I was six years old, living on Long Island in 1976, when my first-grade class held our own Presidential election. Much to my shock and surprise, I was elected President of my class. I was flattered and a little surprised. My campaign promise about unfettered access to the water fountain was a hit. No one was happier for me than my Mom.
Mom was a young mother and loved everything about motherhood. She was my chef, nurse, driver, confidant, cheerleader, coach, and best friend. She rejoiced when I came home to report that I had won the election. She congratulated me, and she wanted to know all about it. She made me feel my accomplishment was significant. She also had to disappoint me that my term of office would be shockingly short because we were moving to be closer to my father's work.
Shortly after my election victory, my family moved. I completed first grade with an excellent teacher, Mrs. Tice, who nurtured my voracious reading appetite and other intellectual interests. I don't remember having friends in Lakewood, but I don't recall being lonely either. Certainly, Mom kept us entertained after school. That was the year my sister and I had chicken pox, and my mother made soup, Mac and cheese, and hot chocolate and continuously asked us not to scratch the pox. She almost bathed us in calamine lotion. We had pink polka dots everywhere.
Mom was the force behind our adopting our first dog. And when Dad brought Candy, our first Irish Setter, home for Hanukkah, Mom calmed him after the puppy vomited in the back of his beloved Z.
We moved into our permanent home again before second grade. Holmdel was a quiet, pastoral community of one-acre lots. People didn't usually move in or out of Holmdel as there was not a lot of new construction (yet). Mrs. Michaud, my second-grade teacher, didn't know what to do with my reading level and forced me to slow down to the pace of the other students.
Mom was a fierce advocate. She was a voracious reader and encouraged me to read at my level despite the slow pace my class set. My mother fought with Mrs. Michaud (who I remember fondly despite what I believe were rigid and destructive teaching choices) to let me continue reading at the 4th-grade level and beyond. I was bored in class. I couldn't understand why it took too long for my classmates to finish a reading assignment. My speed was also evident in math. I wasn't a great athlete, but athletic - my sport was gymnastics, which didn't help me build teammates in gym class. My classmates were repulsed by my sense of intellectual superiority. I had made a couple of friends from Girl Scouts and had one of these friends within walking distance. Mom didn't succeed with Mrs. Michaud, but I knew she was trying and believed in me. I always knew I had her in my corner.
School remained socially challenging. Mom was my confidant and sympathizer. She shared that she was often left out of plans as a kid. I remember my Mom being a leading member of a local tennis team and playing Mahjongg with a group of women occasionally. Still, I do not remember her having close friends in our new town.
Fifth grade was a tipping point. I started having severe headaches and wouldn't go to school. The kids mercilessly teased me - I was "the brain" and certainly wasn't stylish. They liked working with me on group projects because I worked hard and got things done fast. I was too bossy, but in that situation, it was tolerated. I was never chosen for anyone's team in PE until the end. I complained to my mother about the kids, the teasing, and the isolation. I'm sure my mother was heartbroken that I was unhappy and frustrated that she could not convince the school to move me into a more accelerated class. Ultimately, I developed severe headaches that kept me home from school, and my parents found a child psychologist, Dr. Smeltzer, to treat me. I cried the first time we met. I hated the idea that there was something wrong with me.
Mom and Dad emphasized that there wasn't anything wrong with me and that Dr. Smelzter would help me feel better. Mom had attempted to reassure me by expressing that other kids might be jealous of me or had different interests. Well-intentioned, but ultimately on the wrong path. Dr. Smeltzer helped me understand what I was communicating to my peers and how those messages likely alienated me.
Meanwhile, Mom encouraged my interests. We tried dance classes (not very graceful). She was the Girl Scout leader, and we had a troop. We went on some camping overnights, and we sold cookies door to door. Mom was a soccer and softball coach. I tested her physical education degree as neither sport played to my natural strengths. She found and drove carpools to gymnastics twice a week for 10 years. And she ensured I went to Hebrew School twice a week with yet another carpool.
Weekends were family time. In the summer, that entailed spending weekends waterskiing, swimming, and motoring around. We would invite friends to join us. Mom was the quartermaster, ensuring lunches, drinks, snacks, suntan lotion, towels, and more. Dad was the captain of the vessel. Everyone waterskied - my Dad had taught my mother how to do it, and her natural athleticism shone.
My mother is a fierce competitor. When she's not playing a sport, she's funny, introverted, and sweet. But put a tennis racket or golf club in her hands and play for competition, and she's a killer. She has exceptional eye-hand coordination. She's instinctive. She learns quickly and practices diligently. She's coachable. She's a great partner who encourages her partner and does her job. Throughout my childhood, Mom quietly won tennis tournaments. Our house was filled with crystal trophies from her many successes. I'm unsure, but her ultimate rating was 4.5. She was very, very good. She learned golf long after I left home. Every so often, Mom and I hit tennis balls with each other. Our skill levels were so vastly different that it was mostly an excuse to be outside while we chatted.
In the winters, our family time was skiing as my father was developing a property in the Poconos, and that afforded us inexpensive skiing as we learned the sport. Mom was an adult learner, not a daredevil, so she became a solid intermediate skier, which was good enough for her. She'd gasp and laugh as my sister and I darted around the small hill (5 runs, one chairlift, and one tow rope). She was exasperated when she finally got us all bundled up, and one of us had to use the bathroom.
My mother was often caught in the middle of the frequent friction between my father and me. My father was the sole provider for our family and was both ambitious and driven to generate sufficient income for our lives. Consequently, he was a big bundle of stress, and I was uniquely adept at triggering him. I was too stubborn to back down if I felt his anger was unjust or unfair. This led to shouting, tears, and tension. I looked to my mother for support and consolation. It was an impossible situation for her. The only arguments my parents seemed to have were about money or me. Ultimately, my Mom needed to stay neutral in the fights between my Dad and me. As a young adult, I recognized that it wasn't my job to protect my Mom or my sister from my Dad's outbursts. As a parent, I realize the challenges of disagreeing with your partner's parenting in front of your child and appreciate her efforts with each of us to smooth things over. Somehow, my relationship with my mother wasn't damaged, and I knew she was doing everything she could. Ultimately, my relationship with my Dad improved when I was physically and financially independent from him, and we could relate in a much less stressful way.
My Mom has a fun sense of humor and loves a good laugh. She wanted to surprise my father for his 40th birthday. She colluded with my uncle to manufacture a stolen, broken-down boat story that would keep my father away from the house all day in August. She created a photo montage (prints!) and ordered a custom cake - a pair of breasts. Little did my parents know how much trouble breasts were about to bring our family.
In 1983, my mother facilitated a family trip to Israel over my father's misgivings so that I could be a Bat Mitzvah on Masada, a dream I'd expressed since I was ten. Mom had also coordinated another Bat Mitzvah celebration for our family in June 1983. That was when she decided to go back to work and to school. She was a few credits short of her Master's degree and wanted to teach again. She proudly secured a full-time position as a Health teacher in the Marlboro school district. I was sure she would be teaching some of my camp friends, but she assured me that it wouldn't be weird for them or me. I was proud of her for returning to school and work. It was supposed to be the beginning of the next era of her life. It certainly was, but not in the way any of us expected.
