Confessions of a Daughter and 5 Things I Didn't Say

My parents called last night from their retirement community near the Duke campus. They settled on Durham, N.C. after my father made it known he’d had enough of living in Greenwich Village, and my mother said that after spending several long weekends at the condo they’d purchased in Delray Beach, she wouldn’t retire in Florida.

Miss Cuker, a marriage and family counselor, had suggested North Carolina as a retirement destination. Mom has a tough time making decisions, and with Dad all too eager to make snap decisions for anybody within his line of sight, Miss Cuker served as Mom’s gut check for all the years they lived in Manhattan.

But I digress. Last night’s phone call focused primarily on an acrylic, stocking hat with a pompon that had arrived earlier in the week. Along with bills and a birthday party invitation for one of Dennis’ grandchildren, I noticed the large mailing bag with Mom’s return address. Before knowing what was inside the bag, I felt a sense of irritation.

In the interest of candor, I felt disappointment, perhaps even hurt feelings – convinced that the bag's contents would confirm that Mom’s gifts have always said more about her wants or needs than mine. A fundamentally decent person with values I admire, she and I have never been close.

The stocking hat is now buried under a pair of ski mittens on a shelf in my coat closet. Come December, when my office takes up its holiday collection of hats for the homeless, I plan to contribute this hat that Mom told me she made in the knitting group that meets every Saturday morning at her retirement home.

Be assured I do have manners, and also “rachmones” or what we Jews call compassion. Up to a point. The evening after the hat arrived, I sent Mom an e-mail thanking her for both the hat and her thoughtfulness. The charitable side of me should disclose that her heart was in the right place, saying she hoped the hat would keep me warm when it gets cold in Boston this winter.

During the course of last night’s call, Mom wanted to talk about the hat. She wanted to me to know it was acrylic and hence washable – presumably in the event I wore it so many times it became dirty. I confess that I tried the hat on just to show Dennis how unflattering it was for me, and I swear it felt scratchy enough to pass for wool.

Finally, Mom pressed me with “Do you like it?” My response was tempered by distance and the knowledge that Mom has fewer years ahead of her than behind. “It was very thoughtful of you” was all I could give her each time she repeated the question.

Among the five things I didn’t say. . .

(1) Throughout her life, Mom has been obsessed with keeping one’s head warm – even when temps are as warm as the mid-50’s. She’s convinced that failure to wear a hat can lead to earaches. Needless to say, I hate wearing a hat.

(2) The stocking hat she sent me this week reminded me of a beige one she wore in the 1960’s – long after I rejected it as too unhip for a school where every day was a fashion show. The hat had metallic bronze discs hanging from loops of yarn – exactly where other hats might have had a pompon.

(3) Yes, Boston gets cold in winter, and a friend of mine who’s big on wearing hats once told me one can lose 40 per cent of one’s body heat without a hat. If temps drop to the 20's, I wear the fur-trimmed hood on my fitted down coat, or the hood on the Patagonia jacket Dennis got me for Hanukkah one year. If I’m sure nobody I know will see me because I’m running before dawn, I might wear my polar fleece cap with ear flaps, but not a stocking hat.

(4) I still haven’t forgotten the year Mom and Dad gave me Stratego for Hanukkah. Didn’t they know I would have preferred a doll, some Nancy Drew books or even bubble bath? If they insisted on getting me something that would “improve my mind,” I would have settled for a historical biography from the Landmark series. But I hate board games and certainly never asked for Stratego.

(5) The hat that arrived a few days ago also reminded me of the gift Mom sent me sophomore year of college, the week I was hospitalized with pneumonia. Did I ask for the boxy, plaid flannel pajamas? Not to mention that the pajamas were several sizes too big because Mom is, and always has been excessively concerned about shrinkage. Florence Podolsky, the mom of my friend, Terry, arrived in my hospital room with a lovely, stylish pink nightgown trimmed with flower appliqués, wrapped in a gift box with a nice bow. How could it be that a woman who had met me just a few times knew more about my tastes than my own mom?