bitterness

Today after dealing with rolled eyes from what I have to remind myself is God’s gift of my first daughter, rolled her eyes and grunted sounds that make me want to send her back from whence she came. I have been thinking about what a lovely teenager I once was. Heck honestly I don’t think I’ve stopped being that thorn in the side to my mother. I remember my resentment towards her beginning as early as my 8^th year. We lived across the street from the playground. There were supervised activities in the evenings and over summer break.

Go away, Mom, leave me alone! I can cross the street without holding your hand Mom! Mom, I’m 9 years old, I’m practically grown, I can make my own decisions. I can take care of myself! I could see MaryJo waving to me from across the street the games were about to begin and I once again had to have my Mom dragging behind. I yelled hi to MaryJo and looked both ways to cross the street with my bike with the banana seat in tow.

What was I thinking? 8 years old and I thought I knew it all. I thought I didn’t need Mom anymore. Well at least until the next meal or I needed some money or something. I realize now just how mean and bitter I was from an early age. For reasons I’m not sure I have a clue why, even now. It could be because from the young age of 5 my parents used me as the interpreter for every given situation that arose.

Trip to McDonald’s:

Mom: Lillie, you quiero una hamburgesa conquesso y papas fritas

Dad: Yo tambien.. con una coca-cola

Mom: Quiero Te para tomar.

Me: 2 hamburgers, 3 fries. I'd like 1 cheeseburger, a coke, a tea and a chocolate shake.

Cashier: Will that be all.

Me: Yes thank you.

Cashier: That will be, $??

That was the easy stuff. At home I had to field all the telephone calls and interpret for my parents and for the caller. You have to remember this was back in the day when Spanish wasn’t so prominent in the states. No press 1 for English and 2 for Spanish. I was responsible for the translation of important business. Dealings with the bank, the doctor, the insurance company, the grocer, etc. were left up to me to interpret. Each week when the bills were due take a stab at who actually wrote them? You got it me, 7 or 9 year old me up through the time I moved out to live with my husband at the ripe old age of 18.

Mom: Aqui estan las cuentas.y la chequera.

Me: OK!

Mom and or Dad would bring me the stack of bills and the checkbook along with a Spanish / English book that showed how to write all the numbers. I never understood why they couldn’t have just used that book themselves and not depended on me so much. I even asked that same question many times. The answer was always the same.

Dad: Tenemos confianza en tigo. Porfavor hagame este favor.

Me: Si, Papi.

They trusted me. I don’t think they know even to this day what a terrible burden that was for a child. I never felt I truly had a childhood. I grew up and only child and early on in apartment complexes that had few children. They were occupied by mostly older people that either never had children or had children that had long sense grown and moved away from home. I was surrounded by adults. I was given the duties that most adults didn’t have. I didn’t know anyone that had to interpret on a daily basis and yet when it came time to play I was treated as a child. It’s no wonder I grew so bitter.

This bitterness has not left me and for this I’m sorry and disappointed in myself as well. Mom’s relationship and mine hasn’t changed much over the years. Yes she is my mother and as such still wants to protect me. She still treats me like a baby even though I have been more the mother since the age of 5 then she could ever be. Why do I resent this? Well seeing as I can’t afford a really good shrink I guess I’ll never know. Just one more thing that makes me who I am right or wrong and yes I know there is much more wrong in it than right.