Broken Homes
June 24th, 2009 § 2 Comments
The first time I told my mom I was engaged she responded, “To who?”
I was 18, he was 30 – we dated for 3 months. One trip to Hawaii later, I returned home with a shell ring on my finger and big ideas for the wedding.
We lived in a house on a cul-de-sac where I would scrapbook with the neighbors every Sunday night. He bought me a golden retriever for Christmas which I named Grommit. He had his own business, was financially stable and eventually bought me a pretty wedding ring that I would sometimes turn upside down to hide. We set the date for our wedding 6 months later only to postpone it 4 months later. Our engagement lasted for 2 years.
One morning, after he had left for work, I sat at the top of the stairs in our house cradling my Christmas dog crying. I kissed his wet nose slid my engagement ring off and placed it on the bathroom counter. And then I left the house for the last time.
Being engaged to him, especially to someone 12 years my senior, had put me in a frenzied state of trying to finish school so that I could have children right after we got married. Even though I wasn’t ready to be a mom, he was running out of time to be the ”young cool dad” that he always envisioned being. I quit my full time job to become a full time student, which meant I had given up my independence and stability. 2 weeks shy of my 21st birthday, I had never been so terrified walking out of that house and into the unknown future.
Walking away was difficult – but essential. I was in love with the idea of love. I loved knowing I would have someone by my side for the rest of time. It wasn’t until the wedding grew closer that I finally realized, I wasn’t in love with him, I was in love with the idea of marriage. While he was a wonderful safe and loving guy, I was far too young to be someones wife.
My parents divorced when I was 1 1/2 years old. Growing up in a divorced environment, I knew that no matter what mistakes I made, I would do everything in my power to ensure a failed marriage wasn’t one of them. I realize things happen, and statistically I have a 50% chance of it not working. I can however do my due diligence before getting married to make sure that the person I am marrying is someone I have no doubts about and have every intention of being with until my last days. This includes not marrying someone at 18 and after just 3 months of dating.
Sadly, far too many people get married too young, too soon or too quickly. I watched Jon and Kate last night and found no joy spying on their crumbling marriage. The episode was drenched in sadness and each of them had the same cold hard stare that people who are going through a separation adorn.
Watching the episode last night I realized for the first time that divorce is much harder on the parents than it is the children. As a child I had no idea what I was missing. I thought every normal child shuttled from each parents house every other weekend. I thought all daughters dreaded alone time with their fathers. To me it was normal and like most all other children I adjusted my world view accordingly. For the parents though it means missed first steps, shared or missed holidays, not being there for the first lost tooth. It means not being there to watch your children grow from day to day. It means missing the little moments in between the “every other weekends.”
It drives me crazy when people stay married “for the children”. I respect my mom much more for being strong enough to walk away from a situation she was unhappy in, even though it meant struggling to find her way. And although she didn’t do it gracefully she did it with strength and courage. That to me is far more admirable than someone who stays in a loveless marriage “for the children.” To me that seems more an excuse than it does a reason.
I tell my friends who are going through a divorce that the best thing they can do is to never speak negatively about their ex-spouse to their children. I have vivid memories of my father talking harshly about how much he hated my mom (I am generously paraphrasing here) only to have him say to me how much I remind her of him. To a child, hating their mother or father, is the same as hating them.
In 13 years, I am a long way from the girl that returned from Hawaii with a puka shell ring. Sometimes that part of my life seems so distant I almost wonder if it happened at all. And although I am thankful that it ended in a breakup and not a divorce–I do sometimes wonder just how my golden retriever is doing.
Divorce
May 18th, 2009 § 2 Comments
I haven’t talked to my dad for three months. He’s called a few times but I’ve ignored his call. I rationalized that if it were urgent he would leave a message, he hasn’t, so I further rationalize that the silence is okay.
My parents divorced when I was 1 1/2. This put my father at a huge disadvantadge for bonding time, as I’m sure my mom was dead set against leaving me as an infant in his care for the weekends. I’ve spent 31 years silently thanking her for this foresight. As I grew from a toddler to a teenager, the wedge between my father and I grew stronger. Each day I became less of a little girl and more like a woman; a precursor to my mom. In return, my dad grew even more uncomfortable in my presence and chose to spend his time with my brother. Together they shared an interest in sports and lack of interest in me.
Being a teenager marks a difficult period of transition. It’s a period of struggle to find independance marked by eye rolling, sassing and grunting to display displeasure and irritation. I was a pro at the eye roll. I think my face froze in a state of displeasure and, to this day, my relaxed face is not a pleasant one.
While I was a teen entrenched in a constant bicker battle with my mom, my feelings towards my dad were displayed with indifference. We avoided confrontation at all costs. There was a silent understanding between us that we would give each other space. Any talk of boys, life, feelings, dreams, and all topics related was off limits. We could however discuss, what was for dinner, how much money I needed for my trip to the mall, and what friends I could have over to help me survive the otherwise intolerable weekend.
Weekends at my dad’s house passed with excruciating pain. Time there moved slower and was steeped in solitude. While my dad and brother would spend hours away from the house at card shows and sports stores, I would spend the weekend on the couch watching television and eating myself into a sugar coma. I marveled at TV daughters and their TV dad’s. I would watch with meticulous attention as Bill Cosby cradled Rudy in his arms as she would rest her little head on his chest or as Mike Brady gave Marsha sage advice on boys and life. And, to make it even more impressive, Marsha wasn’t even his real daughter. TV dad’s didn’t match mine. My dad didn’t give advice, he didn’t talk to me past asking what I wanted to eat for dinner. My dad stayed distant from everything that made me his daughter. His duties didn’t extend beyond making sure I was fed, clothed and still alive by the time my mom picked me up on Sunday.
I always wondered how my life would be different if I had a healthy relationship with my dad, instead of being left to absorb the TV dad/daughter relationship, pretending that Mr. Huckstable was talking directly to me when he was offering advice to his children.
Father’s day is especially difficult because no cards match the sentiment I have towards my father. Most thank dad’s for their insight, their wisdom, their guidance. I need one that says I love you for buying me things when I was younger and for making sure I was sent back to mom’s unscathed.
We all struggle with parent issues and for the most part I have come to accept the fact that my dad and I will always remain at a distance. I love my dad because he is my dad but I feel like he knows little about me or who I am. I know he is proud of me because he is always excited to get my business card so he can show it to his acquaintances. “Look, my daughter is a Senior Vice President.” In my head, this scene plays out with the person asking pointed questions about me; what I like, my middle name, when my birthday is- my dad struggles to answer the questions, gives them my card and says to call to ask me the questions directly.
No matter how strained our relationship, I do know that if my dad ever needs me I will pick up the phone, check my voicemail and then call him back.
