IslandRoar

Maureen D.

 

My younger daughter's being Confirmed recently got me thinking about my own Confirmation.

My parents did not give me a middle name. I always felt terribly cheated, which shows you what a miserable childhood I must've had, if this is all it took to piss me off.

My parents both have middle names. They gave my older sister a middle name.

Why would they give her one and not me? Were they tired? Had it been so exhausting coming up with Maureen that they just couldn't go on?

"You can pick a Confirmation name one day," my mother would tell me if I complained. "Use that."

Yes, that's right. When Catholic kids go through the sacrament of Confirmation, they get to pick a Confirmation name, generally the name of a saint.

I wasn't stupid. I knew most adult Catholics can barely even remember their Confirmation names, let alone employ them in any useful way. But then again, most of those people had parents that loved them enough to give them a middle name to start out with, so why would they need to?

I vowed that I would be different. I would not only use my Confirmation name as my middle name, I would make it part of my regular signature.

I chose Denise because in kindergarten Denise was my best friend, and I couldn't go to her birthday party since my family was visiting my grandparents in Queens that day. Apparently I was so traumatized by this whole non-event that I decided then and there I would take the name Denise as my Confirmation name.

By the time Confirmation rolled around, when I was 13, I wasn't exactly crazy about the name. And I hadn't seen Denise since we were six. But a deal's a deal. Maureen Denise it was.

That first Monday after Confirmation, I proudly wrote my new signature in the upper right hand corner of every paper: Maureen D. Hall. I thought the D was classier than writing out the whole name. More mysterious.

My social studies teacher, Mr. Bauman, circled it in red and put a big question mark beside it.

"What's with the initial?" he asked when he passed back our papers.

"That's the way I write my name now," I told him. He was so not my favorite teacher. No way was he getting anything more.

He stared at me, bewildered.

I raised my eyebrows, leaned back in my chair, and stared right back at him.

That was the end of that.

And Maureen D. Hall it's been, ever since.

What's your middle name, or were you, like me, a poor, neglected child without one?

 

Hole In One

I had to re-insert Daughter #2's nose ring last week.

Through its four day-old pierced opening on the side of what had previously been her perfect little nose. It got caught on her shirt when she'd pulled it over her head that morning and ripped right out.

You're probably wondering why I haven't mentioned the fact that Daughter #2 got her nose pierced before this. Maybe because I wanted you to still like me.

I'm not blind; I know how society views the bevy of pierced, tattoo'd teens wandering in our midst.

I'd already told you about Daughter #1's tattoo. Now Daughter #2 has a pierced nose. What's next? Revealing all three kids are multiply-pierced, tramp-stamped members of some gothic cult?

Daughter #2's nose piercing is actually part of her 16th birthday gift. Sweet, I know.

She asked me years ago when she was maybe 12 if she could get her nose pierced. I paused to consider: I'm 48 years old; I've worked with teens both in hospital and high school settings. And like you, I have eyes. There are a lot worse things out there that teens can do to themselves than stick a little jewel in one's nose.

So I told her yes. A tiny tiny stud. When she was 16. Because at the time 16 seemed so far away.

She won't actually be 16 till May. But I wanted it healed before summer at the beach. And I wasn't sure when we'd be off-island before her birthday.

Coincidentally, that same day of the piercing, she was to be Confirmed in  Falmouth with five other island kids from her Martha's Vineyard Sunday School class.

You see my reasoning here, right?

I mean, if we had to be off-island to receive a Catholic sacrament, might as well throw in a little nose piercing as well. Call me blasphemous, but the irony is not unappealing.

I could practically hear my mother shaking her head right through the telephone when I told her. "Hey," I wanted to say, "you should just be happy I've gotten all three of your grandchildren through Communion and Confirmation. My holy job is done." 

At any rate, Confirmation was lovely, blah, blah blah.

And the nose piercing? Well, picture Pollyanna walking into a Hell's Angels rally. Enough said.

I didn't stop to consider that I might, four days later, have my fingers up her nose, trying to re-insert a tiny corkscrew stud into a now bloody, yet seemingly invisible hole.

But once again Mommy saved the day. There is no end, apparently, to my vast array of untapped parenting skills. So help me God.

Is there something you've had to do as a parent that you could never have imagined in a million years? Please share. It can't be worse than having my blood-stained fingers up my daughter's nostril, can it?

 

"Mother Mary"

When my kids were younger and we lived in New Jersey, our church organized a Christmas pageant each Christmas Eve for the children's mass. An older child read the Christmas Gospel while an assortment of small shephards and angels, Wise Men and innkeepers, made their way down the aisle to the altar.

By the time First-Born Son was in third grade he was one of the older kids. He'd only stuck it out this long because he aspired to be Joseph.

There was one short "rehearsal" two days before the pageant, during which the parts were announced and costumes sorted out. To keep the whole thing fair, parents were allowed no input as to what part their child might receive.

I sat with the other moms and dads, trying not to pump my fist and exclaim "Yes!" when First-Born Son scored the role of Joseph.

The director then announced which little girl would be blessed with the part of Mary. The lucky child looked to be about seven. Her mother beamed with pride but the girl looked downright alarmed.

"No," she said. "I can't do it."

"Are you sure?" the director asked kindly.

The little girl nodded.

"Wait," her mother sputtered frantically. "Let me just talk to her."

But it was too late. The director consulted her list and announced another name.

"Daughter #1," she said. "Would you like to be Mary?"

Daughter #1 stood next to her brother, much too far away for me to nudge her and say, "Of course you would."

She was only five. I'd had no idea she was even in the running for Mary. There'd been no warning, no time for me to prep her to eagerly pounce on this role of a lifetime.

I held my breath, frozen, and tried to interpret her stoic little face. But her body language gave not a clue.

I needn't have feared. Already Daughter #1's competitive spirit had kicked into gear. She wasn't about to let this golden opportunity pass her by.

"What do you think?" the director prodded. She looked back down at her list. But without so much as a glance in my direction, D #1 gave one quick emphatic nod.

Discreetly I collected their costumes and shooed them out the door. I think some neurotic part of me feared that if the director realized her Mary and Joseph were actually sister and brother, she might rescind the offer.

Over my dead body.

Christmas Eve arrived. Mary and Joseph walked solemnly down the aisle and sat on either side of their baby-doll Jesus as he lay in the manger.

From our seats in the congregation, my mother and I exchanged wicked grins of delight. I was so proud.

Never had something so wrong seemed so very, very right.

 

 

Live and Learn

 

Live and Learn, one of the oldest expressions in the proverbial book of life, no?

But have you ever learned something that changed how you've viewed a specific experience for almost a decade?

The last autumn we lived in New Jersey, my son was invited to a friend's bar mitzvah. It wasn't a really good friend, but we'd known him for a few years from scouts. I'd only met his parents once. They were older and had immigrated years ago from Russia. First-Born Son always described them as "a little weird."

I knew the bar mitzvah gift of choice was cash, but I wasn't sure how much to write the check for. I consulted a friend of mine who's Jewish. This friend had grown up essentially without any religion, but when she married her Jewish husband, she was drawn to the rich history and tradition of his faith, and she converted.

I told her I thought $25 was too little, but $50 seemed a lot. "How about $35?" I compromised. "I don't want to insult anybody."

"That's good," she told me. "You won't insult anyone."

So F-B Son goes to the bar mitzvah and has a great time. Life is good.

Then, a month later, F-B Son has his friends over for his 13th birthday. Mostly, they bring gifts.  But the bar mitzvah-boy brings a check, signed by his mother, for $36.

What the hell? I give $35 and she turns around and has to give one dollar more? What's that about?

Again I consult my friend, but she's as confused as I am. And, for the last nine years, I've assumed I made some major cultural faux pas and insulted this woman enough to make her feel the need to return my money to me, plus one dollar.

Until last week.

I was flipping through a new book at the library (yes, I was supposed to be working; don't tell anyone). The book was Bad Mother by Ayelet Waldman, and in the introduction she explains that in Hebrew, every letter has a number value.

And the letters that spell life, or chai, equal 18. So Jewish monetary gifts are often given in multiples of 18, to symbolize life.

Thus F-B Son's check for $36. This Russian Jewish woman had not been insulted. She had been giving my son a gift steeped in tradition.

And I hadn't had a clue.

Live and learn.