The Story behind Trex

Most can relate when someone refers to the wrath of a parent. More so if you were part of that generation when all that was needed to get you to behave was the question, ‘Do I have to call your $relation-whose-wrath-you-don’t-want-to-incur?’ You just flashed back to that stopped-cold-in-your-tracks feeling that happened each time you heard those words, didn’t you?

Veteran readers know that I’m of that camp. When my mother asked if she needed to pull the car over, or similar, we knew to say, ‘No ma’am,’ knowing full well there was no bluff to call. My parents didn’t bluff when it came to disciplining us. At least early on. They may have used a bluff knowing that we knew they never bluffed and therefore could bluff and still get results. Either way, I can say they were firm in holding their ground and when we were ungrounded or less grounded due to good behavior,we had earned that, via good behavior. It didn’t take much incentive, we liked being outside having our adventures and when we were older, our phone privileges and being able to hang out with friends.

I’m sure my parents were some kind of awesome tacticians in their past lives.

Friends may think I jest when I talk about not disobeying or crossing for fear of a fate worse that death and I am, but not as much as they think. My parents established early that choices have consequences and did well to foster the notion that I’d like the good consequences as opposed to the bad consequences. Believe you me, I only needed a one time arrangement of making a choice whose consequences resulted in punishment to know my preference. Not to say that I didn’t have a repeat offense here or there…but it wasn’t because I was channeling a kind of rebel yell. Being grounded or having things taken away was counter to my having adventures [in a very versatile large hedge in our front yard] and later that undiscovered country that is on your own, [as much as I’d be allowed, which was directly proportionate to my age]. Besides, my sister took it upon herself to QA the established boundaries, so why reinvent the wheel?

Growing up we had ‘rules’ that were nothing out of the ordinary – ask permission to go to the park down the way, or bike to the store to go buy candy, homework first, then we could go play outside. If we were going to play a few houses down, we had to obtain a blessing in the form of ‘We’re gonna go play at $so-so’s house, is that OK?’ We were to be polite to adults, even if there was a problem – be polite, then tell mom or dad. I remember this plainly. One because of the aforementioned disobeying was asking for a fate worse than ANYTHING and two, I remember wondering why would I, a child, have a problem with an adult. This seemed silly to me, mainly because I hadn’t been given an example of an adult behaving badly. You have to remember my age, such things were dynamic, but this edict was put into effect when I started school and reiterated when my sister followed suit. No matter how silly or odd I thought it was, it was what my parents had instructed us to do. For a long while, there was no need to ‘tattle’ on an adult.

I can’t tell you the first instance where an adult was tattled on to my mother. I can tell you that it didn’t take many occurrences to know what it meant when there was a problem between us and an adult for it to result in a particular kind of glee. As my mother was stay at home mom that baby sat a bunch of us after school, she was a slightly regular fixture on the school premises. It was only a walk from our house and mom regularly participated in PTA type activities. It wasn’t anything to wave at her as we followed the line to go to the library or cafeteria or even when we changed classes. In fact, mom had a distinct sound I associated with her because of the clanging her keychain made. My sister had Cystic Fibrosis, so at the beginning of every year, mom talked to each of her teachers to inform them of Zi’s needs. Specifically she instructed them to not treat her any different, Zi would let them know if she needed something or something was wrong. And nearly every year, Mom had to revisit the conversation. She also had to reiterate my sister was not my clone. Where I was academically gifted, Zi excelled if it was hands on and whatever-it-was held her interest. We knew whatever wrongs were endured, they would be set right after either of us heard the words, ‘You stay here in the playground, I’m going to have a talk with your teacher,’ or ‘You meet me at $place-on-the-grounds, I’m going to have a talk with your teacher.’

As I said, I can’t tell you the first time that happened but I can tell you that having never been exposed to an adult, and what’s more, a teacher, being the bringer of unfairness or even hurtful, was life experience that stung. And we each, when it occurred, did as we were told. We didn’t talk back, did as was asked of us, and then when Mom would ask us about our day at school, we told her everything.  When we told Mom of our day, and in the course of telling her how it went, if there was a cause for her to have a talk with an adult, it was marked by a look, what it now affectionately dubbed that Icy Glare of Little Deaths.  Joking aside, when my mom is quietly furied like that, it’s on her face. It’s followed by her position on the matter and in the case when we were young, it was followed by instructions to either meet her or wait for her while she went to have a talk. The glee I spoke of came because of the idea of an adult getting the same reprimand we would get if we had behaved in such a way towards a great many people. Later I would be told of the kinds of conversations that occurred. But when they happened all we knew was our teacher/principle was in trouble with Mom. And we knew that was a place no one would want to be in. We learned there was no calling a bluff and inwardly took some glee in people who called it and subsequently finding themselves on the other end of that. I’d be lying if I didn’t confess that there was a bit of a power trip involved at the notion of an adult being laid low like that after ‘having messed with us.’ It was rooted more in the notion of fairness coming out on top. Our mom, our Super Hero.

I do remember an incident for me in 5th grade. Our class was unfortunate in that we had a group of boys that were cut-ups. Our teacher couldn’t reign them in despite her efforts. The next tactic was taking away the class’s recess time for when this small group misbehaved.  The idea, I guess, was the rest of us would pressure those boys to get their act together.  We didn’t think it fair, because now we had to sit with them and they seemed content in that punishment.  They basically didn’t care, and they got attention either way.  I’ll note these were the same of a small group that liked to terrorize kids, myself included, but ended up with those boys having a talking to by my dad.  They didn’t think their antics were so funny when he chased after them to talk to them.  But that’s another story.

It made no sense how taking away everyone’s recess was going to get those boys to behave, but that was the new rule. By the time Mom learned of this via my frustrations that it wasn’t fair, it had happened a number of times. Specifically, because it made no sense and I couldn’t make any sense of the logic; so I asked my mom, who was an authority on just punishments in my eyes. If anyone new, it’d be her or dad.  With Dad deployed at the time, I asked her.   She asked me why I was asking, so I told her and when I was done, I saw it – that look that said Teacher was in Trouble. Then I heard the words that always followed suit, she’ll pick me up, wait for her, she was going to have a talk with my teacher. I remember well the glee, that ‘justice’ would triumph, because that’s how it worked. Mom talked and things would become fair again, like it should be.

When my sister was in 5th grade, she had something similar. Her teacher didn’t like her. My sister was, growing up, as many are accustomed to me now. When I was younger, I wasn’t confrontational at all, nothing near the ‘pick your battles’ scenario.  Heck, most people didn’t know I knew how to speak.   Mind you, part of that was because of that Icy Glare of Little Deaths, the other was I oftentimes had better things to do, so I ignored the offender. My sister, however, if she felt something was in need of addressing, it was addressed. She often spoke for, well, classmates that were much like me, soft-spoken and minded their own business who sometimes caught the attention of other people intent on making fun or similar. When I reflect on it now, it is interesting to note she basically called people like that to ‘pick on someone your own size.’ The humor is my sister was a little over a hundred pounds soaking wet, yet she could be her own force to be reckoned with. She was also known for that QA of set boundaries by my parents, so when she ‘tattled’ on her teacher, there was a round of questioning. Zi was known to talk in class and to not seem to pay attention..something that harkens back to if the subject wasn’t interesting to her, she absorbed enough to pass to be done with it. After that, she was bored, and oftentimes it wasn’t absent from her face. This wasn’t intentional on her part, but her 5th grade teacher took offense.

In this class, she was constantly getting detention. Each time a punishment happened, we were asked our side of the story, then mom essentially heard the teacher’s side when she had a talk. After that, Mom would know if we had indeed done something that merited punishment. For Zi, talking in class was something that did happen, and her punishment was agreed with. Zi didn’t mind taking her knocks when she got caught. What it snowballed into was Zi becoming a scape goat. And at that, that’s when she voiced frustration about unfair punishments, ridicules from the Teacher, etc. So, mom went to have a talk, and after that, it should have been a non-issue. According to my sister, nothing changed. Which felt wrong to begin with, because that’s not how it worked – Mom talked with the teacher/principle/band leader and after, things were fair. When my sister told her things hadn’t changed, mom heard her side, then said she’d hear her Teacher’s. At this Zi expressed frustration and told Mom he’s not going to tell you the truth, he doesn’t like me and he blames me for everything! Yes that outburst was brave, I remember thinking that as I wondered if I was going to still have a little sister much longer. Mom reiterated, firmly, she’d talk with him and get it straightened out.  Zi mentally huffed, but the firmness of Trex’s voice indicated that was the end of that particular discussion.  For now.

Now don’t get the wrong idea – we weren’t angels; we lied sometimes and hoped like hell we wouldn’t get caught in one when we did. But we knew better to be under the weight of our Mom’s stare and lie to her face when she was about to go to bat for us. Knowing my sister had owned up to the times she did deserve the detention she got, mom decided on a different approach.  She took time off from work, but instead of getting there just when class would let out, she got there early. She waited by the door, observing, and was propelled into what I refer to as Trex Mode. What she saw and heard was my sister being scapegoated, just as Zi had told her. When the class was disrupted, my sister’s name went on the board, and the tally grew enough to merit detention. The teacher hadn’t even turned his back from the board to verify his suspicions. And the actual offender was grinning in response to my sister’s heated glare. What’s more is he didn’t even register his class being observed. Mom waited by the door and surprised my sister,

“Mom?  What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to have that talk.”

It was the look and it was all my sister needed to see. Later that night, my mother apologized. Confused, Zi asked, what for? Mom told her she was sorry she hadn’t gotten down to the meat of it before then and promised to make sure that was the last time something like that happened. It wasn’t the last time we bore witness to that ‘Teacher’s in Trouble’ look from my mom, but we did know if we were in trouble, we had a hell of person going to bat for us. And she happened to be our mom.

The nickname Trex was actually something that wasn’t bestowed on our mom from us, or a close relation, someone who statistically would have the best chances of being successful with such a thing. No, the name came from a friend of mine who bore witness first hand what happens when you basically royally piss off my mother. Said friend was over visiting while on vacation. I had just bought Casa Primer and while our new home warranty had run out, we were holding the builder to fixing their screw ups. I had water damage to the floor and since no modifications to the plumbing had been done, we called the builder to investigate and then fix. They tried the ‘Your warranty’s expired,’ and we didn’t let them off with that. That was a thing in and of itself. When the customer representative made arrangements to be out there, he’d been talking with Mom. She told him what time to be there. She was coming off five straight twelves at work and she wasn’t going to stay up all day.

He was late and in a big way. Now mom’s already irritated because of having to fight with the builder to get someone out here, the person’s late and when he finally shows, it’s just him. There’s no plumber to start looking. He stands there and tells my mom what she’s going to have to do, in the process, referring to her as ‘Honey.’

There are few things that will get my mom to see red in an instant. Calling her honey or any derivative that hits her ears as ‘little woman,’ is one of those things. At the word honey, mom’s patience and courtesy is rescinded from him. He doesn’t get to finish as she informs him, 1) Don’t call her honey, 2) let me tell you exactly what D. R Horton’s going to do, which was get a plumber out there to find the leak, fix it, then they’re going to get drywall guys out here to patch, mud, sand and PAINT the holes made to fix the leak. THEN, they were getting the flooring guys out there to repair the water damage. That’s, what’s going to happen. After that, she informs him the next thing she wants to hear from him was when she should expect said tradesmen.

My friend was on the couch when he bore witness to this, waiting for me to finish my half day so I could play tourist guide. Said friend stands over six feet tall and is far from a pushover.  My mother stands all of five feet and one inches and is as petite as her ancestors are.  When I came home and asked how it went, I wasn’t surprised, considering said customer service rep had previously tried  talking down to Mom as if she’d never been a home owner, and I couldn’t help but laugh when my friend said he’d been given ample reason as to why, he never, ever, wanted to be on her shit list.  He’d known Trex wasn’t someone you wanted to piss off, but now he’d seen what happens to those that do.

‘I was starting to feel sorry for the smug bastard, that’s how bad it was.’

Later on I was talking with said pal, expressing my frustration that we were still fighting with the builder to make good on their ‘we’ll fix our scew ups,’ and that I had been polite, then civil, then went into bitch mode- the results got me basically no where, yet Mom could get on the phone after all that, in bitch mode and they’re suddenly tripping all over themselves to schedule a craftsman.

“Chells, you in bitchmode, equal Chihuahua.”

Oh great, I’m equated to a small animal that yaps versus barks, and is more of an annoyance than something best paid heed to.

“Your mom in bitch mode? Equal fuckin T-Rex”

I couldn’t argue with that, not with any merit. And that’s how the nickname was born. Trex often says by my insistence of calling her that, people are getting the wrong idea.

“I’m a nice, sweet person.”

“Until they piss you off”

“Yes well, it happens.”

“And it usually only happens once.”

She still doesn’t like the name. Naturally, me being me, I like it all the more.  One day, I’ll have a copy of the T-Rex Paddock sign from Jurassic Park on the entryway to her condo.  One day.