My siblings and I grew up in a world of rules. We ate our vegetables and remembered not to use the good towels. We went to Mass. We made our beds and hung up our clothes and cleared the table. While some of my parents’ rules made perfect sense: “Be home before the streetlights come on,” some were patently absurd: “Never sit on the bed.” Regardless, we adhered to them all because the paramount rule was that we obeyed our parents .
This rule was spectacularly put to the test one Saturday when my 16-year old brother asked my father to borrow the car. My father said “No,” and did not feel compelled to explain “why” my brother could not have the car. Then he went to take a nap, as he did every Saturday. As soon as dad was asleep, my brother took the car.
When Dad woke up and saw his car was missing he reported that it had been stolen. Our town was very small back then, and my dad knew most of the cops, so when Officer Harrigan called and told dad that the car, with my remorseful brother inside it, had been retrieved, dad went downtown to pick up the car, but left my brother in jail. Dad picked my brother up Sunday night in time for school Monday morning, and neither my Dad nor my brother ever mentioned the incident again.
Needless to say, the story of my brother’s weekend in the Big House became the stuff of family legend, and since there are 12 years between my big brother and me, I grew up believing that if I disobeyed my parents I would go to jail. My parents did nothing to dispel this notion.
I was reminded of my parent’s approach to child rearing on a recent flight to Houston when I was unlucky enough to be seated in front of little Madison. The entire cabin learned Madison’s name before we even took off just by listening to her mother: “Please sit down, Madison.” “Sit down, Madison, please?” “Madison, sit down!”
Madison broke loose during take-off and sprinted down the aisle, totally freaking out the flight attendant who brought her back, screaming, to her mother. “Hush, Maddy,” crooned her mother while Madison, sullen, contented herself with kicking the back of my seat.
By the time the “Fasten Seat Belt” sign was turned off, Madison was running down the aisle again and her mother decided to count. “Madison,” she yelled, “come back here. I’m counting: One. Two.” There was a long pause. “Three.” Madison ignored her mother who got up to retrieve her. “I don’t know what’s wrong,” her mother said to no one in particular. “She’s so good at home.”
The woman next to me, seventy-ish with iron-gray hair and a granite jaw looked at me and rolled her eyes. “I’m sure the little hellion is an angel at home,” she said loudly, and we instantly bonded.
During the beverage service Madison ran away again and tried to kick the flight attendant who brought her back, screaming, to her mother. “She didn’t bite you, did she?” the mother asked anxiously and the flight attendant shook her head, speechless.
By this time Madison’s mother was holding her so firmly that Madison began screaming in rage, and I reflected that perhaps my parents had it right after all. The threat of incarceration seemed both logical and overdue.
The lady next to me read my mind: “Someone should lock her in the overhead compartment,” she said. “Which one,” I asked, “Madison or her mother?”