Sitting in a laundry basket or a big box while my big sister pushes me across the carpet, sliding down my grandmother's carpeted stairs on my butt, or shuffling my feet across the carpet while wearing my big fluffy slippers and shocking the heck out of one of my sisters.
Laying my cheek against my Grandma Marge's cool arm, which smells of Chantilly powder, as she sings to me and calls me Princess Julianna of the Netherlands, listening to her play a waltz on the piano or a polka on her accordion.
Sitting in my Grandma Dorothy's office, at the big conference table, and learning to write my name, with the sound of printing presses and the smell of ink in the background.
Hopping into her huge black Lincoln convertible and sitting on the armrest while she drives to the post office, then to her cottage, or sliding around in the big back seat and giggling with my sister. Hoping to pass the farm with the "circus horses", which weren't really circus horses -- the horse was not really trying to climb onto the other horse's back, I realized much later when I was a teenager.
Having a never ending supply of coloring books and paper dolls, because my grandfather's publishing company produced them.
Hanging on the monkey bars in our back yard, the one we saved our pennies for in a big plastic pink piggy bank. The day we cut it open was so exciting. Riding my 3-speed bike as fast as I can down Michigan Avenue, around Ohio Terrace or on the path at the creek, feeling free and thinking it would be so much fun to drive a car someday (not knowing nothing is as fun or as free-feeling as riding a bike, even a 3-speed).
Hearing my parents play cards and laugh with their friends while I lay in bed at night, with the lingering after taste of purple cool-aid and Ballreich's potato chips.
Playing Barbies and eating cupcake batter with my best friend Kelley, then watching Andy Williams or Tom Jones on the black and white TV, while her mother sings along with a silly love sick look (I now understand).
Grandma's cottage, with the feel of the seawall railing, all warm from the sun and scratchy from the sand, the sound of the waves and the fog horn in the morning, the porch door slamming. Walking on the pier or the beach while holding my grandfather's hand.
The coolness of the grass under my bare feet, late in a summer's evening, as the lights start coming on in the houses but no one wants to stop playing hide and seek or kick ball. The smell of lighting bugs in a jar.
Mom making Thanksgiving dinner as we watch the parade, the TV getting all fuzzy when she uses the mixer to mash the potatoes; the next day making "TV dinners" with the leftovers by heating them in the oven in old pie and TV dinner tins. They came out all dry and crispy.
The huge family Christmas parties, when my Grandpa Gene or Uncle George plays Santa, handing out bags with oranges, candy canes and a wooden toy, but not wanting the paddle ball toy because as soon as the ball falls off it turns into the paddle my dad uses to spank us.
Playing BINGO with the older ladies and giving my mom the dish cloth I got as a prize. Checking out what's going on in the finished basement with the men who are laughing about something I don't quite understand -- maybe it's about the Playboy Magazines I saw hidden there. Hoping Grandpa Howard will play the "Night Before Christmas" movie on the 16mm projector soon, if it works, but settling to play "bartender" with my sisters and cousins until it's time. Heading home and hearing the man on the radio say an unidentified flying object has been spotted over Sandusky and it might be Santa.
Pretending I'm asleep so my dad can carry me into the house after a long car ride.
Sometimes I'm tired of playing adult. I'm tired of making sure there is milk in the refrigerator and toilet paper in the cabinet. I'm tired of being the one to make sure everyone has a balanced meal that suits all their tastes. I'm tired of timing showers around loads of laundry and dishes so we don't run out of hot water. I'm tired of helping with school projects and hunting down missing homework. I'm tired of cleaning bathrooms and pulling weeds. I'm tired of going to bed early just to get up early so I can work all week to help pay the bills and not have anything left over for a little fun...or a new bike.
Sometimes I think it would be so nice to let it all go and just ride a bike. But you know that feeling you had as a kid, when you came inside from playing all day, and your bare feet are cold and dirty, your stubbed toe hurts, your banged up knees have grass stains, you have itchy bug bites and you are tired and hungry? So you take a hot soapy bath, put a band-aid on your toe, put on your pjs, and curl up on the couch with popcorn to watch the Wonderful World of Disney or Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. That's the feeling I get from being a responsible wife and mom. It makes me feel secure, warm, and content at the end of the day. So does taking a shot of whiskey every once in a while, just like Grandma did.
No comments:
Post a Comment