Sunday Morning, by Martha Thomases – Brilliant Disguise

March 5, 2011 Martha Thomases 1 Comment

Since the fall of 1967, when I went to boarding school in Connecticut, I’ve called my parents (or they’ve called me) on Sunday mornings.  It’s a tradition handed down through the generations, or since my parents started to call their parents on Sunday.

At the time, a long-distance call was a complicated thing, at least for 14-year-old me.  We did not each have our own phone line in our rooms, but had to use the single pay phone in the dorm.  Since school rules did not allow us to have more than two dollars in cash, I had a telephone credit card.

I don’t remember any specific details about most of those calls.  They were like super-concentrated family dinner conversations.  What were my classes like?  Did I have any friends?  What about boys?  How can we end the war in Viet Nam?

As I got older, the Sunday calls continued.  Technology changed things.  For example, when I was an intern at an ad agency in Chicago for my last semester in college, we had a WATS line at work, and I’d call home almost every day for free.  Usually, my mom was the only one at home when I called, so we’d still talk on Sunday with my dad.  This was necessary because my mom and I would often get into arguments and not be speaking to each other (although still calling because we needed to rub in the fact that we weren’t speaking) and my dad had to settle things to the best of his ability.

After my mother died, my calls home were more frequent and more awkward.  Without our emotional tugs-of-war, I wasn’t sure how to talk to my dad.  We found a new rhythm.

He re-married.  Over the next three decades, Sunday morning meant that I’d call my dad or he’d call me.  My step-sisters seemed to talk to their mom nearly every day, and I both envied that and thought it was weird.  It wasn’t the Thomases Way.  If I called on a day other than Sunday (or if my dad called me), the first thing we’d say is, “What’s wrong?”

Sometimes, these calls would infuriate me.  I’d feel like my dad was judging me, and I wasn’t measuring up.  Even with decades of therapy, when I realized that just because I had a feeling didn’t mean my dad necessarily meant me to hear things that way, I’d still get defensive.

Then my step-mother died.

I called every day.  He hated that.  I kept asking if he was okay.  He hated that.  He wanted to be the parent.

Eventually, I learned to establish some boundaries. Instead, we talked about the weather, and what he was reading on his Kindle.  We talked about which of his friends was sick, and which of his friends he played bridge with.  We talked about my son, his only biological grandchild, and my sisters’ kids, who were just as much his grandkids, too.

We talked about taxes, and my dad was unusual in that, although he benefitted greatly from the Bush tax cuts, he opposed them.  He couldn’t understand why so many middle-class and lower middle-class people voted to support an economic program that worked against their best interests.  We talked about Israel and how embarrassing it was for the Jews when the government didn’t behave honorably (and how we wanted it to be so much better).

When he died, my first reaction was relief, because he wasn’t suffering anymore.  That was six weeks ago.  Now, I’m realizing that he’s really gone.

The first Sunday, all my sisters called me, because they knew about the Sunday phone calls.  This was profoundly thoughtful, but not the same.

I want my childhood dinner table conversation back. I want the person who defined my universe to explain to me how it works.   I want to tell about what I did, and have someone who loves me unconditionally tell me how great it is.

Until that happens, I might have to get a teddy bear.  Do they make them for middle-aged women?

Martha Thomases, Media Goddess, doesn’t call her son on Sunday mornings because of the time difference.  Also, he’s doing everything right.