A quick study, Savannah has already started with the mom bashing that typically comes during the teen years. I’m convinced she has a secret notebook, where she jots down all her complaints to use as proof points in her adult therapy sessions that she had Joan Crawford for a mother.
“See, see,” she’ll say, shoving her notebook under some poor, empathic West Village therapist’s nose. “My mother limited my TV time to 2 hours a day, which is why I procrastinate and never finish projects.”
My latest infraction according to Savannah: I said her name in public.
“You’re mad because I said your name out loud in Duane Reade?” I asked, feigning concern.
“Yea, you embarrassed me!” she said.
It took all my power to not burst out laughing and launch into the story about the “good old days of child abuse.”
“Heck, kid, you’re lucky I’m alive and you even have a mother. My childhood was like some weird Nazi experiment.” I wanted to say.
I grew up in a house of chain smokers, eating high fat processed food – what person in their right in mind feeds a child baloney? If that wasn’t enough, we didn’t wear seat belts or lock doors. “That’s what dogs are for,” my father would bark when questioned about his security system.
For an extra dose of shame my mother once made me wear for Halloween a crappy pumpkin costume she made. It poured rain, drenching the crumpled newspaper stuffing. I looked more like a long gourd than the intended pumpkin.
I kept my mouth shut, though. God forbid I add more to her growing list. Also, I’m saving it for therapy.