I was Raised this Way

My Mum reminds me of Marge Simpson – a devoted housewife that everyone depends on.  Just like Marge, my mum can pull out her mad skill whenever the need fills her – she sometimes needs to prove she can seriously kick some ass. However, as like Marge, my Mum always realises this isn’t her life path and puts her apron back on – she is a homebody.

Thankfully, my Dad is not like Marge’s husband – unlike Homer, my Dad is a workaholic, he “fucken loves beer” and does what my Mum tells him.  These two people are seriously made for each other.  They’ve been together since my Mum was 15, she had her first child at 19 and she always sent us three kids and my Dad off to school/work with delicious packed lunches every day.  One day while eating my ham, tomato, cucumber, cheese and lettuce sandwiches – with just the right amount of salt and pepper – one of my school friends looked at my sandwiches with envy.  “Sooooo, what’s on your sandwich today?” – I told him – “but how do you keep the bread from going soggy?” he asked. I explained I didn’t know and perhaps my mum encloses the filling with lettuce…? “I’ve just got marmite on my sandwiches again” he said with glum repulsion.

I don’t know why my Mum continued to be so nice to us into our high school years. As kids we were the equivalent of satan’s spawn themselves.  My favourite game was antagonising my Mum so bad that she’d finally lose her shit, takeoff her jandal and chase me down the passage way trying to swipe my naked ass.  Each dodged swipe made her furious, which in turn made me laugh louder.  I would run in front of her with my white, fluffy hair all matted into a birds nest at the back.  I’d try and grab glimpses at my Mum running after me winding up for the next swipe so I could dodge it right in the nic of time – the point of the game was to make her think she was actually going to get me while in mid swing.  I’d dodge right at the last millisecond – best game in the world!  I think this is why I enjoy sport so much to this very day.

Alas, my mum was clever enough to realise I would never take my punishment seriously, so she gave up and told me to “wait till your father comes home -you won’t be laughing then”.  All day, she’d remind me – “your Dad’s going to be home in a couple of hours. Hope you’re ready for a hiding” she’d warn.  “When your Dad was naughty as a kid, your Granddad would whip his ass into shape with a stick – bet he’ll use the same punishment on you!” she berated me.

I told her with bravado that I wasn’t scared – but I was.  I was sent to my room to wait for my punishment.  I was scared frozen.  All I could do was sit in the middle of my room and try to think of ways to get out of this.  Maybe I could run away – nah can’t get any food together.  Maybe I could hide in the garage – nah too cold.  Maybe I could just say sorry – nah I’m not sorry.  After a while, I heard the dreaded sound of the door open and close as my Dad arrived home – this made my stomach drop and I envisioned having to go and find my own stick and then be beaten until I was made to say sorry.  I could hear them murmuring and then long silences, and then snorts of laughter – which I thought was seriously evil.  How could my own mother think getting a hiding was funny?!  Maybe I had taken things too far – I was starting to doubt myself.

Finally my Mum came to get me from my room.  “Come on you. Your father is very mad with you”.  She made me walk in front of her and was nudging me in between my shoulder blades to make me walk in the direction of the lounge.  My Dad was standing in front of the TV with a belt.  He had folded the belt in half so it was doubled over and had each end of the folded belt grasped in his adjacent fists.  He brought his two fists together so his thumb and forefinger knuckles were touching.  He then swiftly pulled his fists away from each other so the belt made a slapping noise.

Well!  I just laughed and dropped to the floor, clasped his ankle into a bear hug and yelled “pull me along the floor Dad!”  Which he did.  We all laughed, joked and played but not without a talk on how I should be nice to my mother.  Yes Dad, I will – I promised.

With having parents so young, growing up was really fun -but it was a real strain on them financially and socially.  With this strain, came the need to ensure us kids had more than they did.  They encouraged us to have a career and see the world before settling down with the person of our choice and have kids only when we have the financial means and support to do so.

My late Grandmother however had a differing want.  The moment each of us grandkids would turn thirteen, my Grandmother would ask “when am I getting a great grandchild?”  My mother was so proud of my response – which was passed down from my older cousin and sister – “oh no, don’t look at me for that” I said, and I confidently pointed her in the direction of my brother who was next in line to turn thirteen.  None the less, my mother was in no way ready to be a grandmother at the age of 34 and she wasn’t about to take any risks.  She immediately pulled me aside, as she had done with my older sister when she was thirteen.  “Don’t you dare” she hissed in my ear “don’t….you…..dare….do that to me”.

 

 

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