Voodoo Child

Voodoo Child

So I picked up a voodoo doll and a watch at a yard sale the other day. These transactions presented a few problems: one, I didn’t need a voodoo doll; two, the watch was broken and three, it was my yard sale. These problems were exacerbated by the fact that I had been waiting in line behind my son while my daughter was working the register. My son had just picked up three stuffed animals and two squishy clear jelly-filled I don’t-know-what’s.

My daughter glared at me as I stepped up to the register and said “Wait, why are you the only ones buying things here? I thought we were having this yard sale to get rid of stuff.” I just stared at my new voodoo doll and promised that it would all work out somehow. She charged me full price.

It’s really bad to buy junk, really, really bad to buy your own junk, and it is beyond bad to pay for an old broken watch that you didn’t even use when it was working.

I remember having a yard sale when I still lived with my parents. No sooner had the tables been set up and the cash drawer stocked, than my mother began selling my father’s stuff. Looking out the window, he began screaming as a man wheeled away on his 3-speed. “Hey! That guy has my bike!” No sooner had the cyclist made it down the driveway than another eager customer waddled away with his stereo speakers. It was a good thing because his albums were next.

I have slowly been letting go of some of the many, many things we have acquired over the years from dead, divorced or down-sizing relatives. When we visited my in-laws recently, they had created a care package of stuff for us from Grandma B. We protested and said that we have way too much stuff, but before long, we were each rooting through a cardboard box of the strangest items- things not just unnecessary, but very similar to the very items we had been trying to sell.

My husband watched me like a hawk as I fondled bottles of lotion, baby powder, contact paper, sewing paraphernalia (I don’t sew, but I was threatening to teach the kids.) Later he marched past me triumphantly, toilet plunger tucked under his arm.

Also packed to go, was one large bag containing framed pictures of us, our children, and us as children. I have to say, there is no greater feeling of rejection than having your mother hand you a bag of your old baby pictures. If you take them, you feel kind of like a loser but if you toss them out, it is heart-wrenching: you notice a mild self-loathing creeping in. So, in a fit of indecision, you stash them in your closet. And you vow to never give your own children their baby pictures.

Until one of them sells you a voodoo doll and a broken watch.  

Bubbles out the Window

As our children age, we watch some dreams of our  happy family float out the window.  Like ducks waddling on the playground, or riding bikes together.   A young girl grabbing your legs so you don’t leave her side.

Now, she glares at you from across the room.  She rolls her eyes at you.  You remember when you did the exact same thing to your own mother.  You were told this would happen.  You told yourself even.  You were ready for it.  You remind yourself what a bitchy little teen you were.  You know it’s coming, but dammit, when your little girl tells you to leave her alone, either in words or with a flip of her hair, you realize that you are in no way ready for it.

You hurry to keep up with her as she stalks off a soccer field or up a different aisle in the store, and you remind yourself that this is normal.  She’s supposed to rebel.  You are doing your job right if your children try to get away from you.  She’s just growing up.

I remember when you used to hang onto my legs, you whisper, more to comfort yourself, than to her. We used to blow bubbles together.  You used to cling to me when we waded into rough surf.  You screamed at me when I diverted my eyes from you.

Now if I stare at you too long in your skimpy bikini, you tell me to quit watching you.    

I remember the endless afternoons with my children orbiting me like happy planets, spinning on the grass or playing on the swings.   I remember cooking as they played with dolls or trucks, always within earshot, often squarely in my view.

Now, I’m on a field with only one child.  I can’t see the other.  I tried to convince her to watch baseball with us.  But she’s adamant. She doesn’t like baseball.  It’s boring.  Well, if you watch it long enough you may like it.  Just come with us.

No.

I remember being a family seated together at the bleachers, she tugging at me as I tried to watch the game.  Now, the seat beside me is empty.  The tug is from across town, a different galaxy it seems. 

My friend and I mourn our aging family as we walk our dogs.  She offered to bring her daughter dinner while she waited at high school in between activities.  I cooked some fish the way you like it.  Mom, I’m getting burgers with my friends.  You don’t even like burgers.  Yes I do.  When the hell did that happen?

As you struggle with your sense of what used to be and how your family constellation is changing, you pretend you are ready.   You remember what you were like at her age. 

You were told this would happen.    You told yourself even.

But as those dreams float out the window, all you see are the bubbles you used to blow with your little girl.