Imagine a teenage girl of 18 taking on 6 needy children and then giving birth to 5 of her own, all by the age of 23 and staying the course. I mean it, think about that! That is Elisabeth (nee Patenaude) Mailloux. When Theresa turned 14 she was 24. She did not have the luxury of being a young, willful, curious rebellious teenager. She was therefore totally unprepared for the girls. When I was 14 she was 29.
It began with Theresa, then Doris and then me. With each one of us there was a battle of the wills. Be it clothes, friends, outings, makeup, or quality and quantity of work, there was very little middle ground to be found. As we looked for our independence and our voice we butted up against hers. There was a lot of arguing, shouting, foiled attempts at disciplineand some running away. I think with Theresa and Doris it might have been easier as they were more practical than I. In some ways more stubborn, but generally more predictable and thus more ready to compromise. I on the other hand was extremely idealistic and argued on ideas like how to raise her children. My arguments were crueler and hit closer to home.
By the time I hit 18 she had had enough of me telling her how to handle Gary and it was time for me to leave. It was a bitter day. I felt utterly unprepared for the world. Looking back, I see it was the only decision she could have made. I was the last of the first 6 to leave the nest. My father did not intervene, but left the burden on her shoulders. With no one to blame for my unhappiness, I came face to face with myself. Of course I still blamed her. Why couldn't she understand my need to talk, to share with her my hopes, fears, dreams. Talking of these lofty ideas was out of the question.
Many years later, when my father was undergoing bypass surgery, and many of us where visiting him in hospital, she spoke of this period. I was the only one who witnessed her confession. She spoke of it in indirect terms saying that she bore the sole responsibility regarding post secondary education. In a tearful state she admitted to being overwhelmed by this momentous responsibility, determining who would get university or college and who would not. It wasn't fair. My father did not participate but left it to her. By now I was aware of how much she had influenced and shaped my life. What she regretted had taught me to be strong and self-reliant. It had taught me that I was no longer a child at 18 but someone old enough to hurt and be hurt, to love and be loved.
Knowing myself now as I do, it would not have been good for me to stay at home another 2 years. I did, more than all my siblings, need to face the world. It would only have been more contest of wills.
I don't want this blog to be sentimental. My ambition is to really relate the strength of character and tenacity demonstrated by my mother. Unfortunately she was often unhappy. I equate much of this unhappiness with that basic decision to marry my dad and take on his 6 kids. She could be judgmental, unfair, unbending, and partial to her own children.
In my next blog I will talk about our adult life.
Monday, 30 April 2012
Thursday, 12 April 2012
early days
The best way to begin is at the beginning. The day we met. I was soon to be four she would be 19 that year. It was summer. They, my father and new mother had only just returned from their honeymoon. My dad had fetched me from my aunt and uncle's where I had been living for two years to bring me to to meet my new mother.
She was in the kitchen. I was in my father's arms. He transferred me to hers. I loved her at once. She was so beautiful. Beautiful, with black shiny hair falling softly around her creamy complexion. Long wispy lashes framing her large hazel eyes and a dazzling smile. She was my fairytale queen. She was happy then.
After that day I went back to live with my aunt and uncle off and on. My brother Dennis and I were still not in school. But during that year or two, there were quiet sunny mornings with just her and I when we didn't speak. She made toast and jam and made them like a sandwich so the flavour of the jam was overwhelmed by the bread. She didn't sit and eat breakfast with us. I sat at the end of the long wooden table my father had built and quietly opened my toast to get the full flavour of the jam inside. Dennis and I had to nap in the afternoon. We slept in separate beds, in separate rooms upstairs in our wartime house. I could not sleep and asked every five minutes if I could get up.
She was expecting Gary. I picked her bouquets of dandelions which she informed me were weeds. She was young and didn't know any better. I begged and pleaded and was finally able to dry the cutlery while I stood on a chair in front of the sink. She was still beautiful. She wore the maternity clothing of the time. I was lonely. She waited for her baby.
We prepared the bedroom downstairs for the new arrival. She loved to sing and so did I. I could read. We sang from the song lyric books one could buy at the "Five and dime". "Stagger Lee" and "Misty". She folded clothes. I was perched on a ladder in the closet with the song sheets. I had tonsillitis off and on and finally was taken to Chatham by Al and Ilene to have them removed.
There are many scattered memories of the five babies which were born in five years. Difficult years for all of us.
She doesn't remember this, but I do. She could ride a bike and we had a red men's bike. She would ride it to her aunt's or meet her aunt to go and play bingo at St. Theresa's Church. Later these memories would inspire me, reminding me of how independent and creative she was. She was my adult, but she was really just a child. By then she would be 21 or 22.
She was in the kitchen. I was in my father's arms. He transferred me to hers. I loved her at once. She was so beautiful. Beautiful, with black shiny hair falling softly around her creamy complexion. Long wispy lashes framing her large hazel eyes and a dazzling smile. She was my fairytale queen. She was happy then.
After that day I went back to live with my aunt and uncle off and on. My brother Dennis and I were still not in school. But during that year or two, there were quiet sunny mornings with just her and I when we didn't speak. She made toast and jam and made them like a sandwich so the flavour of the jam was overwhelmed by the bread. She didn't sit and eat breakfast with us. I sat at the end of the long wooden table my father had built and quietly opened my toast to get the full flavour of the jam inside. Dennis and I had to nap in the afternoon. We slept in separate beds, in separate rooms upstairs in our wartime house. I could not sleep and asked every five minutes if I could get up.
She was expecting Gary. I picked her bouquets of dandelions which she informed me were weeds. She was young and didn't know any better. I begged and pleaded and was finally able to dry the cutlery while I stood on a chair in front of the sink. She was still beautiful. She wore the maternity clothing of the time. I was lonely. She waited for her baby.
We prepared the bedroom downstairs for the new arrival. She loved to sing and so did I. I could read. We sang from the song lyric books one could buy at the "Five and dime". "Stagger Lee" and "Misty". She folded clothes. I was perched on a ladder in the closet with the song sheets. I had tonsillitis off and on and finally was taken to Chatham by Al and Ilene to have them removed.
There are many scattered memories of the five babies which were born in five years. Difficult years for all of us.
She doesn't remember this, but I do. She could ride a bike and we had a red men's bike. She would ride it to her aunt's or meet her aunt to go and play bingo at St. Theresa's Church. Later these memories would inspire me, reminding me of how independent and creative she was. She was my adult, but she was really just a child. By then she would be 21 or 22.
the middle years
It wasn't long before we resented her intrusion. A product of her strict religious upbringing she was nothing if not practical and efficient and she brought to bear these attributes in our environment. Physically capable of the huge challenge she undertook, the taking of responsibility for six children ranging in age from nine to three , we were soon required to adapt to her restrictive disciplinary ways. Those six children had only just lost their own mother and though some two years had passed, were still bereft.
Hindsight helps us understand that our new mother did not possess the skills required to comfort sad and unruly children. There was an overriding need for efficiency and obedience. Although terribly unhappy, we were living in a safe predictable environment where chaos was not tolerated.
Our young mother rose to her new role by assuring a meal on the table three times a day. Considering the size of the family and my father's small and sometimes non existent income, a small miracle was performed regularly.
Although we resented it at the time, we lived in a well maintained house, floors and surfaces were very clean, dishes were done at each meal, laundry was washed and hung to dry, ironed and put away. We each had a job to do and play was not an option until the job was done.
Despite our chores there was lots of time for play. And later after Lise the last baby was born, mom played with us. She could really slug a baseball and often hit balls out on the side-lawn for us to catch. None of my brothers could hit as good as her and I sure couldn't. Other days we would have a real neighborhood ball game. It was really thrilling to have her play with us as she was our adult too. My father rarely joined in.
Elisabeth was reliable, loyal and disciplined. She insisted that we develop these qualities. She was an excellent role model. No matter how she felt, she saw to it that we were clothed, sheltered and fed. Though my father was the breadwinner, my mother managed her meager budget like a banker. Because she could, we learned to cook and clean, to bake, to sew, to fix things to persevere. We learned to become independent and reliable and contributors to society
As the younger ones got older, she took on some community roles. She became the president of the PTA for the French children, and held that role for several years. The principal and the other teachers respected and admired her. She was an important member of our church choir, singing the soprano part. Sometimes she sang that part alone. She had a beautiful clear voice. I loved to sing but was admittedly somewhat tone deft. Even though she vehemently discouraged me from singing at home, I think she hoped that my singing in the choir would improve my skills. We went to the weekly practices together through many a cold winter night. (I was placed in the alto section, but I couldn't read the music so couldn't remember the melody or hold my part). These experiences were the shaping of me. I loved the choir loft at night and being with that mostly adult choir. She knew I had an artistic leaning and tried to nourish it, but there really was no money for lessons or training.
It's so hard to write objectively because she was my mother. I know that somewhere I always hung onto that niggling awareness that she wasn't my real mother and so it didn't matter if things were bad between us. I thought she would never understand me. I was moody and melodramatic. I loved show, she loved containment.
So now it's the time of reckoning. There is no running away from this. I thought all my life, if I didn't love her she couldn't hurt me. If I admired her from afar, she wouldn't have my vulnerable feelings in hand to contort and misinterpret. When all is said and done, forgive or not, her child or not, hurt or not, I love her, loved her and will always love her for the human she is, for the sacrifices she made, for the visions she had, for the sorrow she endured.
I am so fortunate to have had and to have her for my mother.
My children say that I am the best mom. I believe I owe so much of that to her.
.
Hindsight helps us understand that our new mother did not possess the skills required to comfort sad and unruly children. There was an overriding need for efficiency and obedience. Although terribly unhappy, we were living in a safe predictable environment where chaos was not tolerated.
Our young mother rose to her new role by assuring a meal on the table three times a day. Considering the size of the family and my father's small and sometimes non existent income, a small miracle was performed regularly.
Although we resented it at the time, we lived in a well maintained house, floors and surfaces were very clean, dishes were done at each meal, laundry was washed and hung to dry, ironed and put away. We each had a job to do and play was not an option until the job was done.
Despite our chores there was lots of time for play. And later after Lise the last baby was born, mom played with us. She could really slug a baseball and often hit balls out on the side-lawn for us to catch. None of my brothers could hit as good as her and I sure couldn't. Other days we would have a real neighborhood ball game. It was really thrilling to have her play with us as she was our adult too. My father rarely joined in.
Elisabeth was reliable, loyal and disciplined. She insisted that we develop these qualities. She was an excellent role model. No matter how she felt, she saw to it that we were clothed, sheltered and fed. Though my father was the breadwinner, my mother managed her meager budget like a banker. Because she could, we learned to cook and clean, to bake, to sew, to fix things to persevere. We learned to become independent and reliable and contributors to society
As the younger ones got older, she took on some community roles. She became the president of the PTA for the French children, and held that role for several years. The principal and the other teachers respected and admired her. She was an important member of our church choir, singing the soprano part. Sometimes she sang that part alone. She had a beautiful clear voice. I loved to sing but was admittedly somewhat tone deft. Even though she vehemently discouraged me from singing at home, I think she hoped that my singing in the choir would improve my skills. We went to the weekly practices together through many a cold winter night. (I was placed in the alto section, but I couldn't read the music so couldn't remember the melody or hold my part). These experiences were the shaping of me. I loved the choir loft at night and being with that mostly adult choir. She knew I had an artistic leaning and tried to nourish it, but there really was no money for lessons or training.
It's so hard to write objectively because she was my mother. I know that somewhere I always hung onto that niggling awareness that she wasn't my real mother and so it didn't matter if things were bad between us. I thought she would never understand me. I was moody and melodramatic. I loved show, she loved containment.
So now it's the time of reckoning. There is no running away from this. I thought all my life, if I didn't love her she couldn't hurt me. If I admired her from afar, she wouldn't have my vulnerable feelings in hand to contort and misinterpret. When all is said and done, forgive or not, her child or not, hurt or not, I love her, loved her and will always love her for the human she is, for the sacrifices she made, for the visions she had, for the sorrow she endured.
I am so fortunate to have had and to have her for my mother.
My children say that I am the best mom. I believe I owe so much of that to her.
.
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