I Couldn’t Say It − December, 1970
My new stepmother worked hard to win my love. She was a therapist, so she probably thought that she had it all figured out. But she’d already made the first mistake and lost my trust.
She started a project with me. She’d gotten a big cloth map of the United States. Each state was outlined and named already, but there were little ornaments to affix onto each one. There was a star for each state capitol and an ornament representing that state’s major industry or symbol. For Utah, there was a beehive. There was probably a lump of coal for West Virginia, and a car for Michigan.
We worked on this project together for a few weeks. It was a good bonding exercise, an excuse to spend time together without having to artificially make conversation. It was probably easier for both of us that way. At the end of the project, she hung the map up in my room.
That night, as she sat on my bed to tuck me in, she asked me, “Can you say ‘Thank you, Mommy’?” I was not ready to call her “Mommy”. I must have said “Thank you”, but not “Mommy”. Or maybe I even said that I couldn’t call her “Mommy”. In any event, her reaction was magnificent.
She threw a fit. She railed and cried. She lost control. I observed silently, unmoved. At some level, I understood that she had a right to want the title of “Mommy”. That didn’t change the fact that I wasn’t there yet. I would get there when I got there.
Eventually, I called her “Mommy”. In fact, I called her that into my early twenties, long after my little brother had started calling her “Mom”.
She started a project with me. She’d gotten a big cloth map of the United States. Each state was outlined and named already, but there were little ornaments to affix onto each one. There was a star for each state capitol and an ornament representing that state’s major industry or symbol. For Utah, there was a beehive. There was probably a lump of coal for West Virginia, and a car for Michigan.
We worked on this project together for a few weeks. It was a good bonding exercise, an excuse to spend time together without having to artificially make conversation. It was probably easier for both of us that way. At the end of the project, she hung the map up in my room.
That night, as she sat on my bed to tuck me in, she asked me, “Can you say ‘Thank you, Mommy’?” I was not ready to call her “Mommy”. I must have said “Thank you”, but not “Mommy”. Or maybe I even said that I couldn’t call her “Mommy”. In any event, her reaction was magnificent.
She threw a fit. She railed and cried. She lost control. I observed silently, unmoved. At some level, I understood that she had a right to want the title of “Mommy”. That didn’t change the fact that I wasn’t there yet. I would get there when I got there.
Eventually, I called her “Mommy”. In fact, I called her that into my early twenties, long after my little brother had started calling her “Mom”.
