My Dad the Scientist

I spent at least the first eight years of my life, maybe nine, believing that my real, biological mother, was actually my evil, wicked, step-mother. And not because I was confused by viewing too many Disney movies. I was born in the 70s--we didn't have the luxury of streaming media for countless hours like we do today. Anywho, back to fingerpointing. So, my father, fascinated by Pavlov's experiment, and a member of our US military, was naturally drawn to brainwashing. I was his only child for a decade, so that gave him ample time to conduct his own experiments. But that also meant I was his only test subject. And one of his first experiments was to get me to embrace the notion that my natural mother was actually more akin to Cinderella's stepmother. We actually have an 8-track recording of me describing the chores that my evil stepmother made me do...at the industrious age of 4.

I guess my dad was pleased with the results of this experiment because around the age of 11 he began another series of Pavlovian training. In the evenings as I brushed my teeth before bed, my father was delicately balancing a stack of books on the top edge of my door. After emerging from the bathroom, I would enter through my partially ajar door to my bedroom, only to have the stack of books fall on my head. I am a little hazy on how long it took to re-wire my brain to expect an avalanche unto my head when I went into my bedroom. But I can affirm that it did happen. Even after being away at college and returning home during break, I would still brace myself and flinch whenever I crossed the threshold to my bedroom. And this never failed to elicit a fit of laughter from my father. Pure joy.

I've tried to convince my husband how we, too, can create beautiful memories such as these with our own chilren. A second generation of adults that unwittingly tremble everytime they enter through a doorway. Hysterical!!

Relative Survival Explains Itself

I'm a Survivor. Not in the pink ribbon, race for the cure kind of way. More like I stuffed my angst and misery deep down inside and didn't draw up a manifesto-inducing spree kind of way.

And I'm pretty sure my relatives are to blame. For example, I just returned from a three week visit with family and friends in Texas over the Christmas and New Year Holidays. Unfortunately, my mother has chosen this time to launch her mid-life crisis. Nothing spells awkward like a 55 year old grandmother of three demonstrating her booty-pops (courtesy Zumba class) to her son-in-law while in her sports-bra. And that was just Day 1 of our 20 day stay. But more on that later.

So, back to being a survivor. From checkered childhood to dramaculous adulthood, in my efforts to overcompensate with my own children for the mother-figure that Disney villains are made of, I still end up falling oh-so-short of the mark. Let me declare this blog a record of my journey from the day I ruined my mother's 21st birthday (which also happens to be my BIRTH day) til present day.