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ninanevermoreToday on my drive into work, I was thinking about my childhood friend, Macy. Her daughter celebrated her first birthday on Saturday, so I was at Macy's house with my son, eating cupcakes and catching up on old times. Back in our teens, we considered each other "best" friends, only to loose touch during our college years. We reconnected when she got married a few years back, and now I get invitations to her children's birthday parties.
We met as children because our familyies attended the same United Methodist Church. The first time I noticed her was at a church potluck dinner, which Methodist congregations hold several times a year. My mother monitored the food that her kids put on our compartmented plastic plates at these events. She made certain that we chose one meat, at least one vegetable, and a starch for our meals. If we had any room left, we might be allowed to visit the dessert table. I noticed Macy that day, or rather noticed her plate, because her mother was not as strict as mine.
As I stood with my mother holding my well-balanced plate, Macy walked by holding a plateful of desserts - four of them. In one vegetable compartment of her plate, she had a cupcake. In the other, she had cookies. In the large compartment, where the main course is meant to go, she had a slice of cake and a slice of pie. I pointed to Macy's plate and opened my mouth to say something, but my mother cut me off.
"I don't care," she said, "I'm not her mother, I'm yours. You can have one dessert after you eat what's on your plate."
I must have been about 7 years old at the time, before I was diagnosed with diabetes and desserts became forbidden for me. I remember feeling envious, and gazing at Macy's plate with unbridled longing before my mother told me I should stop staring at Macy and sit down and eat my dinner. I thought Macy's mother must be the nicest mother in the world.
Reading this, you might assume that Macy was a fat child. The truth is, she was as thin as a stick, and she has stayed thin to this day. Life isn't fair; this became evident to me at an early age.
When Macy and I became good friends a few years later, I got a chance to get to know her family, including her mother, Lilly, who seemed so cool when she let Macy eat as much dessert as she desired. I learned there was more to the story, and that Lilly was less cool than she was odd.
The reason Lilly had no time to pay attention to what her children ate was because she had other things on her mind. Those other things were coupons - the kind you get in the Sunday newspaper or off of the labels of canned goods and boxes you buy. Lilly was obsessed with coupons; she could not let one expire without redeeming it, and she could not allow a mail-in offer for a useless trinket to go to waste. As a result, the house overflowed with more consumer goods then their family of four could ever use.
The kitchen counters were covered with boxes and cans that overflowed from the cupboards and pantry. It was easy to count at least 20 boxes of cereal, all different kinds, just looking around you. They had enough canned goods and varieties of Hamburger Helper to open their own grocery store. Mind you, I never opened the pantry to see what was in there, though I can say first hand that the cupboards were overflowing. These things were sitting out in the open. In what was supposed to be the formal dining room, half cases of canned soda were stacked to the ceiling. They kept a freezer in the garage to hold the frozen pizzas that would not fit in the freezer unit on their refrigerator.
The hoarding continued in the rest of the house. If you looked under the sink in the upstairs bathroom, you found hundreds of rolls of toilet paper. More toilet paper sat stacked in the hallway outside of the bathroom. The master bath held a plethora of feminine hygiene products. Every variety and brand of maxi pad, mini pad, panty liner, and tampon you could imagine bulged from the cabinet. Lilly is now past menopause, but I bet she still had hundreds of packages of things she will never again need, yet can't bear to throw away.
Lilly also saved other things, such as the tissue paper that gifts came wrapped in so that she could reuse it. She saved buttons and zippers and things for sewing and mending, though she never sewed or mended anything. Macy's baby crib still stood in the spare bedroom, filled to the ceiling with odds and ends. Toys that Macy and her brother played with as very small children still lay around the house, many of them broken.
The truth is, I loved Macy's house. It made my own cluttered house look positively neat and organized. Our house was not unkempt for the same reason that Macy's was; Lilly had obsessive-compulsive disorder, whereas my mother just hated housework. Still, I felt a sense of cluttered comradery walking through their door.
When Macy and I met for lunch a couple of years ago, I had to ask if her parent's house still looked the same.
She rolled her eyes. "It's ten times worse, if you can imagine," she said. "My room is now full of stuff. The stairwell is lined with crap. You can barely find a place to sit down."
Macy won't allow her children to visit their grandparent's home; she doesn't think it's safe. She thinks they might disappear among the piles of products and debris. For the children, I think it would be like getting lost in the supermarket, except with sofas and easy chairs hidden among the stacks of green beans and paper towels.
Macy says her father has a room that he has set up as his office, and Lilly is not allowed to put anything in there. It's the only room in the entire house with horizontal surfaces that can be seen. He keeps his office very tidy and neat.
I asked if they had suggested that Lilly get help.
"Only a thousand times," Macy said. "She bursts into tears and says we think she's crazy. She won't stop crying until we take it back and tell her we're sorry."
Macy says that there is a bright side to her mother's illness: Macy almost never has to go grocery shopping.
"Since I got married, I've never bought toilet paper or paper towels," she said, "My mom brings me that stuff all of the time. She brings me food, too, Hamburger Helpers and cereals and cans of everything. Half of it, I have to throw away because it's expired or it's stuff we don't eat."
Macy's house is spacious, open, and tidy. Her pantry is organized and rather sparse. She doesn't keep anything she doesn't need.
She doesn't clip coupons and her children eat dessert last. She has decided that her own desserts-for-dinner childhood won't be repeated. When they are older, I might take them aside and tell them about it and point out that she grew up to be healthy and svelte, despite growing up on such a diet (possibly because her mother had coupons for Flintstone's Children's Vitamins to make up for the lack of nutrients in the food she ate). If they ask her about it, I bet she will take a page from my own mother's sentiments.
"I don't care," she will say, "She's not your mother, I am. Eat your peas."
We met as children because our familyies attended the same United Methodist Church. The first time I noticed her was at a church potluck dinner, which Methodist congregations hold several times a year. My mother monitored the food that her kids put on our compartmented plastic plates at these events. She made certain that we chose one meat, at least one vegetable, and a starch for our meals. If we had any room left, we might be allowed to visit the dessert table. I noticed Macy that day, or rather noticed her plate, because her mother was not as strict as mine.
As I stood with my mother holding my well-balanced plate, Macy walked by holding a plateful of desserts - four of them. In one vegetable compartment of her plate, she had a cupcake. In the other, she had cookies. In the large compartment, where the main course is meant to go, she had a slice of cake and a slice of pie. I pointed to Macy's plate and opened my mouth to say something, but my mother cut me off.
"I don't care," she said, "I'm not her mother, I'm yours. You can have one dessert after you eat what's on your plate."
I must have been about 7 years old at the time, before I was diagnosed with diabetes and desserts became forbidden for me. I remember feeling envious, and gazing at Macy's plate with unbridled longing before my mother told me I should stop staring at Macy and sit down and eat my dinner. I thought Macy's mother must be the nicest mother in the world.
Reading this, you might assume that Macy was a fat child. The truth is, she was as thin as a stick, and she has stayed thin to this day. Life isn't fair; this became evident to me at an early age.
When Macy and I became good friends a few years later, I got a chance to get to know her family, including her mother, Lilly, who seemed so cool when she let Macy eat as much dessert as she desired. I learned there was more to the story, and that Lilly was less cool than she was odd.
The reason Lilly had no time to pay attention to what her children ate was because she had other things on her mind. Those other things were coupons - the kind you get in the Sunday newspaper or off of the labels of canned goods and boxes you buy. Lilly was obsessed with coupons; she could not let one expire without redeeming it, and she could not allow a mail-in offer for a useless trinket to go to waste. As a result, the house overflowed with more consumer goods then their family of four could ever use.
The kitchen counters were covered with boxes and cans that overflowed from the cupboards and pantry. It was easy to count at least 20 boxes of cereal, all different kinds, just looking around you. They had enough canned goods and varieties of Hamburger Helper to open their own grocery store. Mind you, I never opened the pantry to see what was in there, though I can say first hand that the cupboards were overflowing. These things were sitting out in the open. In what was supposed to be the formal dining room, half cases of canned soda were stacked to the ceiling. They kept a freezer in the garage to hold the frozen pizzas that would not fit in the freezer unit on their refrigerator.
The hoarding continued in the rest of the house. If you looked under the sink in the upstairs bathroom, you found hundreds of rolls of toilet paper. More toilet paper sat stacked in the hallway outside of the bathroom. The master bath held a plethora of feminine hygiene products. Every variety and brand of maxi pad, mini pad, panty liner, and tampon you could imagine bulged from the cabinet. Lilly is now past menopause, but I bet she still had hundreds of packages of things she will never again need, yet can't bear to throw away.
Lilly also saved other things, such as the tissue paper that gifts came wrapped in so that she could reuse it. She saved buttons and zippers and things for sewing and mending, though she never sewed or mended anything. Macy's baby crib still stood in the spare bedroom, filled to the ceiling with odds and ends. Toys that Macy and her brother played with as very small children still lay around the house, many of them broken.
The truth is, I loved Macy's house. It made my own cluttered house look positively neat and organized. Our house was not unkempt for the same reason that Macy's was; Lilly had obsessive-compulsive disorder, whereas my mother just hated housework. Still, I felt a sense of cluttered comradery walking through their door.
When Macy and I met for lunch a couple of years ago, I had to ask if her parent's house still looked the same.
She rolled her eyes. "It's ten times worse, if you can imagine," she said. "My room is now full of stuff. The stairwell is lined with crap. You can barely find a place to sit down."
Macy won't allow her children to visit their grandparent's home; she doesn't think it's safe. She thinks they might disappear among the piles of products and debris. For the children, I think it would be like getting lost in the supermarket, except with sofas and easy chairs hidden among the stacks of green beans and paper towels.
Macy says her father has a room that he has set up as his office, and Lilly is not allowed to put anything in there. It's the only room in the entire house with horizontal surfaces that can be seen. He keeps his office very tidy and neat.
I asked if they had suggested that Lilly get help.
"Only a thousand times," Macy said. "She bursts into tears and says we think she's crazy. She won't stop crying until we take it back and tell her we're sorry."
Macy says that there is a bright side to her mother's illness: Macy almost never has to go grocery shopping.
"Since I got married, I've never bought toilet paper or paper towels," she said, "My mom brings me that stuff all of the time. She brings me food, too, Hamburger Helpers and cereals and cans of everything. Half of it, I have to throw away because it's expired or it's stuff we don't eat."
Macy's house is spacious, open, and tidy. Her pantry is organized and rather sparse. She doesn't keep anything she doesn't need.
She doesn't clip coupons and her children eat dessert last. She has decided that her own desserts-for-dinner childhood won't be repeated. When they are older, I might take them aside and tell them about it and point out that she grew up to be healthy and svelte, despite growing up on such a diet (possibly because her mother had coupons for Flintstone's Children's Vitamins to make up for the lack of nutrients in the food she ate). If they ask her about it, I bet she will take a page from my own mother's sentiments.
"I don't care," she will say, "She's not your mother, I am. Eat your peas."
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Date: 2006-09-19 01:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-19 04:18 pm (UTC)