I sometimes doubt God exists, Diary. And if he does exist, he doesn’t like his rejects.
I’m the only Hoffman with curly “red” hair (It’s actually auburn). I’m also the only one with a ton of freckles. Where did they come from? Mother and Dad laugh when I ask them if they adopted me when I was a baby. I don’t think that’s something to laugh about.
My hair is so curly I rubbed olive oil in it the other morning. The curls didn’t uncoil one bit. Instead, my hair tightened into a zillion tiny curls and the oil made my hair look darker than auburn.
Upon seeing my oily hair. Mother insisted she give me a shampoo right that minute at the kitchen sink. Everyone laughed. Not me.
Even my five-year-old brother Peter wakes up each morning, his sheets as dry as desert sand.
I don’t wear pajamas because that’s something else I’d get wet. So, I sleep in my underwear. I mean, at age eleven, it’s about time to stop peeing the bed, isn’t it?
Maybe God doesn’t listen because Dad hardly ever goes to mass, and I have to pay for his sins. Mother goes sometimes, but not every Sunday. Both parents expect their kids to attend Sunday mass. Sometimes on the way to church, I stop at the Old Grove and smoke cigarettes instead.
Just a couple of weeks ago during recess at St. Peter and Paul’s Catholic summer school, I asked Sister Mary Lawrence, “Sister, do you think God listens to kids’ prayers?”
“Why certainly, God pays special attention to children, Gordon. Why do you ask?”
“I keep praying for him to help me, but he hardly ever does.”
She kind of laughed. “If you’re asking God for a million dollars or a BB gun, Gordon, then I can understand why he doesn’t listen to you.”
“No, Sister, I’m not praying for a million dollars or a gun.”
“Can you tell me what you are praying for?”
“I want God to help me stop wetting the bed. I’m eleven and—”
Sister Lawrence grabbed me and hugged me real hard. Nobody hugs me. Ever. Maybe that’s why I started blubbering. It felt kind of good to be hugged. I mean I was downright sobbing like a girl. I’ll have you know Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman is no pantywaist.
“God has his reasons,” I heard the nun say with one ear and through her chest with the other ear.
“Can you give me one, Sister?”
She still held on to me but backed away a bit. “I can’t because I’m not God, but I’m certain he’s listening to you. Perhaps he wants you to learn something. I’m really not certain.”
“If there is a god, I don’t think he cares.”
“There is a God, Gordon, and he does care for you. I have no doubt about that, whatsoever.”
After Sister Lawrence let go of me and we parted, my chums asked me why I had been crying. I shrugged. “Who was crying?” I told them nothing. Zilch.
Mother and Dad tell me not to drink anything, milk or water, after supper. I still wake up wet.
And sometimes I get so thirsty I go into the bathroom, quietly close the door shut with a click. I carefully turn the lock’s knob. Softly as I can, I turn on the cold water handle so nobody can hear. I cup my hand under the faucet and drink to my heart’s content.
That night, I stay awake as long as I can. I’ll catch myself falling asleep and then suddenly wake up. My heart is beating like jungle drums in a Tarzan movie.
Sometimes, I just go to the bathroom and stand before the toilet and wait for pee to come. But it hardly ever does. Then, I finally go to bed. The next morning, I wake up in an ocean.
Two weeks ago, Mother took me to see Dr. Lee Pomainville in order for him to figure out what was wrong with me.
After Dr. Lee checked just about everything, including my heart and taking a blood sample, he told me to go into the bathroom and pee into a tiny bottle. About an hour later, he told Mother, “Your son’s as healthy as a horse.”
Now, I don’t know how healthy a horse is. Upon hearing what Dr. Lee said, Dad told Mother, “Eventually, Gordy will outgrow it.”
When? When I’m twenty-one? I won’t be able to join the Navy or become a fireman.
After I told Sister Lawrence, I learned my lesson. I won’t talk to anyone anymore about bed wetting.
Although I go down to the basement and wash and dry my wet sheets and blanket and underwear, Mother still complains. She won’t moan and groan about it in front of Dad, but when he’s gone, she rumbles like a Ford Model T without a muffler. Especially when Dork is around.
“When he’s older, Gordy’s going to end up in the Marshfield insane asylum, isn’t he, Mom?”
“I’m afraid so,” she says, following that with a long sigh.
Sometimes, I wish I was never born.
I’m the only Hoffman with curly “red” hair (It’s actually auburn). I’m also the only one with a ton of freckles. Where did they come from? Mother and Dad laugh when I ask them if they adopted me when I was a baby. I don’t think that’s something to laugh about.
My hair is so curly I rubbed olive oil in it the other morning. The curls didn’t uncoil one bit. Instead, my hair tightened into a zillion tiny curls and the oil made my hair look darker than auburn.
Upon seeing my oily hair. Mother insisted she give me a shampoo right that minute at the kitchen sink. Everyone laughed. Not me.
Even my five-year-old brother Peter wakes up each morning, his sheets as dry as desert sand.
I don’t wear pajamas because that’s something else I’d get wet. So, I sleep in my underwear. I mean, at age eleven, it’s about time to stop peeing the bed, isn’t it?
Maybe God doesn’t listen because Dad hardly ever goes to mass, and I have to pay for his sins. Mother goes sometimes, but not every Sunday. Both parents expect their kids to attend Sunday mass. Sometimes on the way to church, I stop at the Old Grove and smoke cigarettes instead.
Just a couple of weeks ago during recess at St. Peter and Paul’s Catholic summer school, I asked Sister Mary Lawrence, “Sister, do you think God listens to kids’ prayers?”
“Why certainly, God pays special attention to children, Gordon. Why do you ask?”
“I keep praying for him to help me, but he hardly ever does.”
She kind of laughed. “If you’re asking God for a million dollars or a BB gun, Gordon, then I can understand why he doesn’t listen to you.”
“No, Sister, I’m not praying for a million dollars or a gun.”
“Can you tell me what you are praying for?”
“I want God to help me stop wetting the bed. I’m eleven and—”
Sister Lawrence grabbed me and hugged me real hard. Nobody hugs me. Ever. Maybe that’s why I started blubbering. It felt kind of good to be hugged. I mean I was downright sobbing like a girl. I’ll have you know Gordon Bartholomew Hoffman is no pantywaist.
“God has his reasons,” I heard the nun say with one ear and through her chest with the other ear.
“Can you give me one, Sister?”
She still held on to me but backed away a bit. “I can’t because I’m not God, but I’m certain he’s listening to you. Perhaps he wants you to learn something. I’m really not certain.”
“If there is a god, I don’t think he cares.”
“There is a God, Gordon, and he does care for you. I have no doubt about that, whatsoever.”
After Sister Lawrence let go of me and we parted, my chums asked me why I had been crying. I shrugged. “Who was crying?” I told them nothing. Zilch.
Mother and Dad tell me not to drink anything, milk or water, after supper. I still wake up wet.
And sometimes I get so thirsty I go into the bathroom, quietly close the door shut with a click. I carefully turn the lock’s knob. Softly as I can, I turn on the cold water handle so nobody can hear. I cup my hand under the faucet and drink to my heart’s content.
That night, I stay awake as long as I can. I’ll catch myself falling asleep and then suddenly wake up. My heart is beating like jungle drums in a Tarzan movie.
Sometimes, I just go to the bathroom and stand before the toilet and wait for pee to come. But it hardly ever does. Then, I finally go to bed. The next morning, I wake up in an ocean.
Two weeks ago, Mother took me to see Dr. Lee Pomainville in order for him to figure out what was wrong with me.
After Dr. Lee checked just about everything, including my heart and taking a blood sample, he told me to go into the bathroom and pee into a tiny bottle. About an hour later, he told Mother, “Your son’s as healthy as a horse.”
Now, I don’t know how healthy a horse is. Upon hearing what Dr. Lee said, Dad told Mother, “Eventually, Gordy will outgrow it.”
When? When I’m twenty-one? I won’t be able to join the Navy or become a fireman.
After I told Sister Lawrence, I learned my lesson. I won’t talk to anyone anymore about bed wetting.
Although I go down to the basement and wash and dry my wet sheets and blanket and underwear, Mother still complains. She won’t moan and groan about it in front of Dad, but when he’s gone, she rumbles like a Ford Model T without a muffler. Especially when Dork is around.
“When he’s older, Gordy’s going to end up in the Marshfield insane asylum, isn’t he, Mom?”
“I’m afraid so,” she says, following that with a long sigh.
Sometimes, I wish I was never born.
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