The following excerpt is just the beginning of what I have decided to write about. All of what I have chosen to write about is true, and it will be written in what I guess I would call "blog chapters."
This blog, however, is not an advice column of any sort. It's a story of my childhood that I hope people will find interesting. Please enjoy.
Title: Bad Mom, Enabling Father
Chapter 1: A New Image
The yellow house with blue shutters that stood displaced furthest from the cul-de-sac is the first home I remember living in. The soccer field sized front and backyard were ripe for playing in. And I spent most my time outside. But the time I spent inside was--eventful.
It is the summer of '92, and I am six years old. I don't remember much before this period of time in my life, but the image of a caring and loving mother survived. My eyes just began to open in the still dark room. It was quite common for me to wake up just after 5am, and today is no different. My room is perfectly square with windows on two adjacent walls. The room is nicely kept, as if a maid cleaned it daily. From my toys to my clothes, nothing is out of place. There is no maid though. And there never was. My eyes began to adjust to the lack of light, as my table fan roared softly into my ears on the nightstand to my right. I could not get up yet because my childhood imagination severely overshadowed my sense of logic; however, the temptation of watching cartoons is too much, and I could feel myself building up the courage to break the threshold of my bed. With the adrenaline rushing through my veins, I swept my blanket off to my left and forced my legs to carry my body across the edge of the bed, down to the prickly carpeted floor, and through my door. I was safe from whatever it is that's under my bed--for now.
There are three doors in the hallway besides my own. The first one I passed, is my sister's; the second, our bathroom; and the last is my parents' bedroom. The stairs, also carpeted, faces the bathroom. I made my way quietly down, u-turned at the bottom, and walked down a long hallway into the den. This room is particularly one of my favorite rooms in my two-story home. There was a springy couch that faced the television, and this was the place I lied in every morning before my father woke up to get ready for work. I switched the television on, and turned it to the one channel I watch most--cartoon network. I lied down onto the couch. I often took a nap though, just around the time the piercing siren of my father's alarm clock went off.
By the time I woke up again, my father had already left, and I vaguely remember him saying 'goodbye' as he patted my head. The sun had clearly risen above the horizon, so it was time for me to fix myself a bowl of cereal. I propelled myself over the back of the couch and walked straight into the kitchen. The kitchen was adequate, but it suffered from almost-never-used electronic clutter. Cinnamon Toast Crunch was just within my reach on the counter because, well, I am quite tall for my age and would be until I reached high school. I grabbed a clean bowl and spoon from the dishwasher, and I prepared myself a bowl of cereal with help from the milk in the fridge.
I was especially excited today as I made my way back to the couch. My mom had taught me just yesterday how to cook Kraft Mac and Cheese, and I was looking forward to cooking it again with her at lunch time. I sat eagerly awaiting my mom's descent from her bedroom upstairs. The time came quicker than I thought, and my mom was soon watching television while on my dad's blue leather Lazy Boy chair. She is a plump woman, clearly overweight from giving birth to three children--but the third and youngest was not around. She is the type to always diet, but never exercise. Even at my young age, I know diet and exercise go hand in hand when it comes to losing weight.
The time had come. My tummy was getting hungry, so I got up and headed for the kitchen. I didn't jump over the back of the couch because my mother hated when I did this. Once in the kitchen, I decided to collect the ingredients on the counter, then call my mom to help me cook. I counted down the list just to make sure I had everything. "Kraft, milk, butter, pot, measuring cups, spoon," I said under my breath. I was ready�
"Hey mom, can you help me cook mac and cheese," I said as I called out to my mom in the other room.
"Do it yourself. I showed you already." My mom said in an irritated, impatient voice.
I was shocked at first, but I figured she was just having a bad morning. "But I can't cook it myself" I replied.
"Then don't cook it" she said swiftly.
I didn't push the issue. I figured she would feel better tomorrow, or maybe the next day, and she would love to cook for her only son again. How could she not? I could barely see over the counter. Not to mention how dangerous operating the stove would be at my current height. I pressed forward and prepared the best mac and cheese I could muster. It was good. And as I ate my mac and cheese, I still loved my mom and cared for her. I know she'll cook for me again tomorrow, and if not tomorrow, then the next day after. But she never did. She never cooked for me ever again..
The image of my mom would change more and more over the years. This was just the beginning.
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