There is a little girl, aged eighteen, who wraps herself in the same old blanket night after night. The simplicity of the pink and white croqueted pattern made unique by the unobtrusive addition of a tag that reads: "Specially Hand Made by Grandma." As she drifts off to sleep, one thousand miles away from home, she is once again reminded that she is loved. The blanket that has carried her through all the ups and downs in life thus far is there to remind her of the loving family that has supported her through it all. As she sleeps, the stress of the day, and of college life in general, is dispelled by the overwhelming comfort of home.
I run into my room and slam the door. Within seconds the tears burst forth from my eyes despite my desperate attempt to contain them. This scene is becoming all too familiar. Supposedly this is the norm for most sixteen-year-olds and their parents, but that fact alone cannot eradicate this feeling of injustice that, in my mind, I alone have ever had to experience. I just don't understand what their deal is. My dad seems to expect me to do just about everything. According to him, it is my responsibility to oversee the completion of my brother and sister's homework each day, as well as keep my own GPA at a 4.0—that's the thing with parents, disappoint them from the beginning and they won't expect as much from you. If I get the "you don't contribute enough to this family" speech one more time I cannot be held responsible for what I may do.
Then, of course, there is my mom. Ever since I was old enough to walk it's as if my mere existence grates her nerves. The funny thing is, I'm not quite sure what this current fight is about. All I know is that, once again, whatever has gone wrong in this household is my fault. That is the way it has always seemed to work out. As I sit on my bed, tears streaming down my bright red face as my throat grows hoarse from sobbing, in my head I can hear the next possible fight about to ensue. "It wasn't my idea to have a kid when I was nineteen Mom, that was you!" followed by a defiant, "You're not even my real dad!" As soon as I even think it my stomach starts to churn with guilt and I feel as if I'm about to be sick.
The truth is, as often as my mind threatens these hurtful retorts, I could never bring myself to use them. I love my parents, I really do, but that doesn't lessen the resentment I still have towards their refusal to approach me about my biological father. At the beginning of that part of my life where I should be "finding myself" and trying to figure out where I am going, I can't even get a clear answer as to where I came from. Sixteen years old and I don't even know where I came from, or even better yet, who I came from. Every time my relationship with my parents is put to test, I cannot help but consider their reasons for not openly sharing with me the details of my birth. This is my life, but they alone control how much of the story I know. This feeling of emptiness and bitterness always makes a meaningless fight seem so much worse. By this point, my head hurts so much I can't think anymore. As I lie down on my bed, without hesitation, I grab for the blanket. The pink and white croqueted blanket with a tag that reads: "Specially Hand Made by Grandma." Years of practice have made this motion a thoughtless instinct. I know the blanket is always there and this is one of those days that it is especially needed. As I pull the blanket around me, instantly I feel comforted and slowly but surely I drift off to sleep.
I stand in the bathroom, precariously dangling the tiny gold heart locket above the toilet.
"But I don't WANT IT!" I scream at the top of my lungs. At the age of four, these temper tantrums are becoming all too familiar. No one is even paying attention to me at this point. Deep down I know I really won't do it. The truth is I really like the necklace; I just can't admit that to them. This "new" guy my mom has been bringing around is starting to get on my nerves. Who needs a boy hanging around? I for one am perfectly content living in this house with Mom, Gramma, Aunt Mary Kay, Aunt Anne Marie and Aunt Colleen. No one else I know can say they live with their mom, their grandma and their three crazy aunts. I'm the center of everyone's attention and I'm far from willing to give that up. All of this is about to change and I am not the least bit pleased. Mom got a ring, and I got a necklace. This necklace is a trick. He is just pretending to be nice. He doesn't like me he likes Mom. He is taking Mom away from me.
The screaming has gone on for long enough, I decide. It has nothing to do with the fact that my throat is hoarse or that this lack of attention is boring me, I just feel that I have made my point. I walk into the kitchen and climb onto Gramma's lap. She takes the necklace from my hand and puts it around my neck. As she hooks the clasp, I attempt to protest, but the words do not come out. This is Gramma; I can't argue with Gramma. As nonchalant as a four-year-old can be, I calmly say to Gram, "It doesn't make me like him." That's when she turns me around and looks me square in the face. "Now Caitlin, Tom is a wonderful man who loves you and your mother very much, just as much as your aunts and I do." Of course I can't fully believe her, but out of everyone in this world, I trust my grandma more than anyone. She gives me a big hug, the "Gramma Hug," the best kind, and I hop down off her lap and run to play with my dolls. It's funny how easily swayed the mood of a four-year-old can be.
It's about five months after the necklace over the toilet incident that my mom marries Tom. To be quite honest, I really do like him now. I will now have a dad—well there's a new concept. I've never had a dad before, so I can't really know what to expect from one, but I'm genuinely excited to see how this works. I walk down the aisle playing the important role of the flower girl, wearing my brand new dress and the tiny gold heart locket around my neck. When I get to the front I take my seat with my grandma and I turn to see my mom. She looks beautiful, like a princess. Her dress is not big or fancy, the ceremony is small, but I've never seen her look this happy. After the ceremony—the long and boring ceremony, adds my now mature five-year-old mind—my entire family, new mixed with old, returns to my grandma's house. There is no party, no reception, just dinner with our closest family and friends; this is the way my mom wanted it. After dinner, my mom and my "new" dad leave for their honeymoon. Again it's just the girls and I. These will be the last three nights I sleep in the house I grew up in.
For those next three days, I don't think I was ever alone. If my grandma wasn't spoiling me rotten, my Aunt Mary Kay was watching my favorite movie, The Wizard of Oz, with me nestled securely in her lap. She was always so protective of me, constantly making sure I was perpetually happy. When the movie was over it was on to my Aunt Anne Marie, who would always sneak me treats without anyone else seeing. She was the one who could always make me laugh, no matter how upset I felt, and in those last three days, I was never without a smile on my face. Then my Aunt Colleen would come and steal me away. As the youngest aunt, she was the cool one who I aspired to be like. I would sit on the hamper and watch her get ready to go out and she would always let me play with her make-up and jewelry when no one else was watching. Those nights she stayed home; she wanted to spend as much time as she could with me. Each night, when it was time for bed, my grandma tucked me in and sang me to sleep. I slept knowing that no matter what happened in the future, no matter where I lived or who I lived with, I would always be loved.
Finally the day had come. As soon as I wake up, I can feel how different my life is going to be from now on. My mom and dad are coming to get me and take me to our new home, new family, new life. Especially at five, this is a mixture of frightening and exhilarating. As my mom and dad pack the car with the rest of my toys, Gramma takes me aside and hands me something I've never seen before. In my hands there is a blanket, a pink and white croqueted blanket with a tag that says: "Specially Hand Made by Grandma." At first I was a little confused, so my grandmother began to explain, "Caitlin, sweetie, I made you this blanket with love in every stitch. It's your very own ‘Gramma Hug' that you can have with you always. Whenever you need your grandma, all you need to do is take this out and know that I am there." She then scoops me up in one last authentic ‘Gramma Hug' and I tearfully say goodbye. As I sit in the backseat of the car, driving away from the only home I had ever known, I wrap myself in the blanket and await our arrival at our new home, our new life, with our new family.
All of a sudden there is a knock at the door. I had fallen asleep; the crying had left me exhausted. It is my mom. "Cait, dinner will be ready in a few minutes, I hope you can join us." Our fights may be frequent, but they are also known to be brief. We do not hug, we do not apologize; it is unspoken, but we know that everything has been resolved.
As she leaves, I think back to life with my grandma. My gram is the only person in our entire family that anyone ever hugs. I lie back down, still wrapped in the warmth and comfort of the blanket, and I dream of what my life would be like if my dad had never found us. I wonder what I would be like if we had lived in that house with my grandma and my aunts forever. I question what would life be like if my biological father had never left in the first place. In my head, I even ask my mom what he was like and why he left. I know that someday, I'll get the strength to actually ask my mom about the circumstances of my birth. I will eventually learn his name, where he was from, and to where he ran. I will discover for the first time whether or not he knows my name, or that I am a girl, or that I even exist. For now, I'm happy with the way things are. Despite the fighting and the pressure that inevitably arise with my parents, I couldn't ask for a better pair. My mom had to grow up so young, becoming a mother when she was still just a kid herself. My dad, for that matter, took on the role of father and husband all in the same day. Looking at my sixteen-year-old self, I can honestly say they did a pretty good job. The life I know now, and the life I knew before, have both contributed to the person I am today. I am strong, I am happy, and I am loved. I couldn't ask for anything better. At least that's how I'll feel until our next big fight...
At the foot of my bed lies a blanket- a simple, pink and white croqueted blanket with a tag that reads: "Specially Hand Made by Grandma." To be completely honest, sometimes I forget it's there, but the only thing that matters is that it is there. It always has been and always will be.
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