Kathleen Huddle
Imagine Erma Bombeck, Roseanne Barr, Marge Simpson and Mother Teresa lunching--their conversation would sound as if it had been extracted from Mama With A Blue Face.
Mama With A Blue Face is a creative non-fiction memoir in which Huddle has unspooled the last 20 years of her mothering career, beginning with the birth of her twins.
Huddle, a visual artist, has packed Mama With a Blue Face with her original, full-color images of her paintings and photographs, which sets the book apart from other memoirs.
Huddle said of the book: "One day I was fatigued--beyond exhaustion. I blew out a puff of air that lifted my bangs off my forehead and said, "I'm so tired my head will roll right off my shoulders."
"What do you do all day that could make you that tired?" inquired one of my teens.
Surely that was a rhetorical question. That was when I decided to leave a written record."
Kathleen Huddle lives in Elmira, NY, with her husband of thirty-six years, Robert. They have four daughters, Christine, Katie Rose, Megan and Molly, and a silver Maine Coon cat named Merlin. Kathleen, who works out of Huddle Art Studio, 1002 Walnut St., Elmira, NY, was born in 1948. She earned her BA degree in Art in 1988 from Elmira College. Huddle’s work has been displayed in museums and galleries nationally. Visit her website at www.kathleenhuddle.com or email her at huddleartstudio@stny.rr.com.
PROLOGUE
Mass Destruction
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“You cannot make it through this life without a sense of humor.”
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“DID THE CLOWN FART?” three-year-old Megan shouted in a church full of worshipers.
“Megan Elizabeth!” I gasped sharply and whispered, “fart is not a nice word.” I was the most embarrassed mother on Planet Mommy. Unmistakably, the air was heavily scented with the odor of sulphur and recycled cabbage. Megan must think that elderly lady in front of us is actually a clown.
My face burned red as several parishioners snickered.
“BUT DADDY SAYS FART,” Megan informed me boisterously.
“Lower your voice,” I instructed Megan.
In an unnaturally low bass voice, like a cartoon character, Megan repeated, “BUT DADDY SAYS FART.”
The parishioners’ chuckles erupted into loud laughter.
My two oldest daughters’ chortles ignited and they were riddled with spasms.
Quivering with plugged-up giggles, Chrissy, my oldest, who is tall and thin with shoulder-length mahogany curls and alabaster skin, whispered into her cupped-hand to Katie Rose, “Katie, did you let out an atomic bomb?”
Indignant, Katie Rose’s chestnut eyes discharged sparks as she sputtered, “The smeller’s the feller.”
I noticed Father O’Malley, who sat on his kingly altar chair, tried unsuccessfully to hide his smile. He crossed his lanky legs and picked imaginary lint off his kneecap as his shoulders vibrated slightly. Father’s sky-blue eyes rested on Megan--then looked away quickly.
Why did I ever sit up front this close to the altar? I must remember to get my head examined.
Even on stressful days, when I felt as if my head would roll right off from my shoulders; when I felt like Lucy in the chocolate candy-factory with the conveyor belt on high speed, or like the plate-spinners on the old Ed Sullivan Show, with that annoying music and way too many plates spinning, even then, I thanked God for my husband, Robert, and my daughters, Chrissy, Katie Rose, Megan and Molly. I loved them dearly and my life would have been...well, boring without them. For example, imagine attending Mass with a fourteen-year-old, an eleven-year-old and three-year-old twins.
We were celebrating 10:30 Sunday Mass and Megan, as usual, had difficulty sitting still and keeping quiet. Molly, Megan’s twin sister, was good as always with her finger in her mouth as her big, blue-denim eyes observed everything like a skilled detective.
The crooked lady sitting in the pew ahead of us–who Megan mistook for a clown--turned to us and waved hello. “What lovely girls!” she crooned. The elderly woman had a wild, tightly curled permanent that had fried her pumpkin-colored hair, which stood out from her head like a tangerine halo. She wore too much unblended make-up–red rouge circles on her apple cheeks and flaming orange lipstick, which bled from her lips in fine lines. The fashion mishap sported oversized-hoop earrings, a loose blouse with huge polka dots in primary colors, and red and white striped, wide-legged pants.
The poor lady must have failing eyesight or maybe she doesn’t own a mirror. I smiled kindly at the inelegant woman.
Megan became overly excited and said too loudly, “MOMMY! WHAT IS THE CLOWN’S NAME?”
Embarrassed, I tried to quiet Megan, but she persisted, “MOMMY, DO YOU KNOW THE CLOWN?” I prayed that the lady’s hearing was as bad as her eyesight.
I ignored the wave of laughter, which rippled through the congregation and noted to myself, Hoo-boy, this is going to be a long Mass.
I attempted to refocus Megan’s attention as I frantically searched in my purse for the small plastic bags of dry Cheerios which I hoped I’d packed. I handed the plastic bag of Cheerios to Megan and she sat down, happy for a moment. She ate her Cheerios and fed some to her doll, Emily Jesus. I gave Molly her snack and she popped her moist finger, which was her perpetual pacifier, out of her mouth and said, “Why, thank you, Mother.”
Father O’Malley was about to deliver his sermon. I darted a nervous glance at Megan...Whew! She’s busy eating her Cheerios.
“I have just one comment to make to all of you this morning,” Father O’Malley preached, and then he employed one of his trademark, dramatic pauses. At that exact moment of empty air space, Megan made the loudest, longest raspberry noise I had ever heard. The offensive noise sounded like a huge person had sat on an enormous whoopie-cushion.
The entire congregation exploded with laughter.
I sucked in a deep breath, closed my eyes and wagged my head side to side.
Molly looked at her twin, rolled her eyes and said, to no one in particular, “Uh-oh there she goes, again!”
Katie Rose said approvingly, “Way to go, Megan.”
Chrissy interjected, “Excellent.”
Robert, my marathon-running husband, said, “You got to admit, that was funny.”
Father O’Malley, who snorted laughter, finally composed himself, and said, “That was perfect timing, Megan, because I was about to say that you cannot make it through this life without a sense of humor. Enough said. Amen.”
It took several minutes for the church to quiet down.
As Megan stuffed a huge amount of Cheerios into her mouth, she spotted a friend of her older sister’s who sat with his family directly behind us. Megan looked into the boy’s face as she passionately told me that she saw Will, when the Cheerios flew out of her mouth and sprayed him. One Cheerio stuck to Will’s forehead.
You know how when you’re not supposed to laugh, like at a funeral, and suddenly, a small thing seems hysterically funny? Sort of like Mary Tyler Moore at Chuckles the Clown’s funeral. Well, that happened to Will, his family, and many of the faithful around us. At first, we all tried to stifle our amusement, but Chrissy and Katie Rose convulsed as if they had a rare medical condition.
We tried to calm down, but it was difficult, especially since Will left the Cheerio stuck to his forehead, even when he received Holy Communion. Finally, Molly, who was born precocious, removed her shriveled finger from her mouth and said to Will’s family, “Jeez, get a grip,” which made them laugh even more. Molly shrugged her shoulders and returned her wet finger to its garage in her mouth.
Just when we all settled down, Megan, who enjoyed the attention, made funny faces at the people behind us by using her fingers to stretch her mouth out of shape. Chrissy and Katie Rose, who thought that was slap-on-the-knee funny, encouraged Megan. I gave all of them my high arched-eyebrow (which my kids call my evil-eye) to let them know I was ticked-off.
Then Megan made Emily Jesus talk in a high-pitched voice. Oh no! not The Voice--she can go on for hours in that wretched voice. I collared Megan and whispered hotly in her little ear, “If you make Emily Jesus talk in that high-pitched voice, I will not take you to Toys-R-Us after Mass.”
Immediately Megan clamped her pudgy hand over the doll’s mouth and said in a muffled voice like a talented ventriloquist, “Help, help, she’s killing me. She’s a meanie.”
I shot Megan a laser-glare strong enough to melt an iceberg and she stopped, but Will, with the Cheerio stuck to his forehead, laughed uncontrollably and his father made him go outside.
Like a magician, I produced two coloring books and crayons from my enormous tote bag and Megan and Molly began to color. Megan colored a cow and said to Molly in a loud stage-whisper, “MOLLY, I’M COLORING THE PEE-PEE THING GREEN.”
Molly did not bother to remove her finger from its lodge in her mouth and said disgustedly, “Oh Meggie, it’s not called a pee-pee thing, say it right. It’s called a gutter.” Then Megan announced stridently, “I’M COLORING A CLOWN JUST LIKE THE CLOWN IN FRONT OF US.”
Suddenly, a baby began to wail. The parents of the bawling baby decided to wait out the crying, but clearly, the baby’s lungs were in training for the Olympics. After fifteen minutes, the hyperventilating baby grated on everyone’s nerves and Megan shouted, “MOMMY, I WISH THAT PISSY BABY WOULD STOP CRYING.”
Shocked, I whispered, “Megan, pissy is not a nice word.”
“BUT DADDY SAYS PISSY,” Megan broadcasted.
Will’s father wheezed with laughter and he had to go outside to join his son because he lost his composure with no hope of regaining it.
I looked to my dear husband for some kind of help. Robert, with his shock of thick wavy black hair (which my mother can’t ever resist touching--“Just look at that thick hair!” I love to run my fingers through it too), and his cute ropy, muscular legs, had a far-away expression. He was probably daydreaming about winning the Boston marathon. My thoracic-surgeon husband sat as far away from us as possible, as if he was not part of our wacky family, and looked at me as if he didn’t know me...like I was a complete stranger. Have you ever noticed how the mother is always the one to keep the children quiet in church? Why do we get to have all the fun?
Meanwhile, the red-faced mother of the screeching baby stood up to take the baby outside and immediately the baby stopped crying. The mother sat down, the baby cried; the mother stood up, the baby stopped. It was as if the mother turned a faucet on and off. Finally, the baby won and the mother slunk out of church carrying her offspring. Molly disengaged her finger and whispered to me, “Two points for the baby.” Then Molly parked her finger back in her mouth.
During the last two minutes of Mass, a martyred-Saint Sebastian-look washed over Megan’s face and she decided to get holy and recite her prayers. Megan knelt down, blessed herself with a backward sign-of-the-cross, closed her aquamarine eyes, bowed her curly head, and steepled her fingers together. She looked heavenward, as if she saw a vision, and prayed aloud: “BLESSED IS THE FRUIT OF THE LOOM, JESUS.”
Mass came to a merciful end and Father O’Malley intoned, “Mass is ended. Go in peace.”
“Huh, easy for you to say,” I mumbled.
Megan surveyed her audience, waved and said, “Tootles.” Yeesh, next week Megan will be signing autographs.
Chrissy said, “I’m nominating Megan for best actress in a comedy.”
Katie Rose commented, “That Mass was a knee-slapper.”
Robert beamed, too proud of his children to speak.
A parishioner tapped me on the shoulder and inquired, “Which Mass will you attend next week? I don’t want to miss The Megan and Molly Show. I named my two Golden Retriever puppies Megan and Molly.”
Molly uncorked her finger and asked, “Mommy, why did you give us dog names?”
Yes, even on chaotic, vintage Huddle-family days, I was thankful for my husband and each of my brood, and I was especially grateful for Megan and Molly, who almost didn’t make it into this world who rode into my life on the muscled back of prayer.
