In Search of Peace (and Quiet)

My mother spent 28 years as a stay at home mom to four children.

And my Dad travelled. A lot.

In 1978 he was away from home for about nine months, leaving my mom at home with four kids ranging in age from six to sixteen.

It was the year of an infamous blizzard. It was the year the dog got hit by a car and died. It was the year the Oldsmobile broke down.

One evening during that year, at the end of a long, no-school-snow-day, the five of us gathered around the table for dinner. My mother was in the peak of her casserole phase (followed by the Vietnamese phase, the crock pot phase and the make-your-own-goddamn-dinner phase) so that night we were probably dining on American Chop Suey or Tuna Noodle Surprise.

And then it started. My brother dipping his napkin into my sister's milk. My sister's milk spilling. My brother dipping his napkin into my milk. Me crying. My sister asking how many bites of casserole du jour she had to eat. The cat throwing up. The phone ringing. Nobody eating.

My mother didn't say a word. She watched for awhile. Then silently, deliberately, she rose from the table, picked up her car keys, and walked out the door.

We sat. Dumbfounded. "Where did mom GO?". "Mom can't LEAVE!".

Oh, but she could. And she did.

In fact, she left several more times during those nine months.

When I was about 20 I found out that she had escaped to the library seeking solace on those nights. The library! Are you kidding me?

I always imagined that, on those nights, she was driving her VW Bug around town in a mad, middle-aged rage stopping only at the mall to max out her Visa card at Lord and Taylor. Or maybe drowning her sorrows in cognac shots in the back of her favorite fabric store. The other quilters gathered around her, sympathetic to life with ungrateful children. Maybe there was a whole underground-stay-at-home-mom-quilters support group. It sounded plausible, no?

When I found out that her escape had been our small-town, 3 room library, well, I laughed. And laughed. And laughed some more.

No retail therapy? No support groups? No liquor?

The Library? Could she not have found a better retreat?

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One evening last week my family sat down to dinner after a long, cold stuck-in-the-house kind of day. I'm in a meal rut right now so I served the usual: baked chicken, steamed broccoli, cous-cous, a loaf of Italian bread.

And then it started.

"Do I have to eat alllll my chicken?"

"I will eat 2 bites of broccoli but NOT one single grain of cous-cous. You CAN'T make me!"

"Moooooom, you know I only like the broccoli ste-e-e-e-e-ms, noooot the flowerrrry paaarrt".

There was a spilled cup of milk.

And then another.

There were tears.

And whining.

The phone was ringing.

Nobody was eating.

I didn't say a word. I watched for awhile. Then I silently, deliberately, got up from the table. I picked up my car keys, and walked out the door.

And I drove.

To the library.


I get it now.