Chewymom

My parents were married back in 1949. I was their first-born in 1966. You do the math. Yep, seventeen childless years, many spent trying to have a baby. A while back I did some reading up on Clomid, and I realized based on the timing of its release, that my mom was probably on that when she conceived me. I know she took something. (Interestingly, Clomid was initially supposed to be a birth control pill. Imagine the surprise of the women and their doctors who thought THAT!)

I don’t remember being rebellious as a preschooler. When I was 4-1/2 and my brother was born, my grandmother came to stay with us to help out. The story goes that I got irritated with my grandmother who would NOT meet my breakfast demands, and I put my little hands on my then-little-hips and declared, “YOU’RE JUST TRYING YOURSELF THIS MORNING!” Maybe not rebellious, but I certainly had a smart mouth!

When I was in first grade, my teacher had been a student of my father’s. Great. That meant I got away with nothing, because she occasionally came over for dinner. Not that I was a bad kid–actually the thought of getting in trouble horrified me, and when Anne and I were caught talking, and Miss Majors practically slung our desks, with us in them, in opposite directions across the room…well, I never forgot that and was traumatized for years. Not because of the slinging, but just because I, the perfectly obedient Chewymom, had gotten into trouble.

Outwardly I was a model student, but inwardly a rebel. I guess. My dad was a leftward-leaning Political Science professor. It was 1972, and the previously-mentioned first-grade class held a mock election. Nixon vs McGovern. You can guess who all the talk in my house was about. McGovern. So who did I vote for? Nixon.

Now, what first grader goes completely against her parents? Huh?

Okay, so along comes the Christmas season, and we were decorating pine cones with little tiny figures–you know, shepherds, angels, wise men, Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus. The teacher had a few extra packages without a baby Jesus for the Jewish people in the class. So I piped up, “I’m Jewish!” Right. My teacher, who you will remember knew my parents fairly well, went along with it all, even though mean ole Jennifer declared, “SHE’S LYING!!” My parents never said a word to me when I came home with a Christmas decoration sans baby Jesus, even though my teacher had to have told them.

My childhood was littered with examples of me telling whoppers, talking back, thinking my parents must be aliens, and just generally wondering who I was and how I got stuck in this weird family. I have no doubt my mother wondered the same thing, minus the weird family part.

In fourth grade our elementary school was merged with another one, and as a result we had a whole slew of kids we had never met before. One of them was Jamie. Jamie and her sister were the first people I ever knew of who were adopted.

“A-HA!” A light bulb went off in my head. “That’s it! I’m adopted!” My parents were significantly older, and horrifyingly more old-fashioned, than any of my friends’ parents. Except for Tiffany and Linda, but they had siblings in high school, so their parents were supposed to be old. I seemed to have NOTHING in common with my parents, either. I still loved conservative politicians. I had a thirst for spiritual understanding that seemed to not be matched by my parents’ boredom with church. I liked the pop/rock station Z-93, while my parents preferred elevator music. I wanted to watch cool stuff like Gilligan’s Island and Brady Bunch, and my parents were obsessed over 60 Minutes and Walter Cronkite. Obviously I was completely unrelated to these people. I wondered what my “real” parents must be like–certainly they’d understand me better. They’d vote for a Republican, and for goodness sake, they’d watch decent TV!

For the record, here I am 30-something years later, and I can assure you that I was not, in fact, adopted. If I were, I would not hear my mother’s voice coming out of my mouth on a daily basis, saying things I SWORE never to say to my kids like, “If you don’t hurry up, you’re going to be late!” And “Stop that or you’ll be grounded.” Or “Did you remember to brush your teeth?” Or “Your room is a wreck!” Literally in her voice and with her inflections. Eerie.

And besides, I gave birth to my twin, ironically at about the same age as my mother gave birth to me. And I fully expect for Sally to look at me in a few years, as though she is looking at an alien, and be certain that she did NOT come out of my body. Whether it is rebellion, a strong-will, or just thinking completely outside the box, she and I do not see eye to eye on many things, just as I did not with my mother. We butt heads and argue, and yes she is only five. And she would never dare to get in trouble at school–not a single popsicle stick has been pulled this entire year.

Next fall, I fully expect for her to vote for McCain and come home with a Muslim crescent moon decoration in her Christmas ornaments.

And if my mother were still alive, she would lift her hands and sing “GLORY, HALLELUJAH!” knowing that her prayers have been answered, because I finally have a child just like me.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, April 22nd, 2008 at 8:35 am and is filed under Mommy Musings. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.