Monday’s Child

I was born on an August Monday in central Illinois. 

According to the almanac it was a typical 80-degree day, having lived in Illinois most of my life, I can tell you it was likely humid and that my father was probably ready for Summer to move its happy ass along. 

The old nursery poem says “Monday’s child is fair of face, Tuesday’s child is full of grace…” and so on. I think it’s worth noting here that all three of my siblings were born on Tuesdays, as well as both of my parents. Not sure it really has any significance but I believe I’ve been the black sheep of the family from almost the minute I was born. Either way, grace has never been my strong suit. Not that I think I am fair of face either, I believe I look too much like my Dad for my face to be considered fair or feminine by any means, but I digress. 

My Mom used to tell people that I had colic until I was five, while I know that’s biologically impossible, I was labeled early on as being far more difficult than my older sister. 

Becky and I are textbook opposites in almost every single way. It’s only been as adults that we’ve kind of begun the task of laying our armor down and finding a common ground for us to just be sisters. There are a lot of things that I think both of our parents did to keep us at odds with one another, but I don’t know that it can be wrapped up as simply as that. Becky, in my mind, fit the image of The Golden Child in my childhood. But again, us being opposite and all, she will tell you she was the black sheep. One of the rare things we agreed on though, was that Dad was almost always mad at me for something.

I know from Becky’s memory of my early infancy, Mom and Dad always fought. Loud yelling, Mom would mostly just cry, and Dad would scream and yell, slam doors, throw things, and so on. I know that some of my earliest memories are of Dad yelling or breaking something. 

I’ve discussed it with several people recently, including even with a few cousins, this general kind of ilk my father seemed to have towards me for doing nothing more than existing. I’ve tried to determine if there was ever one single moment that I could point to and say “Ah-ha! That’s the cause of it!” but all of us come up short. Becky even remembers it the same as I do: Dad was just always upset with me. 

While I’m sure that this is a feeling that is expressed by all kids at some point with their parents, Dad openly admitted it to me once, when my youngest had done something to make my blood completely boil during a family get together. I’d gone outside to smoke a cigarette and gather my wits before I lashed out at Trysha. She hadn’t done anything wrong per se, it was just a look on her face or the tone of her voice, to be honest I don’t even remember now. I just remember being overcome with murderous anger at a six-year-old. 

I was pacing the width of the driveway at Dad’s house, taking a few drags, trying to take deep breaths and let the anger diffuse in me when I heard the inside door open and then close, Dad’s bare feet padding out to where I was as he lit his own cigarette. The smell of menthol and Brut aftershave wafted on the wind as he came to stand near me. 

“She wasn’t hurting anything, Sam,” he said, that gravel in his voice that lent itself to the raspier tones in my own.

“I told her to stop though, she just doesn’t fucking listen to me!” I growled. This was met with a chuckle.

“I used to say the same about you.”

“It wasn’t that I didn’t listen,” I said. “I’d just make a ‘pukey’ face about doing it.”

“Yep, and that was all it took for me to want to bounce you against a wall.”

“Yea, what is that about?” I asked. 

“Look, I’m not saying it was right or wrong,” he started, “but I knew how much flack I’d gotten over the years for not being able to hide it on my face that I was upset over what I was being told to do.”

“Well okay, but how do you teach someone to stop doing something you still do?” I laughed.

“I don’t know,” he said, softly shaking his head. “I just knew I had to break that willfulness out of you or you’d end up living the rest of your life being miserable just like me.”

It had been one of many conversations I’d had with Dad to that point, and just like the others, the gravity of his words didn’t hit until far later. Looking back on it, I’m almost certain Trysha was doing something that I knew if it had been me as the child, he would have snatched me up and likely forced me to take a nap. He would have shaken me, drug me by my hair to my bed, thrown something at me, or in general flew into a rage over it – and that reason alone was why I’d been so angry at Trysha. 

It would be several years later before I’d experience understanding over his comment and come to the turning point of not wanting to repeat the cycle of parenting with my own children. And it would happen over something insignificant like a cocky look from my youngest, and a comment by my oldest.