For the first twelve years of my life my mother was a housewife. That’s what they were called in the 1960’s. Today, we would refer to her as homemaker or a stay at home mom, but back then, it was housewife.

I give my mother credit for the love I have for a neat and tidy home. Keeping a clean home was important to her, and as children; we were given household jobs to contribute to the maintaining of a clean and orderly home.

My mother had the good fortune of having a  dear friend Shirley that lived across the street. After her morning chores were done, my mother would put my brother John in a fresh diaper, grab her cigarettes, and head over to Shirley’s house for a time of talking, coffee drinking, smoking, and adult company.

Shirley had a daughter Lee Ann that was John’s age, which worked out great for the moms. All my life, I have chased after the hopes that one day, I could have a friend, neighbor, that I could duplicate that relationship that Shirley and my mother had.

I was around nine years old at the time and I loved to accompany my mom and my brother to Shirley’s house. I would play “teacher”, reading to the younger ones, drawing on the chalkboard, or coloring with them; basically being their boss.

Perhaps a year down the road, Shirley gave birth to a son. I remember the first time (possibly the last time) I was given permission to hold him.  Of course I had to sit squarely on the sofa, getting instructions from my mother, “support his head”, “keep him covered up”, all the things nervous adults tell children.

For the first few minutes Billy peacefully laid there in my arms while I soaked in his sweet baby smells, touching his soft newborn hands, and stroking his downy soft hair. He then began to squirm, and shortly after, he began to cry. I looked  squarely into his eyes and without any regard to my surroundings, in the company of my mother and Shirley,  and said, “Quit crying you son-of-a-bitch!” In my defense, I had NO idea what a bitch was, let alone a son-of-a-bitch. I just knew that I had heard my daddy say it PLENTY of times out of frustration for one thing or another. My mother reeled in mortified disbelief and shock while Shirley grabbed her innocent son from my cradled arms. My mom in a desperate attempt to save some sort of face said, “Cathy Rhea, where have you heard that kind of talk?” To my mother’s embarrassment, I calmly replied, “Daddy says it all the time.”

Needless to say, I learned quickly that was not an acceptable thing to call a babe in arms.

I get a laugh when I think of this story, but keep in mind, my Daddy has always said that I would laugh at a funeral. I’ve always taken that as a compliment, because to me it shows that I look for the humor in life.

What is life without a few embarrassing moments, without a few experiences you would like to sweep under the carpet? I choose to hold on to those moments if for no other reason but to keep my humility in check.

Keeping it real 24-7,

Cat