A Visit, Two Little Monkeys, and Memories of My Mom

 

“Monkey!!” calls out the father, as he crawls around the den floor picking up is son’s Lego collection.

          His five-year-old son runs in to the room with expectation, only to discover his father wants him to help pick up the scattered plastic objects. Instead, the boy climbs on his father’s back, grabs onto his shirt, and rides on him around the room, while only one of them picks up the Lego. There is company in the room and I don’t think the Daddy wants to make a scene.

          The word “monkey” conjures up memories 65 and 70 years old. My own mother used to look at me from across a room, open her arms, and call out, “Come, monkey.” She’d scoop me into her loving arms and nuzzle my cheek. Though being called a monkey is not considered an affectionate term in the general vernacular, my mother called me that with great affection and amusement.  I would respond with a pleasurable giggle. I can feel the sureness of that encircling love to this day.

          Later in the visit, as he points to two platters in the middle of the table, the father asks his son, “What do you want for dinner, Monkey? Ziti or pasta- chicken with veggies?” A long pause follows. Baleful eyes look back.

          “OK. How about a Go-gurt and watermelon?” He is greeted with a definite left-right head swing.

          “Cake,” declares the son.

          “No. You have to have some dinner first, Buddy.”

          “Cake.”

          Finally, the little Monkey acquiesces to watermelon and peanut butter. When his plate arrives, he eyes the watermelon pits and seems to take offense. The luscious sweet fruit is left, abandoned on the plate, poisoned by the obnoxious black pits.

          I was a picky and particular eater as a child also.  My poor mother! Heaven forfend a lump in the Cream of Wheat or a tiny piece of shell in the scrambled eggs. “Marsha, there is more on your plate than when you started,” she would note after most meals. This former little Monkey recognized the dinner behavior of the current Monkey across the table from me.

          I turned to the grandmother and recounted, “My mother used to call me Monkey also.”

          Her eyebrows rise in interest or surprise. Perhaps Monkey doesn’t sound like the best endearment for a little girl, I thought.

          ”Any other nicknames?” she inquires.

          I could have told her that my father called me “Nashumela” (little soul), my sister called me “Bubeleh” (technically little grandma but in common use, Honey or Little One), my grandmother “Mammela” (little mother) and my grandfather “Marshkonkenu” (little Marsha).

          Nope. The only thing that comes to mind is an expression my mother used when I was unusually irascible (which was not uncommon occurrence).

          I tell this woman, “The only other animal my mother compared me to was a “jackass.”

          I regret sharing this immediately, as I watch the woman’s eyebrows rise skyscraper high and the corners of her mouth drop to the floor. I suddenly realize how awful these words sound.

          I backpedal and explain that Mom would say, when I was being extremely stubborn or petulant: “‘Don’t act like a jackass.’ She never actually called me ‘Jackass,’” I explained.

          “That’s a very fine line there,” the woman whispered through pursed lips.

          “Well, no. that was a line she never would cross.” I replied defensively.

          I think, “How could I have put my mother in such a bad light? She was probably one of the best mothers anyone, especially me, could have had.” The very worst complaint I had ever had was that she was overprotective, something my sister doesn’t even consider a valid criticism.

          I attempt to defend my mother to Monkey’s grandmother by uselessly adding, “I never, ever heard her say a swear word either, not in my entire life.”

          Guilt feels my chest. The last time I felt this way, I wanted to defend Mom when Dr. O came out to talk to our family, while my mother was in the hospital dying. His summary diagnosis:

          “Frances is a teacher. She’s used to being in charge. She’s taking it badly that she can’t be in charge of the cancer.”

          I was twenty- six. I wanted to defend my mother. I felt as if she had been pigeon-holed and stereotyped by this doctor. I wanted to defend her honor, but I could think of nothing to say. I remained silent. I felt shame and guilt for years after, until I was a more mature adult and understood that his observation had been accurate.

          The same guilt and shame rushed back almost fifty years later. Once again, I felt I had to defend Mom in the eyes of this new person I had just met. I felt again that Marsha-for-the-defense had failed and misrepresented her client, her mother. The feeling shadowed me the rest of the evening.

          It was only on the drive home that I remembered what my old therapist had said during group therapy sessions when a question about mothering come up. She would ask me, in front of the group, “How would your mother have handled the problem? or “What would your mother have said?”

          I really did not have to defend her. I loved her. She was human and was allowed to express her frustration with me. A picadillo in the life of a very good woman and mother. I hope that the young father before me is as good a father to his little monkey as my mother was a wonderful mother to the little monkey that was me. 

Marsha
7.5.23