I Hate Being Lied to
When I was a kid (and probably most of the rest of us out there, too) we all were told the lies common to most parents - the Tooth Fairy, the Santa Claus myth, the Easter Bunny story. I grew out of them, like all kids, although I felt a twinge at their passage.
However,when I got to be a teenager, I wish that Mom could have been a little more understanding. As much as I adored my mother, there were times when I was between the ages of fifteen and seventeen when I got mouthy and secretive. Because am an adult now, I realize what I went through was a rite of passage. But Mom still treated me like a little kid whose every move needed to be monitored.
For example, when I was fifteen and a high school sophomore, I made friends with a girl who was a freshman that same year. She often suggested stopping off at the restaurant after school for a Coke or other drink. I kept saying no, because I knew my mother would be looking for me and wondering where I was. But Linda was persistent, because she knew her mother trusted her beyond the shadow of a doubt and wouldn't look for her before she saw her. I gave in a few times, and each time I did, I got home about an hour later than usual. Naturally, Mom wanted to know where I'd been. Whatever I gave her as an excuse (and I've forgotten with the passage of time) didn't satisfy her. She began to ask me "what bums" I was hanging around with. I got mad and argued for right of selection. These fights got sometimes bitter.
Like most teenage girls, we passed notes during classes to each other. I can't fathom
why so many ended up in my purse, but they did. Linda used her middle name "Lee" to sign these missives, and I signed "Patsy" which was a nickname of my real name. Not only did Mom HATE that name for some reason, but she went through my purse one night when I was asleep, found a handful of said notes, and read them all. Then she sprang it on me and Dad at the dinner table on what she had done, and tossed a handful at him and told him to read them (he refused)to see "what kind of bums she was hanging around with.She's even trying to change her name at the age of fifteen!"
"I am NOT!" I sobbed, grabbing the discarded notes from the table.
"Lee?" Mom hissed at me."Is that your name?"
This war of words progressed to my use of the name "Patsy". Mom got madder still. "I hate that name and you KNOW it!"
I never figured out why she hated it, nor why she thought my friends were bums. I confided in her less and less over the better part of a year, then one day, I woke up and a miracle happened.
I was sixteen, going on seventeen - and growing up in my head. I bided my time, because Mom still suspected of my lying (her thought, not the reality) to her at every turn. I didn't lie to you then, Mom, and I hated you lecturing me about the right of privacy and then going through my purse. You could have thrown those grubby pieces of paper out and we wouldn't have been at each others' throats so often during my secretive days when I was only fifteen and sixteen years old.
However,when I got to be a teenager, I wish that Mom could have been a little more understanding. As much as I adored my mother, there were times when I was between the ages of fifteen and seventeen when I got mouthy and secretive. Because am an adult now, I realize what I went through was a rite of passage. But Mom still treated me like a little kid whose every move needed to be monitored.
For example, when I was fifteen and a high school sophomore, I made friends with a girl who was a freshman that same year. She often suggested stopping off at the restaurant after school for a Coke or other drink. I kept saying no, because I knew my mother would be looking for me and wondering where I was. But Linda was persistent, because she knew her mother trusted her beyond the shadow of a doubt and wouldn't look for her before she saw her. I gave in a few times, and each time I did, I got home about an hour later than usual. Naturally, Mom wanted to know where I'd been. Whatever I gave her as an excuse (and I've forgotten with the passage of time) didn't satisfy her. She began to ask me "what bums" I was hanging around with. I got mad and argued for right of selection. These fights got sometimes bitter.
Like most teenage girls, we passed notes during classes to each other. I can't fathom
why so many ended up in my purse, but they did. Linda used her middle name "Lee" to sign these missives, and I signed "Patsy" which was a nickname of my real name. Not only did Mom HATE that name for some reason, but she went through my purse one night when I was asleep, found a handful of said notes, and read them all. Then she sprang it on me and Dad at the dinner table on what she had done, and tossed a handful at him and told him to read them (he refused)to see "what kind of bums she was hanging around with.She's even trying to change her name at the age of fifteen!"
"I am NOT!" I sobbed, grabbing the discarded notes from the table.
"Lee?" Mom hissed at me."Is that your name?"
This war of words progressed to my use of the name "Patsy". Mom got madder still. "I hate that name and you KNOW it!"
I never figured out why she hated it, nor why she thought my friends were bums. I confided in her less and less over the better part of a year, then one day, I woke up and a miracle happened.
I was sixteen, going on seventeen - and growing up in my head. I bided my time, because Mom still suspected of my lying (her thought, not the reality) to her at every turn. I didn't lie to you then, Mom, and I hated you lecturing me about the right of privacy and then going through my purse. You could have thrown those grubby pieces of paper out and we wouldn't have been at each others' throats so often during my secretive days when I was only fifteen and sixteen years old.
61-69, F
