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Don’t Tell Your Father

Don’t Tell Your Father

This rule was a non-starter, and I’m surprised that someone as intelligent as Mom would even try it.

Dad earned the money, and he determined how it was spent. He had a budget for everything, and he expected Mom to keep all expenditures within the limits he had designated. I’m not sure his expectations were always realistic. For one thing, he wasn’t generally the one doing the shopping, so he may not have been aware of what things cost. Secondly, his idea of “need” versus “want” didn’t overlap too well with Mom’s.

If my Dad said the grocery budget was $X for the week, God forbid Mom should go over it. If she couldn’t make ends meet, she was just not being frugal enough, gosh darn it! My Dad had grown up shoeless in Texas on cornbread and beans, and he just didn’t understand her frustration. My Mom claims that we did not, in fact, have chicken and dumplings for dinner ALL. THE. TIME. but that’s how I remember it. Budget food. Blobby homemade flour dumplings swimming in chicken broth with celery, carrot slices, and chicken bits. Gross! I might have grown to like it in time if it hadn’t been such a staple.

Culinary matters were usually not too terribly contentious. Where things got a bit hairy was when it came to clothing. My brother was the youngest child, and he remained completely content with utilitarian items for many years. But my sister and I started realizing that our wardrobe of Sears Toughskins high waters, striped turtlenecks and Keds left a lot to be desired. Other girls had maxis, minis, and go go boots! And then there were halter tops, bell bottoms, and, sigh… Avon!

Mom understood the seriousness of the matter. A girl from the suburbs of D.C., she knew we needed to have a little “something” now and then to make us feel pretty and keep us from feeling like oddballs. Periodically she’d give in to her impulse to buy us some coveted item which had caught our eye. “Don’t tell your father,” she’d say conspiratorially, “It’s our little secret.” We were thrilled! Mom was our heroine! Yay!

Everything was great until Dad went to balance the checkbook and take care of the bills. What was Mom thinking?! Did she really think he wouldn’t notice?

“Carol!”

“Yes?”

“You’ve gone over budget again!”

“Oh my! How could that have happened? I was being so careful!”

And so it went. Dad puffed out like a rooster and Mom eating crow.

Dad used to confide in me that Mom needed his close supervision because she was like a child, and she just might not be bright enough to balance a checkbook. I knew Mom was dumb like a fox.

In her way, my mom was a very powerful woman. She still is. I give her credit. But in time, the words, “Don’t tell your father” caused me to decline the treat. The price was just too high.

This post is part of a series called Family Rules. The prior post is here. The next post is here.

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Don’t Tell Betty

Don’t Tell Betty

(Poor Betty! She was and is a great person, and she isn’t a gossip. This isn’t even about her. Sorry, Betty! This rule should actually be called “What Happens in the Family Stays in the Family.”)

I knew it was going to be a long evening whenever my mother started a conversation with, “Betty says….”

“BETTY says?! BETTY says?!” my Dad would spit contemptuously.

“Betty says,” translated to “MOM BLABBED.” Everything was considered blabbing. You part your lips, you blab. We’re not talking about topics such as sex or family finances. Even seemingly ordinary topics could earn Mom the reputation of having loose lips. Breathing = Conversing = Blabbing in my Dad’s way of thinking.

Dad guarded his privacy. Maybe it made him uncomfortable that many of the husbands in the neighborhood, including Betty’s husband Wilbur, worked with my Dad at a secure government facility. Maybe Dad’s job made him paranoid. Or maybe the neighborhood felt unpleasantly like a small town in which everyone knew everyone else’s business. Perhaps he was living out a family rule from his own childhood. I’m trying to understand his logic.

Truth be told, there was no bona fide dirt available on either Mom or Dad. No addictions, no crimes, no affairs, no financial crises. Just garden-variety family dysfunctions and eccentricities. My Dad’s biggest offense at this point might have been the way he walked around the yard in warm weather. This was nothing new. I’m sure the neighbors had all observed him turning the family garden plot shoeless, in his saggy v-neck undershirt, slacks, and black dress socks. Worst were the truly hot days when he kept the long dress socks but swapped his slacks for white cotton shorts. The retinas (retinae??) of the unsuspecting viewer were burned by the sight of his long, transparent legs, which sported a sparse covering of long black hair and were dappled with moles of varying shades and topographies. OK, that probably WAS a crime.

But I digress. The point is that my Dad did not want to know what Betty thought about the price of eggs or anything else. This is because he felt violated and exposed by the knowledge that my mother had gone as far as to discuss a matter as titillating as the price of eggs.

Probably Mom HAD at some point discussed something personal in nature but everybody needs trustworthy friends in whom they can confide. I don’t know where I’d be without my girlfriends. Besides, being home alone all day with no car and three young children could really make a person nuts, especially someone social like Mom.

Maybe her real mistake was letting it slip that she was not as silent as a sphinx. Or maybe it was as simple as having friends.

This post is part of a series called Family Rules. The prior post is here. The next post is here.

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