There was a little girl

I accidentally talked to my father last Wednesday. I had spent the week before contemplating whether to call my mother on her birthday. I decided I would. But she wasn't home, so for the fifth time in his life, my father answered the phone. It was the first time we've spoken in about 2 years. 

They're terrible parents. Not Victorian lock-you-in-the-attic bad parents. Not pimp-you-out-for-drugs bad parents. Not even beat-you-all-the-time bad parents. Just bad in a quiet, neglectful way. 

Imagine breaking your leg and calling out to someone nearby to help you. Imagine that person ignoring your call for help, just moving about as if you're not broken and yelling. You might do something extreme to get that person's attention. Something extremely good or something extremely bad.

A little Longfellow verse I often heard growing up:

There was a little girl

who had a little curl

right in the middle of her forehead.

And when she was good

she was very, very good

But when she was bad, she was horrid.

Funny, huh. Now I don't have to do extreme things to get their attention, because I'm an adult. I can say, "I have to go now, but tell Mom I called. Okay. Bye."