My previous post makes it sound as if little child-rearing took place during my young life. That’s not true. The world according to parents was explained to me regularly. I got a few whippings when I was little. Safety issues were hot-buttons. If you were not supposed to cross the street, big people would get very excited when they found you on the other side of that street — or worse, standing in the river. What did not happen very often was punishment. A lot of fear radiated from my mother, in particular, but not much anger. My dad might get angry, but my dad was usually at work when I was young. Mom did the parental heavy lifting.
My problem with yesterday’s post is that I barely remember being in trouble. Scaring my mom, I did that a lot. But then she talked at me. And talked at me. And talked at me. I also think I got a pass of sorts because I was so alone in elementary school, the only Star Trek watcher and science fiction reader in my grade in elementary school. When I finally found my people, mom was relieved and grateful. I could tell her I had skipped school and gone to the beach at Pt. Defiance and all she would say is, “Now, you should not do that too often, Sherry.”* I would agree that most of the time a person should attend school. We would sit down with our books, me on the fuzzy, green couch and mom in the fuzzy, beige recliner, and that would be that.
But I was honestly very little trouble as a kid and adolescent. My grades remained high. I spent most evenings reading. My mom’s main concern was my happiness and I knew that. I tried to shield her from especially wild and crazy moments, but the communication lines were open.
My mom trusted me. I trusted my mom and my environment, my simple life of overcooked meat, library books and weekends on the water. Life was good.
*Jocelyn was Sherry once.
