call her office and tell them my mother was too sick to come to work that day. I absolutely hated making the call and speaking to anyone at her office. I was so on the spot. Any protest on my part met with such insistence from my mother that I felt helpless as I went through the motions of doing something extremely uncomfortable.
I knew so much of the time that Mom wasn’t actually sick but just tired and hung over form being out late and sometimes drinking alcohol. Once I made the phone call for her she fell back into bed and disappeared from my day. I remember nights and mornings hearing mom in the bathroom sick form too much alcohol. I realized years later that she abandoned alcohol since it too regularly made her sick. Instead she turned to prescription drugs to ease the struggle of her reality. Sometimes I opened one of my mom’s dresser drawers and stared at the rows of prescription bottles lining the inside. I didn’t know what they were for but there were a lot of bottles. Several times in later years doctors made comments or expressed concern to me about my mother’s abuse of drugs. I did not understand nor did I ever discuss it with anyone. I was, as usual a quiet observant bystander.
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