The Night My Childhood Ended — 'I Knew Something Was Off When Mom Put On Her Go-Go Boots' (2024)

Mom is dressed in her white go-go boots. The ones I wear whenever she’s not looking so I can feel grown up. The ones that mean she’s going out for the night. It doesn’t happen often, but whenever it does, Mom grows giddy with anticipation.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“Dad and I are going dancing with the Bertrands.” She reaches to fasten the clasp of her necklace. After struggling for a moment, she says, “Help me.”

Mom sits on the edge of her bed so I can reach. I deftly fasten the delicate clasp of the antique necklace my great-grandma gave her.

“Will you be far away?”

“Just Milwaukee.”

But I know that’s far away. It takes almost an hour to get there when we go to the museum or zoo.

“Are we still having dinner?”

I want to eat dinner with my family tonight, but I already know it’s not likely.

I see the far-off look in Mom’s eyes, the one adult me will eventually recognize as quiet desperation from a woman who started a family at 18, sacrificing her youth to raise children and support a man whose dreams were as big as his drinking habit.

But in this story, I’m 10 years old, and I want Mom to stay home.

I want to eat a dinner she’s prepared and be responsible only for the cleanup. I want to curl up next to her on the couch to watch M*A*S*H. I want her to tuck me in and whisper, “Sleep tight.”

But I will have none of these things tonight. Mom is wearing her go-go boots.

“You get to make dinner!” Mom says with cheerful enthusiasm as if she’s awarding me a prize. It’s the same voice she uses when she tells me I’m the absolute best at doing the dishes or browning the ground beef.

The voice is a con, a sales pitch. I’ve known that for forever. Mom tells me I’m good at things so I’ll keep doing them and not complain. I don’t blame her. She needs my help. And I like it when she tells me I’m good at things because mostly I feel like I’m not.

“What am I making?” I hear the whine in my voice and instantly hate it. I should be good and agreeable, not give Mom a hard time.

“Spaghetti,” Mom answers, putting her earrings on. “There’s sauce and noodles in the cupboard. You know how long to boil the noodles, right?”

“Ten minutes,” I mutter. “Nine for al dente.”

“Al dente!” Mom crows, laughter coloring her voice. “Where did you learn that? I swear I birthed a 40-year-old in a 10-year-old’s body.”

I haven’t quite reached the preteen eye-rolling stage, so I answer earnestly: “I was born with an infant’s body.”

Mom musses my hair. “Well, a 40-year-old’s brain, then.”

The adults leave me in charge of a flock of children.

My brother Scott is seven and Dustin is just one month old. My friend, Becky Bertrand, is eight and her brothers Mike and Doug are six and three.

I’m okay with being the boss. Mostly, the younger kids listen to me.

We eat spaghetti while Dustin fusses in what Mom calls his “bouncy seat.” I feed my baby brother his bottle of formula — heated up just right under hot running water and tested on my wrist like Mom does.

When it’s dark outside, I change Dustin’s diaper and put him in his crib, letting him cry for a few minutes until he soothes himself to sleep. Then, I gather the rest of the kids onto the couch and read Where the Wild Things Are and Go, Dog. Go!

Finally, I tuck everyone into bed. The boys share Scott’s room. Becky sleeps with me. I have to get up a few times to tell the boys to quiet down and go to sleep, but eventually, they do.

Becky and I whisper our secrets and dreams to one another. She will get married to a rich man and become a model. I will live on my ranch and raise horses, probably Arabians. Maybe I’ll marry a movie star, but I’m not sure which one yet. Or maybe a singer, like Shaun Cassidy.

After a while, Becky grows quiet. I hear her breathing fall into the slow, steady cadence of sleep. I’m the only one awake.

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Lightning illuminates my room, turning the hideous cabbage rose wallpaper into a gallery of gremlin faces, all waiting for me to close my eyes so they can spring. When we moved here not long ago, Mom swore she would tear down that ugly wallpaper. I wish she’d had time to before Dustin came screaming into the world.

Thunder roars. Lightning flashes again.

One Mississippi … two Mississippi … three Mississippi … four Mississ —

Boom! Flash! The storm is getting closer.

One Mississippi … two Mississippi … thr —

Blam!

I sit up, gazing through the darkness out the large bank of windows in front of my bed. The thunder rolls with a steady rumble punctuated by resounding cracks as lightning strikes close by. In the flickering strobe of constant lightning, I see the trees in the woods flailing wildly.

I shake Becky awake. She rises, foggy with sleep, but when she takes in the scene outside my windows, her eyes grow wide.

“We have to go to the basem*nt,” I say calmly. You should stay calm even when you’re afraid because it helps keep others calm.

“I’m scared!” Becky yelps.

“I know. But you have to help me wake up the boys. I’m going to get Dustin.”

Becky is immobile, clutching the blankets to her chest.

“Go now!” I command, and she does.

In short order, we’re all below ground, safe from tornadoes in a windowless cinderblock storage area off the kitchen that Mom calls The Back Room.