A Thread

Lots of times in my life, I will find "a thread"--over a period of a few days or weeks, I will hear/read/talk about some odd subject several times. Coincidence or divine teaching moments? I dunno. I just wanted to tell you about the latest thread--it really cracked me up.

First, Nie posted THIS about how productive she was when she locked her kids outside for a while.

Second, her sister, CJane, posted THIS about locking kids out (the comments, which are hilarious, seem to indicate it's not that unusual).

Then, like the next day, I dug in to my favorite library book from last week, Dress Your Family in corduroy and Denim by David Sedaris. One of the first essays in the book is called Let It Snow, and I immediately wanted to read it to Nie & cjane & all our e-friends because it was so appropos.

Fourthly, my adorable li'l sis, Lisa, called from AZ Sunday night to tell me she had (once again) sent a package to my spoiled children (just because they made her a get well card--I'm serious, these kids are going to have HIGH expectations of the mailman in the future considering the rate at which they receive treats in the mail!!!! BTW, we got it Lisa and they went HOG WILD about it--I will have to make a video of how much James loves that puppy you sent--he hugs it up to his neck and says, "Doggie! Doggie!"). Anyway, Lisa happened to mention that she had kicked her sons out of the house for the evening and I laughed so hard. I told her that locking your kids out is The Next Big Thing, and that when the snow stops, I'm gonna give it a try (in the fenced back yard, that is).

So what have I learned from this thread? I have learned that I don't need to feel uptight about letting my kids outside. I don't need to be pretentious about being a "Good Mom," because many, many good moms need kid-free moments. I've learned that if nothing else, it will give my kids good memories to write about.........AND I learned that I need to DEVOUR all of David Sedaris' books (I have only heard him on NPR and Letterman, and heard OF him from his wacky sister, Amy, whom I love, too). I think there is something universally wacky about growing up in a big family that provides endless comic fodder--it's what makes Brian Reagen funny and it's what makes me love Sedaris.

And now, because I love you (and I am working at the hotel on a slow night), I present most of the Let It Snow essay. Read and enjoy.

***

The winter I was in fifth grade we got lucky. Snow fell, and for the first time it accumulated….On the fifth [snow day], my mother had a little breakdown. Our presence had disrupted the secret life she led while we were at school, and when she could no longer take it, she threw us out. It wasn’t a gentle request, but something closer to an eviction. “Get the hell out of my house,” she said.

We reminded her that it was our house, too, and she opened the front door and shoved us into the carport. “And stay out!” she shouted.

My sisters and I went down the hill and sledded with other children from the neighborhood. A few hours later we returned home, surprised to find the door still locked, “Oh, come on,” we said. I rang the bell and when no one answered. We went to the window and saw our mother in the kitchen, watching television. Normally she waited until five o’clock to have a drink, but for the past few days, she’d been making an exception. Drinking didn’t count if you followed a glass of wine with a cup of coffee, and so she had both a goblet and a mug positioned before her on the countertop.

“Hey,” we yelled. “Open the door. It’s us.” We knocked on the pane, and without looking in our direction, she refilled her goblet and left the room….We pounded again and again, and when our mother failed to answer we went around back and threw snowballs at her bedroom window. “You are going to be in so much trouble when dad gets home!” we shouted, and in response my mother pulled the drapes. Dusk approached, and as it grew colder it occurred to us that we could possibly die. It happened, surely. Selfish mothers wanted the house to themselves, and their children were discovered years later, frozen like mastodons in blocks of ice.

My sister Gretchen suggested we call our father, but none of us knew his number, and he probably wouldn’t have done anything anyway. He’d gone to work specifically to escape our mother, and between the weather and her mood, it could be hours or even days before he returned home.

“One of us should get hit by a car,” I said. “That would teach the both of them.” I pictured Gretchen, her life hanging by a thread as my parents paced the halls of Rex Hospital, wishing they had been more attentive. It was really the perfect solution. With her out of the way, the rest of us would be more valuable and have a bit more room to spread out. “Gretchen, go lie in the street.”

“Make Amy do it,” she said.

Amy in turn, pushed it off to Tiffany, who was the youngest and had no concept of death. “It’s like sleeping,” we told her, “Only you get a canopy bed.”
…We chose a quiet dip between two hills, a spot where drivers were almost required to swerve out of control. She took her place, this six-year-old in a butter-colored coat, and we gathered on the curb to watch. The first car to happen by belonged to a neighbor, a fellow Yankee who had outfitted his tired with chains and stopped a few feet from our sister’s body. “Is that a person?”
he asked.

“Well, sort of,” Lisa said. She explained that we’d been locked out of the house and though the man appeared to accept it as a reasonable explanation, I’m pretty sure it was him who told on us. Another car passed, and then we saw our mother, this puffy figure awkwardly negotiating the crest of the hill. She did not own a pair of pants, and her legs were buried to the calves in snow. We wanted to send her home, to kick her out of nature just as she had kicked us out of the house, but it was hard to stay angry at someone so pitiful-looking.

“Are you wearing your loafers?” Lisa asked, and in response our mother raised her bare foot. “I was wearing loaders,” she said. “I mean really, it was there a second ago.”

This was how things went. One moment we were locked out of our own house and the next we were rooting around in the snow, looking for her left shoe. “Oh, forget about,” she said, “It’ll turn up in a few days.” Gretchen fitted her cap over my mother’s foot. Lisa secured it with her scarf, and surrounding her tightly on all sides, we made our way back home.