I finally heard the car horn honking from the driveway. “Mother! Daddy!” I threw open the door and ran to greet them. I was so excited to see my parents after several months. Although married for six years, this was my first Christmas away from my family. I’d clung to the fact that they were coming to our house to celebrate the week after Christmas. I ran for the open arms I’d grown accustomed to as a child, only to find them full of packages and food containers. Food containers?
Mother grinned and marched passed me, heading for our tiny kitchen. “I thought we might as well bring a load as we came in,” she called back over her shoulder.
Daddy quickly followed, burdened with grocery bags, deposited them on the counter, and gave me that postponed hug.
Mother made room in the refrigerator for her purchases and turned to hug me too. “My, your refrigerator is full. I could hardly get my grated coconut in there.”
“I stocked up because you were coming,” I reminded her.
“Oh, we brought plenty,” she responded. Behind her, Daddy smiled and rolled his eyes. She turned toward him and added, “And dear, you’d better get the cooler in right away.”
Cooler? Like the plethora of food you’ve already dumped in my organized kitchen isn’t enough? Soon Mom was unpacking barbecued spareribs, sausage, cornmeal, leftover jam cake, chocolate cake, boiled custard, and a container of dried peaches-in addition to the grated coconut. She’d even brought pre-baked layers for one of her famous coconut cakes. It only needed the coconut frosting.
Despite being in the cooler, the freshly-grated coconut did not travel well. It had spoiled during the journey from south to north. Regardless of the overwhelming amount of food, this called for a trip to the supermarket. Although this store had met our needs admirably for three years, it failed to measure up to Mother’s expectations when it had neither fresh nor frozen coconut.
My Daughter-a Yankee?
I guess Yankees just don’t cook like we Southerners do!” she said with condescension in her voice. Mother at last agreed to substitute canned coconut but was almost in tears upon discovering that I didn’t have light Karo syrup on hand or a double boiler in which to cook the frosting. I could tell what my next birthday present would be.
We finally sat down to dinner, and I looked at my table in dismay. My carefully planned Christmas menu was hardly recognizable due to the addition of her cornbread and spareribs. While Steve asked the blessing, I said my own separate prayer: “Lord, help me through this. Help me be kind and patient. I know she means well, but I really need your help to get through this.”
Fourteen Again
Meanwhile, my delicious macadamia nut pie crouched in the corner of the crowded refrigerator-rejected by all diners in favor of coconut, jam, or chocolate cake with boiled custard. As she served the cakes, Mother fumed, “Why didn’t we think to get vanilla ice cream at the store?”
“Because it doesn’t go with macadamia nut pie,” I murmured. At age twenty-six, I was again muttering under my breath, instantly reverted to fourteen again by her mere presence.
Without missing a beat, Mother continued on. “This is great. You can just save your pie for another time.” Firmly, she pushed me to my chair as she cleared the table, and then served the cake.
What choice was there? Steve and I would have been rude to refuse her cake, and Daddy wouldn’t think of it. Besides, since he’d never tasted macadamia nut pie, he would probably “just as soon not start now,” considering his usual attitude about food. Once he’d learned to eat pizza and tacos, he considered the broadening his tastes complete.
Announcement Time
I’d still make it a banner evening with my big announcement. As we relaxed with dessert, I cleared my throat and smiled. “We have a special announcement to make,” I began. I was met with silence and an encouraging smile from Steve, so I continued. “We’re going to have baby in August!”
“Well, that certainly is a surprise,” Daddy said mildly.
“Hmmmm…if it’s that far off, I hope you aren’t going to tell anyone right away,” Mother advised. “A pregnancy seems to last forever, even if you wait until you are showing to publicly announce it.” Then, as if feeling obligated she said, “That’s really exciting news. Imagine-us, grandparents!” At age forty-eight-and looking even younger-she didn’t seem ready to embrace the concept.
“Well, we certainly won’t be guilty of spoiling this child,” Mother said. Nothing is worse than a spoiled child.”
No hugs, kisses, no shouts of joy. No broad grins or delighted chuckles. The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach was more than the usual pregnancy nausea.
Later came the hugs and kisses and the hearty response, but by then it was too late to be meaningful. Later came the revelation that experience had taught Mother: childbirth could be dangerous, and she was overwhelmed with concern for my safety.
Just a Little Talk with Mother?
Steve, Daddy, and I had some long pleasant conversations the next day, but none of us saw much of Mother. She’d found three baskets of clothes that hadn’t been ironed. That evening, Mother again took over the dinner preparation. Poor macadamia nut pie, passed over once more, but this time in favor of Mother’s wonderful fried peach pies. Nor were my spinach and avocado put into a salad as Mother made her special coleslaw instead.
Again, I prayed, “Lord, I love this woman, but she drives me crazy! Why can’t she just sit with us-just once? When we’re at her house, I know she’s always busy taking care of everyone, but here she should be able to relax. Patience. I need it now!”
I have no idea what time Mother got up that last morning. I do know by seven o’clock she’d already cooked sausage, eggs, fried apples, hash browns, coffee, and homemade biscuits. Steve wanted to ask where the cinnamon rolls were, but I convinced him that his sarcasm would be lost on her. She would have left in the middle of breakfast to start them. At that breakfast, where I’d only been allowed to set the table, I got up to get the cream for Daddy’s coffee.
“Now you just sit down and I’ll get it,” Mother crooned.
“If I want to get the cream,” I retorted none too sweetly, “I’ll get the cream!”
“Atta girl,” Daddy grinned.
Mom then related a cute little story from Readers Digest about a woman who was adorably irritable during pregnancy. I sat there, gritting my teeth.
The Parents-Gone at Last?
After breakfast, with much good-byeing and waving, my parents took their leave. Finally the door closed, and I locked it behind them. They were gone at last-or so I thought. Hearing the doorknob rattle, I unlocked the door. Had my parents forgotten something?
A hand thrust some money inside the door. Buy yourself some red delicious apples with this,” she said. “I meant to get you some while I was here, but never did.” With that, she was gone.
I fell on the couch, sobbing tears of frustration that had been mounting for two days. I imagined Mother talking to Daddy at length about how we “really didn’t seem very grateful” for all they did. Probably adding that I was a bit spoiled.
Becoming Our Parents?
That was thirty years ago. The baby announced during that visit is now a father himself. When he and my wonderful daughter-in-law told us of the great news of their pregnancy, the Lord sent me a vision of how not to respond. Normally a laid-back person, I’d have responded with a quiet smile and a calm, “That’s wonderful.” Instead, I leapt to my feet-not easy when you’re sitting on boulders in the middle of a mountain stream-and hugged them both, showing outwardly the extreme inward love and pride I feel in them and for them.
So, that’s it, Lord. You give us experiences and memories to help us do better when it’s our turn. And I can promise you-I am totally spoiling my grandchildren!
