Hello, My Name is Shithead

When I was three, I told people my name was "Goddamnittori." Obviously, I knew "Goddamnittori" wasn't really my name. I spent too much time with various family members writing out V-I-C-T-O-R-I-A and T-O-R-I on pieces of construction paper with giant crayons, to not know my real, birth given name. I also think I knew better than to say my name was "Goddamnittori" to people I didn't know, but I did anyway because I liked when my mom would blush and tell me quietly in my ear "Children should be seen and not heard, sweetheart."

For a while, they were two separate words; "Goddamnit Tori." I don't think it was her taking the Lord's name in vain so much as her praying in those times, for strength to not kill me. Both of my parents were teachers, and after dealing with students all day, the last thing either of them needed, was a daughter who didn't listen. As time passed and I became more and more of a problem child, the two words morphed into one drawn-out "Goddamnittori". As the years went on and I became a high school student, "Goddamnittori" was replaced by "shithead" and that has been my name ever since.

My earliest recollection of "Goddamnittori," was when I decided it would be a good idea to put my sister in a plastic comforter bag. (I didn't know it at the time, but about twenty-five reports of child deaths are made a year due to plastic bags.) These comforter bags have zippers, are see-through and depending on the size of a bed, can be quite spacious. The perfect size for a small child and the perfect size for my sister, Calin. Lucky for me, my sister had a double bed, so the comforter bag was plenty big. I don't believe it took much convincing on my part. She was always willing to do what I said, which got her into a couple of awkward situations, and got me spanked or grounded a lot. I remember the ease in which she sat in the clear, comforter bag, clapping her hands and blowing her mouth on the side like a balloon. She was giggling the whole time, probably because of the lack of oxygen, but I was too young to know that kind of thing. I left her in there while I went to get my mom to show her. My mom was on the phone, so I kept talking about a bag and Calin, to no one in general. I mean, I was only four. About three minutes passed and then she put two and two together. "You did what?!?"

"I put Calin in her bed bag. She really likes it Mommy, come see."

"Goddamnittori!" she yelled this as she dropped the phone and ran up the stairs to our room. I watched the phone hang from the cord on the wall.

"My mom's going to look at my sister in a bag. She'll call you back," I said to whoever was on the phone, hung up, then bounded up the stairs.

Calin was still laughing as I watched my mom pull her out of the clear bag. "See Mommy, she liked it." As I look back on it now, I see her movements slower and her eyes drooping, but I'm sure that's only my imagination.

When I was eight, I enjoyed picking on my sister. Not for any reason in particular, but because I was older and bigger and I could. I would pull her hair; I'd push her over. I was pretty much an eight-year-old bitch. My mom was fed up with my sister crying and me saying I didn't do anything, so she grabbed one of her cooking spoons and smacked it against her hand. She had always used it as a threat of what could be, but up until that point she only used her hand. I had become accustomed to her hand, so it didn't hurt anymore. My sister had wised up and started putting magazines in her pants. I have no idea how my mom didn't notice the difference. Maybe she did, and all my years of speculation were true, my sister really is her favorite. That's not the point. The point was my mom was going to use her favorite Pampered Chef wooden spoon to spank me on my ass. I thought it was kind of gross that she was going to spank me with the same spoon that she used to stir spaghetti, for me and for future spaghetti eaters, but I wasn't about to tell her that.

She told me to lie over her lap, so I did, and I watched, upside down, my sister standing against the wall. Even though I was upside down, I could still see the smile on her face. She was enjoying this. My mom counted to three, and when four came, the spoon made contact with my backside. The sound scared me the most. It made a loud smack as it hit, but then I heard something I hadn't heard when being spanked with only a hand. I heard the splintering of wood. My butt stopped the speed of the wooden spoon and the force of impact had cracked the spoon handle in half. I giggled as the bigger part of the spoon hit the wall my sister was standing against. "Goddamnittori," she said under her breath, as if it was my fault she was using a spoon for something it was not intended for. I don't know what she was mad at more, me laughing or her spoon breaking.

The day before I started my freshmen year in high school, I fell playing soccer outside and got grass stains on my jeans. It wouldn't have been so bad except I was specifically told to not wear my new jeans until school started, and me being the good obedient daughter that I am, wore my new jeans the day before school started. My parents weren't home so I quick ran down to the laundry room, stripped and preceded to pour bleach onto the grass stains. I'd never done laundry before. Granted it is common sense, but I was lacking in that what I was lacking in the obedience department. I stuck them in the washer with what appeared to be t-shirts and sweatshirts.

I was about to go to bed when I heard my mom yelling from in the basement. My room was on the second floor, just to give a hint as to the noise level she had reached. I remembered what I had done, so quickly ran to the laundry room. She was holding up my jeans in her right hand. The bleach had not only taken out the grass stains, but the coloration on the knees and the crotch of the pants, probably because of the way I had folded them. It looked as if someone with bleach acidic pee wore my pants and peed in them. In her left hand she held a pair of my dad's previously grey boxer-briefs. They were striped pink and purple. She was ranting and raving about how irresponsible I was and how I don't know how to do laundry, so I shouldn't be touching the washing machine, let alone the bleach because I could have blinded myself with it.

Note to self: If I ever get a grass stain in my eye, don't bleach.

"What I don't understand is why you're such a shithead." Whoa. That's a new one. I couldn't help but laugh, which then made her laugh, because I think she realized what being a shithead would entail. From that point on, my mom has called me shithead.

I called my mom the other day and after our routine how is school, are you drinking too much, have you been separating your whites and colors talk, she asked about my writing classes. I told her they were going well, but that I've been having a lot of problems with endings. "My beginnings are okay, and my middles are even better, but I've been having such a hard time with the endings to my stories."

She asked what I was writing about, so I told her I was writing about her. I told her that I could go on and on forever with stories about her and her different commentary on the stupid things I've done, but for this exact paper, I didn't want to overdo each story about how she swore too much and how I was a dumbass. She laughed and was genuinely worried that she had somehow tainted my childhood. I convinced her otherwise and told her how much I actually appreciated her parenting, even if she did call me names.

After I read the first part of this story to her, there was a long pause, and then she breathed in deeply and sighed, "Goddamnittori."

I smiled. "I love you too, mom."