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ESSAYMum and Dad
I am the product of a big family, the oldest of eight children. (It almost ended at seven but that is another story.) My mother is a fantastically creative, funny and loving lady, with a streak of insanity that will leave you rolling on the floor with laughter. I have two fathers. My first father left my life at the age of six and later came back into my life 32 years later as "Ice Cream Grandpa" to my two boys. We are rediscovering him and redeveloping a great relationship. My second dad, an engineer, who raised me, is as predictable as gravity. Where my mother is an extravert and the social spark of any gathering, my father prefers to work on complicated projects in his basement cubby hole, accompanied by tools rather than people. My father can fix anything. Even if it isn't pretty, whatever he fixes definitely ends up working well. He was not very good at people problems but was an expert at fixing things that people broke.
Many people visited our home. The police were often at our door! But usually asking for help. My mother raised eight children of her own as well as 42 other children who needed love and short-term parenting. In the middle of the night, police officers would come to our home with a battered child for us to love and look after until the courts could find a home for them or some way of protecting them. For my youngest brothers and sisters, the stork didn't bring babies. It was the police who delivered children in the middle of the night. My mother was a great recycler and used her talents to create treasures out of useless rubbish. We had a very luxurious living-room carpet that was a collection of showroom samples taped together and artistically laid out. She covered oil drums with expensive cloth and sewed lace onto the bottoms. Looking under the cloth, you would find a little note written on the barrel that said, "Surprise! This space reserved for expensive antique table!" My mother had a few valuable pieces of furniture in the living room so no one ever suspected oil drums as tall side tables and samples for a carpet. My dad, on the other hand, was not so artistic. In fact, his lack of talent cost me a good pair of shoes and my reputation for being cool in the fourth grade at school. I wanted Adidas shoes, with the three black stripes! I pestered my dad for brand shoes. Late one night, my father painstakingly cut out cardboard templates of the stripes from a pair of Adidas shoes he had borrowed from work and carefully painted the black stripes onto my white, cheap, generic running shoes. The kids at school laughed so hard that the teacher gave me a marker to color my shoes all black! The ink later started running when they got wet and the kids had another laugh. So to answer the question of what type of mother raised a boy to live in a treehouse: My mother taught me the joy of creativity and recycling, and my father taught me the need to be artistic. My father could engineer anything to work. My mother could use anything to create something of joy and beauty. I feel blessed to have parents that encouraged me in both ways. The Treehouse is artistic and unique but is practical and comfortable. Thank you mum and dad!
Shukan ST: March 12, 2004 (C) All rights reserved |