My mom taught me how to read and write, including
cursive, before I started kindergarten. She did that by giving me
alphabet blocks and playing with me, teaching the letters, singing the
ABC song with me as she lifted each block, making a game of forming
words with the blocks, and reading to me. I sat by her side as she
read. She ran her finger under the words as she read so I could follow
along. And one day I picked up my favorite book and just naturally began reading it. All by myself. From then on, my mother's role shifted to directing my reading and helping me understand what I read.
She taught me block letter writing at the same time I was learning the alphabet by making it a game to draw the letters and then form them into words, then sentences. Doing so was never boring or hard for me. It was fun time with my mom and I looked forward to it. She used the Palmer method to teach me cursive, using the same books her mother had taught her from. I loved the capital "G." The capital "L" was okay, but I did not like the capital "B." It looked bossy and mean to me. I didn't like "M" or "N" either, but I liked "D" and "H" was okay. Each letter had a personality to me and it wasn't till I began forming them into words and then sentences that they lost their individuality, subsumed into the meaning of the word and sentence.
I learned to read sheet music and play the piano essentially the same way, first singing simple songs together with my mother, which was fun and came naturally, then singing the scale while she showed me the notes on paper. To me they looked like little balloons floating up and down on a fence. Then I sat beside her at the piano and watched and learned, connecting keys to notes -- or balloons! -- and singing. It was so much fun. I'm sure my mother corrected me when I made mistakes, but I don't remember that. I only remember her smile when I did things right. To this day, I can't play Ma mère l'Oye without remembering those happy days. Sitting at the piano in the conservatory on a sunny winter Sunday with the north wind swaying the trees, the notes flowing without thinking from my fingers, I could be five years old again, sitting next to my mother together playing the four-hand arrangement, she smiling down at me, encouraging me when my little fingers couldn't quite reach. Then, after, hot chocolate and a nap hugging my panda bear. To this day, if I am feeling down or melancholy and sit at the piano I automatically begin playing Pavane de la Belle au bois dormant and it seems as if my mother is right there with me, comforting me as only a mother can her child.
My dad taught me how to ride a bicycle, running along beside me as I pedaled, instructing and encouraging me, catching me when I lost courage and slowed down then started to fall over. He guided me through turning a circle, then a figure eight, taught me how to come to a full stop with both feet still on the pedals, only setting one foot down as I released the brakes. I felt completely safe and grew in confidence easily because I knew dad was right there jogging along beside me. Gradually, he would take his hands away from the bike as he ran along side. I never noticed that I was actually balancing and riding, turning and braking unassisted. He was still there beside me, giving tips, praising, correcting, ready to put out a hand to steady me should I wobble. But then one day as I pedaled along I asked him a question and he didn't answer. He wasn't beside me! I looked around and saw him far back, standing watching me. I circled back to him, stopped and asked why he wasn't running beside me. He laughed and pointed out that I had ridden all by myself far ahead, turned around, rode back and stopped without any assistance from him. I hadn't realized. I knew how to ride a bicycle! And it just happened. Thanks to my dad. To this day, when I'm facing a difficult challenge or have to deal with scary things, I imagine my dad running along beside me, ready to catch me if I fail, reminding me I can do it, I can, I can.
Dad also taught me how to ride a motorcycle, dirt and street, how to drive a car, how to shoot (not that I really wanted to learn that, but he thought it was a skill I should master), how to care for and train dogs to be obedient and useful, how to behave around livestock, ride a horse. He even taught me how to use a bow and arrow! And a slingshot! He taught me so many practical and useful things. But maybe the most useful was, especially when anxious or upset, to slow down and examine what you are anxious or upset about and why. Break it down, tease out the specifics. Then you can do something about them, or at least manage your emotions regarding them. He also taught me a similar way of dealing with recalcitrant machines and various mechanical objects. Don't become frustrated and agitated if something doesn't work. Examine it. Determine how it is supposed to work, then see if you can discover why it is not working. Once you've done that, you often have a good chance of getting it working again.
My mother taught me how to cook, how to plan and produce a meal for two or twenty, how to sew and mend, how to design and measure to create a pattern to sew from so I could make my own custom clothes then and later for my family. She taught me first aid and the care and treatment of the injured and sick. When our cat had kittens she explained what was happening and answered all my questions. She taught me how to dress to bring out my best, and use make-up to conceal (a very useful skill come puberty and zits) as well as to enhance and highlight. She even taught me how to stand and walk properly. Don't slouch! Glide don't shamble!
She also taught me about boys and love and sex and how I, as a girl, had so much more invested in both than boys did. She told me that as much as I might like sex and consider it important, boys liked it orders of magnitude more and considered it so important that as men, they would risk any humiliation and loss of public stature and family to get it, with no limit to how much they desired. She also taught me how to be a good companion to a man and how to know a good one when you find him. Of course, a lot of what she tried to teach me I didn't really believe until I learned it the hard way...so to speak. My mother also taught me about pregnancy, what to expect and how to deal with it, and the difficult days immediately after pregnancy and then the first, trying months of being a mother. And most especially she reminded me that she had made it through it all and so could I.
