Mary and I went on a hunt today for Lainey items and discovered that, as much as the Confederation Bridge has provided an adjunct to island modernization, some purchases are still a little harder to come by than others.
After checking downtown, we headed back out to the mall on University Avenue – the only Charlottetown mall that existed, in fact, when I moved here in the 70s.
As soon as we walked toward the building I began to laugh. I said to Mary, “I know that the inside configuration has changed, but I bet you I can show you where it happened.”
It happened back in 1977, when I was pregnant with Sarah’s brother. Sarah was just shy of two, and had, for the past few months, been displaying something of a temper. And my God, who could blame her?
We lived out in the country in a motel (owned by a friendly dairy farmer), Sarah sleeping in a crib in the bedroom, Paul and I living on the main-room pull-out by night (when he troubled himself to come home from the bars), me spending my days hand-washing; feeding and playing with Sarah, and while Sarah napped, admiring (and occasionally waving at...as if they could wave back...) the Holsteins.
I was often at a loss as to how to properly fill my days (I suppose my cow fixation is an indication of this), and between hitchhiking back and forth once a week for groceries, and household chores, I still had lonely hours to fill.
My friend Don Carter, whose brother made a living as a pig and potato farmer, brought me stacks of agricultural pamphlets, and once a week or so Don would come by in his Austin Mini and quiz me on what I had learned. (Potatoes – Netted Gems, Russets, Shepody, Goldrush, Kennebec, Green Mountain – proved to be my strong suit.) I also had a regular supply of Readers’ Digest magazines, although I forget where they came from.
Anyway, one wintry day about two weeks before I went into labour, Sarah and I hitchhiked (yes, she too stuck out her thumb) to the mall for groceries, but when we got there she was feeling fit to be tied and, tired and hungry, laid on the entryway floor and had a small (which is euphemistic for not so small) tantrum.
I, newly armed with parenting tips from the Reader’s Digest, understood immediately what I was to do. Huge with pending baby, I carefully made my way down to the floor and had a tantrum alongside of her. I did not yell loudly, hoping rather to show her than to scare her, but I kicked my legs as high as any pregnant person can and flailed my arms dramatically. I lamented heavenward, more with my eyes than my lips, trying not to look at her in a way that this smart little girl would comprehend as a lesson. (Nothing could cause more of a stir in our household than a lesson.)
Lo and behold, Sarah stopped crying. (Actually, I think every child in the mall stopped crying, their parents wandering over to stare.) Bringing her chubby little arms and her Michelin legs to rest on the floor, she looked over at me, wide-eyed. “I’m done, Mummy,” she said (or something like that), and true to her word, she never had a tantrum again.
Oh yes, there were years (and years) (did I say years?) when she pouted, and times when she scrunched up her nose, but not once did she ever get down on the floor and have another tantrum. And just as I felt about so many choices Sarah made out in the world, I admired her for that.
Today, after (Mary and) I ended another fruitless search in the mall, we crossed University Avenue toward a new set of stores, ultimately making our way to Kevin’s Island Fries truck. We cracked open two colas and sat in the car eating our French fries with red plastic toothpicks. I stared at the mall, scarfing down bites and remembering that day with my daughter...wishing that no matter how she had turned out – had tantrums persisted for one hundred years – she were sitting here beside us, laughing, as she so often did listening to stories I told her of when she was young.
