There really isn’t a lot about my childhood that I can write chronologically. Snippets and details flood back randomly, and out of order. I’m hoping that after I’ve written a lot of this out, I can sort it into some semblance of order. Today’s story is an early one though.
I know that I was three or four years old, because we lived in our home in Putnam Valley, NY and I hadn’t started Kindergarten yet. We moved there when I was three and left shortly before I turned six, but after my Kindergarten year.
On this sort of day, my mom was going through one of her things…she was sitting under the pool table, basically in a catatonic state. She just stared at me when I tried to speak to her, and no matter what I said or did, she didn’t really respond. She had a blank, vacant look on her face and even crawling into her lap and crying didn’t snap her out of whatever hell she was in.
During this time, I was left largely to fend for myself. Occasionally I would call my father, crying hysterically, about Mommy being “sick” and not talking to me. Or feeding me. Or taking care of me. He would always assure me he was coming home soon. But he worked long hours as a sales manager at a car dealership, and we lived in the boonies. He left early in the morning and came home late at night, and he rarely took a day off. Looking back, I’m not sure how I didn’t end up getting seriously hurt, between our steep basement steps, our rural location and our unattended kitchen. I was extremely obedient and knew not to touch the stove or anything sharp. I was afraid to even get into the pantry or refrigerator for food, milk or juice.
During times like these, I dined on Milk Bones, which my mother kept underneath the kitchen sink. Occasionally she’d put out a cup of milk or orange juice or even better yet, a bowl of cereal, and I’d excitedly discover it upon waking up. Most mornings, it was the Milk Bones. I would sit underneath the kitchen sink, with the cupboard doors open. Jacques, the chocolate poodle, would sit with me and we’d share our breakfast. I preferred the plain, light tan ones…I imagined they were milk-flavored. The colored ones weren’t as good and I avoided them, usually handing them over to Jacques. I think they were beef, liver, chicken and so-on. I’m not sure what the green ones were supposed to be, but those were my second-favorite. I’d lean my head against the pipes and count the dog biscuits, making sure I rationed some for future meals and snacks.
I’m not sure exactly how many times this happened or exactly how often, but I do know it’s one of my most prominent memories. I also remember getting caught under that cabinet, nibbling on a Milk Bone, and my mother acting appalled that I would do such a thing, as though she had no memory of her days lost in some sort of vacant fog. Those days I had real food and a mother who would let me curl up in her lap. I’d ask her to rock me, and she’d oblige.
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