And so in all of this blogging about my job, and the kids, and families, a lot of my own childhood memories have started spontaneously popping up all over the place. Suddenly my "loss of material" is turning into ideas and stories spilling out of my head and it's just a matter of me making it to the laptop to let it all out and then go back and make some sense of it. And I have to say, I am overjoyed. Not only because I love writing, but all of these memories feel sweet to remember and have more humor to them than I remember at the time. Some of them are funny and some very serious, some full of love and others covered in darkness. But somehow, it all makes up my past and the various things that I have experienced in my life. And though these experiences don't necessarily shape me or "make me who I am," they have played some part in the past and now, presently. So without further ado, this was one of my memories from today.
My brother, Christopher, is 4 years older than I am. Well technically, 3 years and 10 months, but who really counts anymore (and if you ask him, it's irrelevant information). Let's just say that when I was born he was just about to turn 4. Personally, I think my brother thinks that I was born just to cause him misery, which I am pretty certain I did for the first 15 years of his (and my) life, though I may still be continuing to do so. Of course, in that loving sibling rivalry sort of way where he is one of my favorite people in the world and he pretends I don't exist.
Anyway - Christopher and I didn't have the easiest time growing up but we made the best of it and for the most part we acted like a normal brother/sister team and fought, kicked each other, yelled (well, mostly I did that while he remained calm which just pissed me off even more), pulled hair (again, mostly me) and just generally got on each other's nerves as often as possible. Now the flipside of our relationship was at 2am, after a night of watching horror movies and convincing him I was old enough and wouldn't get scared, when I would patter down the hall to his room and wake him up just so he could remind me that Jaws was not going to come up through the middle of my mattress and eat me. "We live in New Jersey," he would mumble half asleep, "there are no sharks in New Jersey." But still, in my 5-year-old mind, anything was possible, especially at 2am in the dark, where only bad things happened, or so I was convinced. So I would whine and start to cry until he finally let me sleep at the foot of his bed with the promise on my end that I would return to my bed in a few minutes. The next day however, we would act as if nothing of the sort had happened and continue on with a wet willy or something equally disgusting. So the jist of how it was with us was that we didn't really get along much until it became important - and then in those times we were best friends, as if we would suddenly feel the biological need to unite - and the best person to use this united front with was of course, our very own mother.
Now, our mother was not a woman who put up with much of our bullshit. She was loving and I never doubted how much she loved me and she was affectionate and I was always well taken care of, but she did not, under any circumstances, put up with our crap. I wouldn't say we were afraid of her exactly, but more like - we just really didn't like to make her angry. And though she would put up with our bickering here and there, she had strict rules about name calling, hitting, spitting, lying, and arguing in the car.
Christopher and I were notorious for arguing in the car. And looking back, we spent a TON of time in the car during our school aged years because our babysitter lived a few towns away and we spent a lot of time with her, though that is an entirely separate memory! Anyway, my mother thought that by separating us so that I was in the back seat and he was in the front would work. She quickly realized that I instigated (ok, I admit it!) most of the time, so she moved me up to the front seat (1989 - so no carseat laws) so she could supervise me and put my brother in the back. This worked for maybe one car trip until my mother got fed up with both of us and stuck is both in the backseat again. This sort of thing went on for months and she warned and threatened, hollered and threatened some more - and we flat out ignored her. And then one particular day, we were about a mile from home (in a super safe, suburban NJ neighborhood) and we were just going at it. I slapped him and then he slapped me and then I punched him and there was yelling and all sorts of fun, when my mother yelled one more time that we better stop. "Or Else!!" is what she said. And I distinctly remember, being the smartass that I am, shouting to her "Or else what??!" This did not go over well. "If you do not knock it off THIS instant, I will pull the car over and make both of you WALK home!" I knew she couldn't possibly be serious. No one would do that to their own children! But I did notice she had slowed down a bit with her driving. But then Christopher poked me in the ribs so I hauled off and slapped him so hard it made a "Thwack!" sound and he yelled so loud the man on the moon (yet another memory) could hear him! And my response to this? I howled with laughter, which made my brother yell even louder. And just as fast as I could think, the tires screeched to a halt, and my mother put the car in park. Immediately we stopped. My mother, now bright red in the face, had pulled the car over on the side of the road! She turned around in her chair and bellowed: "GET OUT OF THE CAR NOW!" Christopher's jaw dropped all the way open and to this day, I wish I had a photograph. I just stared at her and then at him, and then back to her. My brother, who suddenly had become my savior, saw the horror on my face and said: "She isn't serious, she wouldn't ever make us do that," he turned to my mom, "right, Mom?" And her response to this? "GET OUT AND I WILL SEE YOU AT HOME!" We sat there staring at her like she was speaking Spanish (not exactly a priority language subject to teach in Suburban NJ elementary school - in 1989 anyway). "DO YOU NEED ME TO REMOVE YOU FROM THE CAR OR ARE YOU GOING TO DO WHAT I SAY?". She was not backing down. So of course I immediately started to cry and Christopher and I started squawking and balking and whining: "We'll stopppp mommmmm. Sorrrrry. Seeee?? We stopped!" Suddenly we were sobbing our eyes out and pretending to be best friends, but my mother was intent on making her point and wasn't backing down on this one. She unbuckled her seatbelt and started to open her car door. Her eyes did all the talking. I didn't want to see what might happen next. So I unbuckled my seat belt in disbelief and slid myself to the door, opened it, and got out on the side of the road, with Christopher right behind me. We closed the door, half thinking she would tell us to get back in, but also knowing she seemed pretty serious. "You know the way." she said, this time a bit calmer, "I will see you in about 15 minutes." And just like that, she drove off, the two of us standing there, 6 and 10 years old respectively, our jaws hanging wide open. And so we looked at each other, looked at the mile ahead of us, and started our long walk home, eyes red and puffy from crying - and also a new found respect for our mother.
I will say that we never argued in the car again. Not once. And now that I work with kids, I can really appreciate her follow through that day. We learned a serious lesson and though she never did anything quite like that ever again (I think we got it after that one time!), she did make us sit down and talk to her when we got home about what had happened. So now, this is one of our favorite stories to tell, and most people look at us in disbelief, but I wasn't lying when I say the woman didn't take any crap! And to this we day, we all tell this story and laugh until our sides hurt.
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