A New Season by Tina Wagner Mattern
In June of 1958, at the age of 7, when I had been with my new, adopted parents for a month, they took me to an attorney’s office in downtown Portland where my official adoption papers were signed. I went into the office as Christina Janine Snyder, and came out as Christina Maria Wagner. The middle-name change idea came from my new mother not wanting to be reminded of my old mother’s name. It was okay by me; I didn’t have any particular loyalty to the name, Janine. My feelings about my birth mother were conflicted to say the least, so when Mom said, “You can choose your new middle name,” I grinned, thought a bit and then decided on Maria, the name of an intriguing girl in my Sunday school class.
The next order of business was to figure out how to end my bedwetting problem. Never once did my mother complain about all the missed sleep from getting up to check on me, or all the extra laundry, but enough was enough at last: she commissioned my inventor father to come up with an answer. And he did.
One Saturday, he disappeared for a few hours and when he returned, he was bearing a big bag from the local hardware store. He worked away in my room for a long time and then later, after dinner, called me in. “Okay, Mousie,” he said, “you want to quit wetting the bed, right?”
I nodded vigorously. I sure did. I couldn’t spend the night with any of my friends because nobody wanted to sleep with someone who peed on them.
“Well, I’ve rigged up something that I think will do the trick. Now, here’s how it works.” He pulled back the comforter, blanket and top sheet of my covers, and then pulled up a corner of the fitted sheet below. Underneath, I could see an aluminum window screen with a wire that ran over to my nightstand, which was connected to a 9-volt battery. “Now, don’t be afraid,” he said, and then took a little cup of water and poured a small amount on the sheet. As soon as the water hit the screen, the alarm sounded, “B-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z!”
I yelped, jumped a foot and ducked behind him to safety. It sounded like a swarm of demon wasps were loose in my room
Dad laughed and pulled me around front to hug me. “It sounds scary but it has to be loud enough to wake you up. And don’t worry, it can’t hurt you. See?” he said, and laid his hand on the sheet. “No shock, just noise!”
I swallowed, reached out a trembling hand and touched a finger to the edge of the screen, ready to pull back at the slightest twinge; I knew what electricity felt like; more than once I had stumbled against the hotwire fences on the farm. To my relief, only my ears were being assaulted.
Dad shut it off and said, “We’ll try it out tonight, okay?”
I sucked in a brave breath and nodded.
It was around 11pm when I turned over in my sleep and my bladder began to let go….
B-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z!
I flew out of bed, squealing like a scalded cat!
Mom and Dad came running, Dad gathered me up in his arms, wet jammies and all, and comforted me. “It’s okay, Mousie-girl. It’s just the alarm, remember?”
Mom inspected the bed and turned to me with a big smile. “Look! It’s hardly wet! It worked!
My heart was racing like a hyperactive hummingbird’s, but I grinned; there was light at the end of my bedwetting tunnel.
It took a total of 4 nights, 4 more heart attacks, and more than likely some minor psychological damage, but in the end, I was free! The 5th night I woke on my own, got up to pee, and then went back to bed.
The next morning I was ecstatic. “Yippee!” I whooped. “Slumber parties, here I come!”
Today, bedwetting alarm systems are all over the internet, some offer up to 33 different combinations of programmable voice, melodies or sounds no less. Instead of that annoying buzzer I had, kids can be jerked out of sleep by their scary great-uncle Harry’s voice yelling, “NO PEEING IN THE BED!”
I have no idea who holds the patent on this idea; it’s possible someone before my father came up with a similar device, but as far as I’m concerned, my father was the inventor.
September came and my new parents enrolled me in the second grade at St. Rita School, which was only about 4 blocks from our house. I would be attending with both the Christensen and the Amato kids. The Gray kids went to Parkrose Elementary, the local public grade school.
Mom was a dogged Catholic, a pillar of St. Rita parish. I don’t think I ever saw her open a catechism away from church, much less a bible, but she was a faithful tither and “go-to girl” for the priests as well as for the nuns who taught at the school.
My dad was an agnostic, I think. He converted to Catholicism when he married Mom, and never questioned his hard-earned money going into the little white envelope that was mailed out to the church every month. Of course, he was so crazy about Mom, (and frankly a little afraid of her) it would never have crossed his mind to say no to her about anything.
I was excited about starting school with the neighbor kids. I had no idea what the term, “Catholic School” meant though. My previous school in Delaware had been a public one. And the concept of wearing a school uniform (forest green and black plaid jumper, white Peter Pan-collared blouse and a dark green sweater for cool days) seemed strange to me, but I was so happy with having new, clean clothes that actually fit, I had no complaints. The nuns, on my first day at St. Rita’s, however, were an unexpected and bewildering surprise.
“What are they, and why are they here?” I asked, peeking out at them from behind Mom’s housedress.
“They’re nuns, honey,” Mom told me. “They’re the teachers here.”
I backed up a step. “I think I’d like to go home now.”
Mom laughed. “Don’t worry, baby. They’re very nice women. They wear the special clothes to show people that they’ve dedicated their lives to serving God.
“They’re WOMEN?”
“Yes, of course. Now see that one over there, the tall one?”
I nodded.
“That’s Mother Immaculata. She’s the principal here at St. Rita’s.”
“She’s your MOTHER?”
“Shhh, no, that’s what they’re all called, Mother: Mother this and Mother that. It’s a title they all have.”
Well, the whole situation seemed way too weird as far as I was concerned. But none of the other kids were running for their lives so I decided to stay. Things got decidedly better when Mom took me to my classroom and introduced me to Mrs. Coughlin, who thankfully happened to be one of the few lay teachers. I was relieved; she had a nice smile and a soft, friendly voice. Second grade was going to be okay after all.
That first day of school was fascinating. Mrs. Coughlin explained that not only were we going to learn how to read and do arithmetic, we were also going to learn about God. I was okay with that; I’d been feeling kind of stupid since everybody but me seemed to have the inside scoop on the whole God thing.
The most important thing that happened that first day though, was when Billy Strandlund walked in the room and sat down across from me. He looked just like Timmy Martin from my favorite TV show, Lassie. One smile from him and I was a goner. I would spend the next 4 years dreaming of the day when he would give up on Maureen Kennedy and fall in love with me instead. Sixth grade would be the charmed year, but that’s another story for another time.
* * *
As the days flew by and I bonded more and more with my new parents, and my friendships with the neighbor kids and my cousins grew, thoughts of my birth father, who had given me away, began to slowly fade.
In those first weeks I’m sure I talked about him constantly, asserting my firm belief that he was coming to get me. I was never reticent about expressing my feelings; I have no doubt that I told Mom and Dad my whole traumatic life story as the memories arose, and probably painted my father as the hero of my tale. I would, of course, have left out the parts where he abandoned me. But then, as time passed, I spent fewer and fewer moments thinking about him and wondering why he hadn’t come for me. There were games to play, sprinklers to run through, parades to watch…every day brought new joys that seemed to whitewash old hurts.
And then one day when I had been with my new family for several months, I heard Mom calling to me from outside. I reluctantly left my dolls and went to the back door.
I poked my head out. “What?”
My father was there with her. “Come outside for a minute, Mousie-girl, okay?” he said. My mother wore a strange expression, one much different than the confident, in-control smile of most days. Dad moved closer to her and took her hand.
Curious, I stepped outside, shading my eyes to peer up into their faces, then turned to see what they were looking at down at the end of the driveway.
It was my daddy’s truck. And standing beside it, with his hands in his pockets, was my daddy.
Time froze.
Finally, after a minute or a hundred years, I squeaked, “Daddy!” and gathered myself to run to him, but then…I didn’t.
Instead, I turned to look behind me.
Mom and Dad stood like statues, watching. Mom’s jaw muscle twitched, and Dad…Dad looked sick.
Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with images: of lying safe in my new father’s arms in his big old recliner, watching Wagon Train, of Mom tucking me in at night and kissing my forehead, of sitting at the piano with Dad teaching me how to play Shine On Harvest Moon, of Mom at her sewing machine, making clothes for my Betsy Wetsy doll, of Dad carrying me around in his arms like I was 3 instead of almost 8….
I looked out at my daddy. He seemed smaller than I remembered.
And then more pictures came like a flood: The farm…my stepmother, Delaine, standing above me, swinging a belt and my daddy walking away, leaving me to her. Daddy in his red-spattered apron standing beside my butchered lamb…hours spent alone and scared at night, Daddy and Delaine at the tavern. The day he took me to the airport, sending me back to my mother, who didn’t want me either. And later leaving me here with the strangers who would become my new parents. So many memories….
I took a step back. And then another until I was against my new father’s
thighs. His big, gentle hand came to rest on my shoulder. I looked up at him and he smiled a little. Mom wrapped my hand in hers.
From this safe haven, I watched my daddy’s expression shift from hopeful to defeated. He turned and walked to the back of his truck. He opened the heavy roll-up door and leaned inside to pull something out: it was my old bicycle from the farm—rusty and full of dents but I was still kind of happy to see it since all the kids in the neighborhood had bikes and I didn’t.
Daddy laid the bicycle on the lawn before walking to the driver’s side door where he stood watching me. My hand, enclosed in Mom’s, twitched, but I didn’t move.
When I didn’t come any closer, he shook his head and I heard him say, “Oh, baby girl…” The pain on his face almost made me go to him. Almost.
After a long, searching look at me, at the three of us, he nodded at last, reached up to touch the brim of his hat and pulled himself up into the cab.
It hurt my heart to watch him drive away. But then again, I was kind of used to it.
Later that night, when Mom and Dad came in to say goodnight, Mom said, “Why didn’t you want to go talk to your father today, honey?
There were too many reasons, and I didn’t have the words for them, so I just shook my head.
Dad cleared his throat like he was going to say something, but instead, he bent down and kissed my cheek. Mom pulled my covers up and tucked them in nice and tight the way I like them. She laid my stuffed horse, Trigger, next to me, leaned down to cup my face in her hands and said, “You are our precious little girl now, and we will never, ever give you away. Okay?”
Something inside me that had been all tied up, broke free.
“Okay,” I whispered.
I never learned how my natural father came to be in the driveway that day.
I don’t know if my parents felt sorry for him despite the conditions of the adoption contract, and they decided to let him come and say his final goodbyes. Or if he showed up in direct defiance of the agreement he had signed, hoping the bicycle would be suitable justification.
Then again, maybe they allowed it, but only because it was important for them to observe my reaction upon seeing him again, important to know how strong the bond I had with my father was, before allowing their hearts to become hopelessly bound to me.
Whatever the reason, I made a choice that day. And it would be many years before I would ever look back.
My parent’s had been planning to surprise me with a bicycle on Christmas, but the day following my daddy’s visit, a brand new Schwinn appeared in our garage.
I never asked where the old one went.
In those first weeks I’m sure I talked about him constantly, asserting my firm belief that he was coming to get me. I was never reticent about expressing my feelings; I have no doubt that I told Mom and Dad my whole traumatic life story as the memories arose, and probably painted my father as the hero of my tale. I would, of course, have left out the parts where he abandoned me. But then, as time passed, I spent fewer and fewer moments thinking about him and wondering why he hadn’t come for me. There were games to play, sprinklers to run through, parades to watch…every day brought new joys that seemed to whitewash old hurts.
And then one day when I had been with my new family for several months, I heard Mom calling to me from outside. I reluctantly left my dolls and went to the back door.
I poked my head out. “What?”
My father was there with her. “Come outside for a minute, Mousie-girl, okay?” he said. My mother wore a strange expression, one much different than the confident, in-control smile of most days. Dad moved closer to her and took her hand.
Curious, I stepped outside, shading my eyes to peer up into their faces, then turned to see what they were looking at down at the end of the driveway.
It was my daddy’s truck. And standing beside it, with his hands in his pockets, was my daddy.
Time froze.
Finally, after a minute or a hundred years, I squeaked, “Daddy!” and gathered myself to run to him, but then…I didn’t.
Instead, I turned to look behind me.
Mom and Dad stood like statues, watching. Mom’s jaw muscle twitched, and Dad…Dad looked sick.
Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with images: of lying safe in my new father’s arms in his big old recliner, watching Wagon Train, of Mom tucking me in at night and kissing my forehead, of sitting at the piano with Dad teaching me how to play Shine On Harvest Moon, of Mom at her sewing machine, making clothes for my Betsy Wetsy doll, of Dad carrying me around in his arms like I was 3 instead of almost 8….
I looked out at my daddy. He seemed smaller than I remembered.
And then more pictures came like a flood: The farm…my stepmother, Delaine, standing above me, swinging a belt and my daddy walking away, leaving me to her. Daddy in his red-spattered apron standing beside my butchered lamb…hours spent alone and scared at night, Daddy and Delaine at the tavern. The day he took me to the airport, sending me back to my mother, who didn’t want me either. And later leaving me here with the strangers who would become my new parents. So many memories….
I took a step back. And then another until I was against my new father’s
thighs. His big, gentle hand came to rest on my shoulder. I looked up at him and he smiled a little. Mom wrapped my hand in hers.
From this safe haven, I watched my daddy’s expression shift from hopeful to defeated. He turned and walked to the back of his truck. He opened the heavy roll-up door and leaned inside to pull something out: it was my old bicycle from the farm—rusty and full of dents but I was still kind of happy to see it since all the kids in the neighborhood had bikes and I didn’t.
Daddy laid the bicycle on the lawn before walking to the driver’s side door where he stood watching me. My hand, enclosed in Mom’s, twitched, but I didn’t move.
When I didn’t come any closer, he shook his head and I heard him say, “Oh, baby girl…” The pain on his face almost made me go to him. Almost.
After a long, searching look at me, at the three of us, he nodded at last, reached up to touch the brim of his hat and pulled himself up into the cab.
It hurt my heart to watch him drive away. But then again, I was kind of used to it.
Later that night, when Mom and Dad came in to say goodnight, Mom said, “Why didn’t you want to go talk to your father today, honey?
There were too many reasons, and I didn’t have the words for them, so I just shook my head.
Dad cleared his throat like he was going to say something, but instead, he bent down and kissed my cheek. Mom pulled my covers up and tucked them in nice and tight the way I like them. She laid my stuffed horse, Trigger, next to me, leaned down to cup my face in her hands and said, “You are our precious little girl now, and we will never, ever give you away. Okay?”
Something inside me that had been all tied up, broke free.
“Okay,” I whispered.
I never learned how my natural father came to be in the driveway that day.
I don’t know if my parents felt sorry for him despite the conditions of the adoption contract, and they decided to let him come and say his final goodbyes. Or if he showed up in direct defiance of the agreement he had signed, hoping the bicycle would be suitable justification.
Then again, maybe they allowed it, but only because it was important for them to observe my reaction upon seeing him again, important to know how strong the bond I had with my father was, before allowing their hearts to become hopelessly bound to me.
Whatever the reason, I made a choice that day. And it would be many years before I would ever look back.
My parent’s had been planning to surprise me with a bicycle on Christmas, but the day following my daddy’s visit, a brand new Schwinn appeared in our garage.
I never asked where the old one went.
