Lost

Both of my parents worked full time. I would go to the neighbours and wait for Commander Tom to come on. I was up before the TV, the screen had those funny colours and weird noise still playing when my babysitter would put it on. I was up before her kids. Most of my early age babysitters were like that. TV on, wait for it to start broadcasting, most of them went back to bed.

I think my first three years, my mom was home. In my minds eye, I see her ironing and I had all the chairs lined up as some form of transportation. I remember Seasame Street and The Price is right. I think right around the time she started working, my dad was on strike. I remember him teaching me to make the number 3.

When I turned thirteen, I was a bad kid. A secret bad kid. I was home by streetlights forever. I was a latchkey kid, I locked up when I left for school, did whatever afterschool until my parents got home from work. No cellphones, so they had a set time to call, so as long as I was around for those, I was good.

I found the note cleaning my furnace room. I used to collect spider glass, well I called it that. It is finely blown glass, the creator would make tiny decorations made out of this stuff, it was so intricate! One of my pieces, I think it was the girl holding an umbrella, fell and busted. It was toast and mom cleaned it up. I came home to this note and my restored piece, she glued it and it was perfect. My teenage self was taken aback. I existed in the same space with my folks, pretty usual disconnect between parent and child. I didn’t have or want time for them. They worked, they loved me but had each other. I look at the note and recall it so perfectly. It was a turning point for me. It was a sign she cared.