Mom Was a Punk Rocker

This year I turned 45. One day you find yourself at a wedding, dancing in the cool way you always have, and all the sudden you are a roaring geek and an embarrassment to your children. And, of course, they do not hesitate to point this out. Well, I was feeling kind of depressed about all this, so I went out shopping. Retail therapy, you know. As it turned out I had an incredible experience at the mall that day (yes, the mall…when’s the last time you heard that out of someone over the age of 13?).

I was in one of my favorite stores, one of those retail chains that carry merchandise geared towards today’s cool and disenfranchised youth, when I saw a Ramones' Rocket to Russia t-shirt on the wall. I stood there, sighed, and said to myself, “Now THAT was a great album!” Just seeing it got me reminiscing about my New York City punk rock adolescence, and I asked a store employee if they carried the CD. The multiply-pierced, fuchsia-haired sales girl laughed, and said, "The Ramones? We've been sold out for weeks! They come in and go out the same day.” Perplexed, I went on to ask if she thought the record store might have it in stock (See? I gave my age away right there! "Like, what’s a 'record' lady?"). She looked confused (or maybe it was just the way the chain that went from her nose to her ear was pulling her cheek), and finally replied, “I don’t know, but you might try the music store three doors down, you might luck out.”

So off I go, determined to get the damn CD and continue my trip down memory lane. I swept the store's rows and rows of digital media with my eyes, and headed toward the Pop/Rock section. I thumbed through the R's. Nothing. I asked the frighteningly young sales clerk with, yes, a lip piercing, where I might find the Ramones, and he said "Oh no, you wouldn't find them in the pop/rock section, we have a new "Punk/Ska" section!" (New?) He brings me over to the area in question, and my eyes fall on the cover of the Sex Pistol’s Never Mind the Bullocks. I reminisce out loud that this was the record I bought with my first paycheck from Woolworth's when I was 14. He got this glazed look in his eyes and said, "You have this on vinyl??? This is a CLASSIC!" Then he picked up a copy of Rocket to Russia as if it were the Holy Grail and said, "Do you know they are coming out with a tribute album to the Ramones?" Since I was not really interested in the lead singer from ColdPlay singing "Sheena is a Punk Rocker" I tuned him out and said, "Oh, great."

I was feeling rather old as I brought the over-priced "retro" CD to the check out and placed it on the counter. I grabbed some headphones from a nearby rack and asked the other incredibly young man behind the register if they had any sturdier ones for my 9-year old. At this he glanced down at my CD purchase and asked incredulously, "Your nine year old is into the Ramones??" and I say, "Oh no, that's for me, I was talking about the headphones." "You're into the Ramones? Cool!" He seemed so impressed I went on to say, "Yeah, I saw them three or four times in the late 70's." At this point his jaw hit his chest and he gasped, "You SAW THE RAMONES LIVE???" Enjoying this I added, "Yeah, in Central Park for $7.50" He didn't even have words for that, he just sputtered "Central Park???" and I went on to list who I had seen live that year, Blondie, Elvis Costello...I thought he was going to have a seizure, and he looked at me with glazed eyes as if I was a celebrity.

All of the sudden as I stood there basking in the young man's awe--all 45 years of me--I felt that maybe this growing older thing wasn't so bad. I used to say that the definition of middle age was when the music of your youth comes back in style as "retro," and here I am. On the way home I turned up the Ramones and remembered the nights of CBGBs, Max's Kansas City, and the Mudd Club. After the clubs closed in the wee hours, we would stumble out blinking at the sunrise with our spiked hair, fishnet stockings and leather motorcycle jackets, and go home and change into our Catholic school uniforms and go straight to school, smelling vaguely of rum. "Well," I smiled to myself, head bobbing to "I Want to be Sedated" as I drove down interstate 89, "I may be middle-aged, but I guess I'm not so uncool after all."Recently, my son unearthed some photographs of me taken during my punk days, and he was clearly impressed. “Mom! You were so young and cool!” To which my husband replied, “Yeah, and when someone tries to insult you by saying ‘Your Mom wears combat boots!’ you can say, ‘Yes, she did!’”

Dad: This Year’s Model

Lately I’ve been struck by how my image of fatherhood has changed over the years. Like many people, my original concept of a “father” was based on memories of my personal experience with the species. My image of my father is that of an eight year old, frozen in 1971, as that was the year he died. To me, Dad was a tall, strong creature with a loud laugh, a good sense of humor and a hell of a temper. He wore collared shirts and long pants every day, and smoked a pipe filled with cherry tobacco. He worked during the week doing mysterious “office” things, and when he came home Mom kept us quiet as Dad was tired after working hard all day (try raising five children and running a household, Pops). She’d have a gin and tonic at the ready, and he would sit and read his paper (what I wouldn’t give, as a parent myself, for ten minutes alone to go to the bathroom). He played golf on Saturdays, and went fishing often. What the family ate, what car we bought, and where we went on vacation were all decided based on what Dad wanted. He could be warm and supportive and a hell of a lot of fun to be around, we often felt that he wasn’t around enough. Though under it all we knew that he loved his children, we were just an aspect of his life, one of many and not the foremost. We loved him back, but we behaved primarily because we were terrified of him. Many of my own father’s qualities were pretty common to the “Dad Model” of the 1950’s and 1960’s America. Despite having fond memories of my father, the last thing I wanted in a husband and father of my children was that kind of a Dad.

My realization that not all fathers were this way and that the role as a whole was changing came when I was in my early 20’s. I was visiting my brother George and his family, and had stayed over at their house one Friday night. When the baby woke up the next morning, George went in to get him so his wife could sleep late. I spent the morning watching George change his son’s diapers, give him a bath, make him breakfast, and watch Mr. Rogers with him. After a few hours of this I looked at George and said, “Why do you do all this and let her sleep in?” motioning toward the closed bedroom door and his slumbering spouse. He responded, “Because he’s my little boy, and this is our time together. It isn’t work, it’s fun.” His eyes misted while looking at his baby’s round face. I was floored, and for once, speechless. After a few moments of recovery time, I barked, “How the hell am I supposed to find a husband who will live up to this!”

Well, I did. I think that my husband is one of many of our generation who are tackling the task of fatherhood differently than our own fathers did. My husband changed as many diapers, bandages as many scrapes, reads as many books, and is as committed to our son as I am. We each take on the responsibilities of the family according to our own gifts and not according to gender lines. He does the cooking, the shopping and the home repairs; I do the cleaning, financial planning (because of my computer skills, certainly not my skill with a budget) and schedule organization.

And he has the stronger disposition. I’ll never forget when Carlos was two and had broken his arm at daycare. When we arrived at the medical office the doctor we all share handed our poor howling son to Doug, pointed at me and said, “You! Hallway!” and to my husband he pointed to the treatment room, “You! Inside!” I stood with my jaw on my chest in the hallway, tears flowing and heart racing as the door slammed shut in front of me. I then realized that perhaps our doctor knew us too well. I’m pleased to report that I am now more effective in these situations—having already been through my share of scares--but Doug is still better, and as a fully involved father he is miles better than my own was.

I know that while Doug’s approach to fathering is no longer unique, or even unusual, there are still examples of the old model “Dad” striding about. Once, right after Carlos was born, Doug was at the Stowe skating rink, showing off his prowess on a pair of hockey skates, when one of the local guys came up to congratulate him on the birth of his son. “Hey, if you start coaching hockey now, you can coach Carlos’ team when he gets old enough!” To which my husband responded, “Yeah, but what if he wants to figure skate?” The guy walked away from Doug in shock, a look of disgust on his face. The wonderful part is that Doug was serious. Whatever would make Carlos happy, he would support.

I have no doubt that Carlos is the highest priority and single brightest star in his life (this is one instance in my life that I’m happy to come second) and this comforts me. Many of my friends have similar situations with husbands or partners who are much more involved in the upbringing of their children, and I think it will make for an even more thoughtful and progressive next generation of adult males. On this day of honoring fathers and fatherhood, I would like to salute men like my brother George and particularly my husband, and express my gratitude to those men who are equal partners in this carnival we call parenthood.

Greetings, gentle readers. I hope you will indulge me as I share a different kind of mother’s day writing. Though its words are not flowery and its subject difficult, I believe a lot of mothers—and fathers—will relate to it, because our identity as parents is sometimes defined as much by loss as by abundance. I have only shared it once before in a reading at Vermont College, but then my tale was hidden behind a fictional character. I am sharing it today in the form it should take: the truth.

I hope it touches you, whether you relate to it or not. I hope you all have a happy Mother’s Day.

The Empty Sweater

I see it out of the corner of my eye as I dig beneath skeins of wool in the cedar chest, the red, yellow and green flecks in its deep blue deceivingly festive like confetti. I pull it out from beneath a stack of vintage knitting patterns, and for a moment pretend to not know what it is, though I’ve never really forgotten its presence beneath the rarely opened hinged top. But as I unfold the tiny sweater in my hand an invisible band around my chest tightens and my breathing comes in shallow and fast. As I hold it, there is no denying its story.

I had bought the yarn on the way to the doctor for my monthly check-up. Doing so meant letting go of my superstitions—I wouldn’t buy anything for my first child until I was seven months pregnant and a co-worker said, “Ann, you better at least buy a bassinette, or that baby won’t have a thing to sleep in!”—but I needed to feel I was doing something for him, for my second son. I hadn’t been able to feel at ease during this pregnancy; I felt like everything was just beyond my grasp, just beyond my control, and every day I was surprised and relieved when nothing went wrong. But I smiled as I held the marbled cotton yarn in my hands; I would begin the project while waiting for my appointment that afternoon.

The back of the sweater was half done when the nurse finally called me in. I eyed it peeking from my tote bag as Dr. Sampson ran the Doppler over my taut white belly, his face a neutral mask of concentration, and I wished I could hold it, be comforted by the touch of the soft yarn.

“Ann, I’m just going to ask one of the other physicians to have a listen. I’m having some trouble getting a read on the baby. It’s probably just the equipment.” But his strained smile said he didn’t think it was. The minute he was out the door I grabbed for the sweater.

As I waited, the silver needles clicked and clicked, echoing in the empty examination room, their rhythmic sway the only movement. The front left side was done by the time Dr. Sampson returned with a false-smiling physician. He didn’t seem to have any luck with the Doppler either, and as I watched him leave, I fantasized about following him out, just walking out the front door and to my car in the bright Vermont autumn sun.

“Ann, we would like to order a sonogram at the hospital, tonight,” Dr. Sampson said. “Now don’t worry, it’s probably nothing, but we just want to make sure all is well.” He patted my hand, and for a moment, just a moment, I considered slapping it away.

That evening I perched on the end of an orange Naugahyde chair in the hospital waiting room, my hands and their needle extensions moving faster, as if trying to outrun my heartbeat. Alone, surrounded by quiet floral wallpaper, I finished the right front and started on a sleeve.

Later, in radiology the night physician stood in front of me, his serious face lit only by a lamp in the corner and the blue light from the sonogram machine. I could feel his pity coming off him like heat. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Cardinal. There’s no movement at all. It looks like he’s been gone a few days. Dr. Sampson will be here shortly, and we’re calling your husband now.”

I sat on the hard vinyl examining table, my rounded belly mockingly pushing through the opening in the faded blue gown. I expected tears. I was surprised by the numbness spreading through me, beginning at my sepulchered womb and moving outwards. I picked up my needles and finished the sleeve, the yarn trailing over my swollen breasts, my hands moving slowly, as if underwater. I continued to knit as Mike Sampson told me they would have to get the D&C scheduled, that I should go home and he would give me a sedative to help me sleep, to help me forget. I took the drugs; after all there was only my bloodstream to worry about now. I swallowed the blue pill dry as my husband drove, his grief-stricken face lit by the green glow of the dash and the flashes of light from the passing cars.

That night, at home, my eyes hazed with the Valium, I squeezed between my two-year-old son and my husband on the couch. For moments, comforted by the warmth of their skin, of their familiar company, I could almost forget. As images of blue animated Disney ants flashed across the television screen, I finished the last sleeve and placed the pieces on the coffee table just slightly apart from each other. In silence, all three of us looked at the dismembered sweater. Then Carlos asked, “You gonna put that together, Mommy?” I pulled him close and kissed his forehead, the sweet powdery smell of him filling my nostrils.

I wouldn’t sew it together until the following day in the hospital, after the bleeding started as Carlos and I walked through the brightly lit aisles of the video store, cramps doubling me over, my contracting stomach pressed against the steering wheel during the rushed drive to the hospital as I murmured comforting words over my shoulder to the child seat in the back. At the hospital my womb began to empty on its own, as Carlos was tugged away, his small face a mirror of my frightened heart.

That night, after my family went home, tired and saddened, I sat on the gurney, the hushed sounds of the night-shift nurses floating up and down the hallway, and carefully sewed shoulder to shoulder, sleeve to back. The next day when I arrived home with my small family, I snuck away from their concerned hovering to the bedroom, folded the sweater up and placed it in the chest—not on top where I would see it all the time, nor at the bottom where I might forget it entirely.

Now, as I hold it up in the light, I admire the tight stitches, noticing the beauty of the yarn and the brightness of the flecks of color against the deep blue. There had been several times when I considered giving it to a friend for their baby—it seemed so silly for it to sit empty, buried among rarely used yarn—but I never could bring myself to give it away. I wonder if I feared it was cursed, or if I simply couldn't bear to see another baby wearing it.

I fold it up carefully, and decide. I’ll save it for when my son has children of his own. I have to imagine its edges will be rounded with chubby baby flesh, its stitches stretched with movement and growth. I have to believe that one day it will be full.