Jane's Addiction

You know, it's odd how the things our parents made us do as hated chores become some of our great loves when we grow up.

In my case you could take several things. Reading for example. There was a time when I hated to read. Some of you who know me may find this hard to believe, but it's true. Now, my mother is a serious reader. When I say serious I mean that there is always at least one book she's reading within easy reach. To say nothing of those she's writing, but that's for another posting.

The story goes that sometime shortly after my birth Shogun was published. Now in addition to her voracious reading habit, my mother has a deep love for both Japanese culture (she lived in Japan for several years) as well as history. Of course my mother didn't waste any time in procuring a copy of said novel. She continued to meet my infant needs, but woe to anyone else in the house or the house itself. Somewhere around the third or fourth day, when my father had picked up pizza or something, again, my brother asked if mom was ever gonna make dinner again. My father sighed, looked at my mom, (who had the book in one hand and was feeding me a bottle with the other) and said, not until she's finished the book.

So, when I was in the third grade she decided that I needed to read. I didn't want to. Not like I had a choice. I was handed a large, hardcover, orange (to this day I hate the color orange) book and told I had to read a chapter a day and report it to her. Damn, this meant that I couldn't close my door, pretend to read and then be free. I actually had to know the material.

What's so bad about a chapter a day? The book was about Cowboys and Indians. It was pulled from the shelf because my brother had enjoyed it. Now, I was a nine year old girl. I was a bit of a tomboy, and I absolutely worshiped my brother, but this was going too far. Oh how I hated that reading hour. It dragged on interminably. I remember laying on my bedroom floor under the windows and studying the wallpaper much more industriously than that book.

And then, epiphany! My mother took me with her to the bookstore. Now, I'm sure I had been to many a bookstore with my mom before that fateful day. I mean, how could I not? But I have no conscious memory of ever being in one before. I, of course, was whining about not wanting to read the dreaded chapter that day. I wanted to do something with my friends. So mom tells me if I don't like the one I'm reading, then while we're here pick out something else. I started wandering aimlessly through the stacks, rather grumpily I might add, when I see a title. The Haunted Bridge.

Now, I loved scary stuff. Movies, stories (my brother told great ghost stories) whatever. So, not knowing how to judge a book except by it's cover, I bought it. And discovered Nancy Drew. Couldn't get enough of them. They were like candy to me. I stopped watching TV. I stayed up late reading with a flashlight under the covers. My friends came by and I blew them off. I hardly even got into the pool.

Of course, all good things must end, even my affair with Nancy Drew. Once again my mother stepped in. She banned Nancy from the house. Told me I needed to broaden my literary horizons. Which led to my lifelong affair with Stephen King. King was eventually followed by John Saul. At some point I discovered Sci-Fi then fantasy and so on. Now, I read anything I can get my greedy little paws on. I've outdone my mother in the bookworm category. I usually have at least three books going at one time. One on the nightstand, one in the car, one in the living room...

Some well meaning individuals have voiced the thought that perhaps I need help. Some kind of intervention. I've never argued my insanity. I'll check into the rubber room any time you like....as long as it's stocked with books.

Jerry Springer - Me?

Now, I don't really watch Jerry Springer. Have seen bits and pieces while channel surfing. Can't stand talk shows and DETEST what I call tabloid talk shows. But suddenly, I find myself living in what could be a Jerry Springer ongoing serial.

Don't get me wrong. I never thought adolescence would be easy. My own journey through that mine field was enough to warn me. But this? Never would have imagined it.

I was not the easiest 15 year old on the planet at the time, but I'm sure I wasn't the worst either. And there were plenty of arguments and differences of opinion between myself and my parental units. But there were limits. Certain things I might have thought, but would never dream of saying. Things I thought of doing, but would never have actually done.

You see, no matter how much they pissed me off, they were my PARENTS. Underneath all the angst and posturing, I loved them. Was conscious of an invisible line I didn't want to cross. Never wanted to hurt them. And I had a certain amount of respect for them. Of course, at the time, I often felt they were monumentally unfair. And I was going to be different with my kids. Well, the best laid plans.....

But how did my life with my son get to this? When did it become ok to heap verbal abuse on your mom? When did it become ok to threaten her? How did the norm become holes in walls made by angry fists, broken doors and windows? When did saying fuck off to your parents become an accepted means of communication? When did we start having to call the police to discipline a child? (When he grew to be over six feet tall and outweigh you by eighty pounds, I suppose).

This is so foreign to me. I did not live like this growing up and neither has my child, until recently. But last Monday, I realized that in three short months, my child has turned my home into a Jerry Springer show.

I want a word with the producers. I know Jerry gets paid more than me. I want a raise.