that Bill and Sheila said “I do.”<\/p>\n
My parents met at a sock-hop. They were 16. He went to a boy’s parochial school, she went to a girl’s parochial school – and they met at a joint dance. There are pictures of this dance in one of my parents’ yearbooks. There’s a picture of my mom, 16 years old, her face lit up with excitement, her hair up in a big early 60s bouffant, and still, to this day, it is strange for me to see that picture. It’s like: “Damn, that teenage girl is going to end up being my MOTHER – and that very night she would meet the man she would marry!”<\/p>\n
My dad offered to give my mom a ride home from the sock-hop. My mom said, “No, that’s okay, I drove here myself.” There was a long pause, and then my dad, who had actually ridden his bike to the sock-hop, and had offered her a ride having no idea how he would pull it off if she had taken him up on it, said, “Then – can I <\/i>have a ride home?”<\/p>\n
They got married on February 18, 1967 – on a snowy day.<\/p>\n
9 months later, they had a daughter with cross eyes and crooked legs – who eventually turned out to be me. (My eyes straightened out, and I wore a brace on my legs for the first year of my life to re-align my hips. My poor parents, 23 year old kids, didn’t know that most babies are cross-eyed at the beginning, were a bit panicked about me. My mom describes driving me home from the doctor, my legs now encased in braces, I sat in my car-seat, perfectly happy, fine, and my mother was SOBBING. Every time she would look back at her “crippled” daughter, she would burst into sobs again. But all ended out fine. When they finally took the brace off of me, I was the one who sobbed like a maniac. I missed my brace!)<\/p>\n
I also, even as an infant, slept 8 hours a night.<\/p>\n
My parents would prod me awake, to spend time with me. “Okay, she’s slept long enough. We miss her. Get her up.”<\/p>\n
So now it is 37 years later.<\/p>\n
I have said it before, and I will say it again – I almost feel like, on some cosmic level, that I might have chosen<\/i> my parents. I am definitely blessed. Definitely blessed.<\/p>\n
Here is, I think, my favorite story about my parents:<\/p>\n
I was in my mid-20s, and home from Chicago for a visit. I was in that awkward stage where – I was living a free and independent life in Chicago, an adult, making my own choices, doing my own thing – but then I would come home and suddenly feel like I was 12 years old all over again. I still had some level of a rebellious attitude towards my parents, as in: “I’m doing what I<\/i> want to do right now!!” (Meanwhile, they weren’t criticizing my choices at all!!)<\/p>\n
Basically – my whole life was centered on myself. And I’m not sorry about that, by the way. It was a necessary stage for me to go through. I had never lived for myself before, I had never created my own life before. I needed to cut the strings with the past, and figure out how I<\/i> wanted to do things.<\/p>\n
But I was in the awkward in-between stage of that process.<\/p>\n
One morning, while I was home, I woke up at around 5:30, maybe 6:00 am. It was dawn. I was sleeping upstairs in my old room – and so I definitely had a feeling of regression. Like: Get me back to the life where I am an ADULT! Jesus!<\/p>\n
Dimly – somewhere else in the house – I heard something.<\/p>\n
Voices? No, that couldn’t be. It’s 5:30 in the morning! But something …<\/p>\n
So I got out of bed, and tiptoed down the stairs to go investigate.<\/p>\n
The door to the kitchen was ajar, although mostly closed. The sounds were coming from in there.<\/p>\n
Let me just say right now: that I am so glad I didn’t just barge in. Because then I would never have had the opportunity to really SEE my parents. As separate beings, autonomous from myself.<\/p>\n
I don’t know if you know what I will mean when I say the word “see”. I’m not just talking about seeing with my eyes. I’m talking about perception, about a deeper kind of sight – how sometimes, in just one seconds-long glimpse, you can see EVERYTHING in a person.<\/p>\n
I peeked through the crack in the door.<\/p>\n
The sun was rising through the trees across the street. I could smell coffee brewing.<\/p>\n
And there were my parents, up at 5:30 in the morning, both sitting at the kitchen table.<\/p>\n
My dad was reading the newspaper.<\/p>\n
But what blew me away was my mother. My mother sat next to my dad, softly and gently strumming on a guitar.<\/p>\n
A tiny bit of background: My mom is a great guitar player, and made extra money when we all were little giving guitar lessons to the kids in the neighborhood. She would take out her guitar at family parties. There are pictures of her in her college yearbook, sitting on the Quad, holding a guitar, playing. My earliest memories of my mother have to do with her playing a guitar.<\/p>\n
But for years – maybe since I was 10 or 11 – who knows why – my mom never ever took her guitar out.<\/p>\n
Or – I never saw her do it. She didn’t play for us, like she used to when we were little. She didn’t teach lessons to kids in the neighborhood anymore.<\/p>\n
My mom put her guitar away.<\/p>\n
Now here is where the narcissism of kids is obvious: My mother put her guitar away and I barely even noticed<\/i>. I was 11 years old. I didn’t say, “Hey, Mom, why don’t you ever play the guitar anymore?” My mother was not a separate autonomous being to me – she was my mother. That was all.<\/p>\n
So it wasn’t until I was 26 years old, basically spying on my parents at 5:30 in the morning, that I suddenly realized: “Holy shit, I have not seen my mother with a guitar in her hands in … 15 years … What happened? Why did she stop playing?”<\/p>\n
But then in the next moment – I thought – Wait a second, maybe she didn’t stop playing. Obviously she didn’t, because there she is, playing for my dad – in a private moment – while her 4 children slumbered throughout the house.<\/p>\n
Suddenly, I felt like I had no idea who my mother was. I saw her – completely – as a woman, separate from myself – a woman with dreams, ambitions, complexity … It was beautiful.<\/p>\n
Maybe I’m making this sound bigger than it was.<\/p>\n
All I know is – I took one look at that dawn-lit tableau of my parents – my parents stealing a quiet-moment together in the craziness of having all their kids home – drinking coffee – not talking – my mom playing the guitar for him – and I never quite looked at the two of them in the same child-like way again.<\/p>\n
I tiptoed back up to bed, realizing that this was “their time”.<\/p>\n
My parents needed alone-time. Their kids are not their whole life. Their entire relationship is not based on their children – although, of course, we are all HUGE to them.<\/p>\n
And – I was always grateful that I got that glimpse of the two of them – together – with no kids around.<\/p>\n
It was so peaceful.<\/p>\n
It made me very glad that they were my parents.<\/p>\n
They’re precious people to me, dearer to me with every passing year – and I’m so glad that they met at that sock-hop so many years ago.<\/p>\n
Happy anniversary, Mum and Dad. You guys are the best.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
that Bill and Sheila said “I do.” My parents met at a sock-hop. They were 16. He went to a boy’s parochial school, she went to a girl’s parochial school – and they met at a joint dance. There are … Continue reading