"Crunchy In The Pen" (A Work In Regress): PART TWO

And now . . .


PART TWO: "The Day Of The Grapefruit"

As a toddler I always suspected that much of mother's rage and maternal jealousy could be traced back to that deeply-flawed attempt at surreptitiously delegating her diaper duties.  I also believed that each time I "reached up" to my big sister, especially when in a clean state of diaperhood, it only enflamed that jealous rage even more - like so much kindling on a fire built from the logs of duplicity.  A fire that was to hound me into my later years - specifically, grades one and two.

But it wasn't just me who felt this unchecked wrath. It constantly revealed itself in the general tension at home. not to mention the occasional outright explosion - like the unfortunate incident involving a squirrel; the 4th chewed clothesline of the summer; and then - the sudden barrage of whole florida grapefruit and high-pitched maniacal laughter from the second floor bathroom window.

That's right.  Mother, that bellwether of emotion, had melted down again.

More often than not, for safety reasons, the house went into "lock down" mode after one of these occurrences.  My big sister would move me and the pen to the backyard while the other siblings would slink away to their rooms, quietly close their doors, and pretend to read . . . anything.

I can remember the day of the grapefruit like it was yesterday.  Seeing the forlorn look on my father's face when he returned home from work. Watching him step from the garage, nattily decked out in a suit with very thick, vertical, wooden stripes- no, wait - those are the bars of the pen-

I can remember the day of the grapefruit like it was yesterday.  Me *standing* in the pen *above* the very thick, vertical, wooden bars - seeing the forlorn look on my father's face when he returned from work. Watching him step from the garage to begin that long traipse - his own personal Bataan Death March - from the garage to the house where dadhood awaited him.  Dragging his feet as usual, and then, on this day, stopping entirely to take in the fallen clothesline, and the carnage of rinds and grapefruit pulp scattered throughout the yard and against the garage door.

And then . . .

My father, the animal lover, seeing . . . the squirrel.

That poor, poor squirrel.  Earlier in the day: so full of life, chewing on the clothesline. and now, later in the day - so full of death, not chewing on the clothesline.I can also vividly remember how desperately I wanted to "reach out" to mother after this blow-up, to share my observations with her so as to maybe offer her some relief, or perhaps just a brief respite from her pain and seething anger - or maybe something as simple, yet cleansing, as the catharsis of self-knowledge.

But alas and alack - I could not find the words.

Well, actually, I *could* find the words.  I just didn't know how to talk yet. 

But the saddest part was to think that mother brought it all on herself, with that hare-brained scheme to transfer my diaper changing needs to my big sister.

Sad.  Sad.  Sad.

Mother - we hardly knew ye . . .Yet.

FINIS, PART TWO


APPENDIX: GUIDE TO ATTACHED PHOTOS:

Exhibit A: mother apologizes for the squirrel fatality by offering me a kiss - although my right fist remains coiled, cocked, and ready (see detail Exhibit A.1) - still not quite sure what to believe or who to trust at this point.

Exhibit B: father returns from work and offers consolation for my already in progress "grapefruit as weapon/deceased squirrel" trauma. It appears from the photo that I have completed stage one of the healing process - commonly referred to in the toddler trauma literature as the "recoil in horror" or "duck and cover" stage.  This behavior typically manifests itself with an overt "ducking and covering" reflex - perhaps under a favorite "blankie," or a couch, or maybe a nearby carpet remnant.

Stage two of post-traumatic toddler stress ("full cranial axis pivoting") typically involves a child's head involuntarily pivoting on its axis (i.e. the shoulders).  Although "Exhibit B" is only a photo, the pensive discomfort in my toddleresque visage is still quite noticeable.  Clearly my head is still reeling and darting about, although the full 360 degree pivots appear to have ceased.  My troubled face tells me that I am still not certain that the savagery has truly ended, or that the coast is in fact, clear .

Exhibit C: father inspects the right side of my head for grapefruit damage.

(Note:  "Crunchy In The Pen" (a work in regress) is for Peggy, with love and laughter.)

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