mother

January 30, 1977


January 30, 1977

CD's Baptism

 

Because I’m a pastor’s kid (PK), my father confirmed me – married me – and baptized my children. Every time I stood in front of the congregation and looked into his eyes, tears welled and I teetered on the edge of complete meltdown. I wasn’t sad, just overloaded with emotion. The same thing happens when I think about him now. The memory of my father officiating at CD’s baptism makes me reflect on unique aspects of life as a PK.

CD with my father.
CD with my father.

 When I was two years old (before the Alien Baby[1] emerged, and ruined my life), my father took me with him to give communion to rural parishioners. Halfway through the ceremony, his communicant’s eyes wandered so he turned to investigate what caught their attention. It was me, toddling behind, imitating his words of blessing and passing out imaginary wine and wafers.

CD with me.
CD with me.
CD meets Joyce's dog Kuala or vice versa.
CD meets Joyce’s dog Kuala or vice versa.

We acted out Bible stories to amuse ourselves. The Good Samaritan was a favorite. My father played the battered victim near death by the side of the road. I took on multiple challenging roles ranging from a snooty priest to a snotty Pharisee and a self-absorbed Levite.  Basically, I pretended not to see the dying man by the side of the road. At this point my sister Janet, bobbing with excitement, took center stage in the starring role of Good Samaritan. Between you and me, a monkey could have played her part.  All she needed to do was hoof it as far as the kitchen and ask Mommy for a glass of water. When she accomplished this feat, dramatic tension peaked. Invariably she paused –  and guzzled most of the water, saving a few drops for our dying dad. And I’m the one who got typecast as being selfish?

CD finds this all a big yawn.
CD finds this all a big yawn.

Sometimes Janet and I played Israelites in search of manna. Confused about what constituted manna  – was it vegetable, legume or dairy product? We agreed it probably resembled chocolate chip cookie dough and hid globs of it in the sofa cushions for the Israelites to discover and devour. Who knew about salmonella in the fabulous fifties?

(Future blogs will explore other aspects of growing up P.K.)

[1] See Kathy Vs. the Alien Baby footnote

November 28, 1985


november-28-1985

Backstage pass for Motley Crue show - "Theatre of Pain" is an apt name indeed!
Backstage pass for Motley Crue show – “Theatre of Pain” is an apt name indeed!

 

This take-away lesson is a good one; unfortunately, I still haven’t mastered it. Maybe my need to be a martyr is just too ingrained. Maybe I harbor an unnatural fear of doctors and hospitals. For whatever reason, I still delay dealing with potential health issues as long as possible.

Much like I minimize my own pain or maladies, I tend to discredit health problems in those nearest and dearest to me. I used to tell my children, don’t even try to tell me you’re sick unless I see blood or vomit.  In hindsight, perhaps this was not the healthiest atmosphere.

My mother was the best when I was sick - the opposite of me! She treated me like a princess. It's a wonder I didn't get addicted to being ill.
My mother was the best when I was sick – the opposite of me! She treated me like a princess. It’s a wonder I didn’t get addicted to being ill.

At the time, of course, I was absolutely convinced I was right.  Now I wonder if that was something I told myself because I was so terrified of the alternative. The possibility something serious might actually be wrong paralyzed me with fear. In order to stay calm and keep going, I had to convince myself my loved one’s complaints were only in their heads – no serious threat at all.

The Theatre of Pain concert program
The “Theatre of Pain” concert program

Of course, pretending serious threats don’t exist in no way minimizes or eliminates those threats. On several occasions – Sam’s surgery when she was six, J’s hospitalizations in the late 80s to name two – I felt the full force of the fear. Fortunately, my skepticism hadn’t caused a delay that jeopardized their health.

A rare photo of me exercising. I avoid doing anything pro-active for my health as much as I avoid going to the doctor.
A rare photo of me exercising. I avoid doing anything pro-active for my health as much as I avoid going to the doctor.

Maybe writing all of this down will get the lesson through my thick head at last. Don’t play games with your health – you only get one body. If there’s the slightest doubt about whether it’s serious, make time to see a doctor.

July 8, 1970

 

july-8-1970-edited
Let’s just say, I don’t have piles of “Employee of the Month” awards hoarded in a drawer – for starters I was rarely employed for a full month. Outside of academia, I was successfully challenged by the concept of a work ethic. I tried to get the hang of it, kind of, but I am what I am, I can’t deny it. I’ve got a real affinity for sloth.  My mother complained I was lazy and inept about helping her with housework. (An effective combination. It was easier to do the dishes herself than enlist me.)  Exasperated, she warned me to get rich because I’d need a maid. She intended it as a threat but I heard a swell idea.

Get Rich, you will need a maid!

During my high school and college years, I worked at various part-time jobs. Bulletin-folder for my father. Neighborhood babysitter. Corn dog cashier at the Santa Clara County Fair, salesclerk at San Jose State bookstore and UCLA bookstore – perfect, except when I had to wait on customers.  Paper slicer for two days. UCLA Med Center OB/Gyn ward clerk. Typist at the naval base on Coronado Island.

Been There Done That

When I graduated, I figured my days of dead end jobs were behind me. I was eager to launch myself into a fun career like Mary Tyler Moore did on her show. Something in the entertainment business with a warm family atmosphere and witty supporting characters like Mr. Grant and Murray.

At my first employment agency interview, I took a typing test and dazzled the room. (I was not Outstanding Typist of the Year at Wilcox High for nothing.)

TypingI’ll never forget what my recruiter said next.

“Honey, if you learn shorthand, you can rule the world.”

Hmm, a lack of shorthand didn’t hurt Mary Richards. Why is it a problem for me? In a moment of clarity, the illusion of living Mary Richard’s life dissolves. I face a future as a secretary in a coma-inducing office devoid of wise-cracking curmudgeons.

I know what I have to do. There’s just one place I function slightly better than average instead of below the mean and I can stay there forever if necessary. Grad School, here I come!

 

Losing You

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Losing You_edited-1
 Randy Newman “Losing You”

Introducing his brilliant song “Losing You”, Randy Newman explains it was inspired by parental grief at losing a son.  While it’s far more typical and expected for children to lose their parents, the lyric speaks to me. My mother was ninety years and four months old when she died on Saturday, March 12th. Assuming I live as long, there still won’t be enough time to get over losing Geneva Alayne Knutsen.

This is not to imply she was a saint or that our relationship was perfect. If anything, as the eldest daughter – and the one who most clearly carries her genetic profile – I was a miniature version of her and her expectations of herself were high. I know because she shared every one of them with me – a lot.

As a rebellious adolescent, I fought to quiet her voice. Smile. Be friendlier. Ugh, look at those fingernails! You’ve gained weight. You’d look so much prettier with a little make-up. Is that what you’re wearing to church? Nobody likes to vacuum, Kathleen, but we all have to do things we don’t like to do. You’d better get rich or marry rich because you’re going to need a maid. Straighten your shoulders. Smile.

It was enough to drive a sensitive soul crazy. It was more than enough to obscure the motivation behind these advisory bulletins. I heard a meddling mother picking on me, I didn’t see it was her love for me overflowing – far too much love to maintain a respectful distance.

She got too close; we bruised each other. We disappointed. I said things I regret; I carelessly broke a few of her dreams because they weren’t mine. We hurt each other. You’d think I couldn’t wait to escape her voice but it was never an option. Her voice is my voice as my face holds her face.

Beneath the admonitions – Smile. Be friendlier. Straighten your shoulders – lives the real message, flowing like a river. I love you, I love you, I love you. I want the world for you. You’re my world. She’s the enduring voice and breath in my world. How could I ever get over losing her?