Ten years ago my mom and a friend of hers picked me up from school, greeting me with the news that my bedroom at the farm had been all packed up and moved into my grandmother’s house in town. Mom had officially left my father.
Now, news like that may have been a devastating shock to many thirteen year olds. However, I knew my entire life that one day my parents would get a divorce. I grew up in a home with parents that hardly spoke. They did not sleep in the same bed. Hell, they didn’t even sleep in the same room. Thus, the news being delivered to me that day was not a surprise at all.
Typing that now, I can see how many people might feel sorry for my siblings and I. Parents who didn’t exactly have a relationship, and then who split in December of all months. So, at this point, there is something I would like to stress: I had an amazing childhood. Idyllic even. I will never try to deny that.
Since my parents’ split, I really haven’t given much thought to the circumstances surrounding it. As mentioned, I was only thirteen years old. My thought pattern was more centered on the excitement of having a bedroom in town and at the farm than it was concerned with the fact my family was breaking up. It wasn’t until I gave it some thought this December, ten years later, that certain things came to my attention.
I only remember my parents fighting a handful of times. The first fight I remember is when I was really young. My sister and I slept in Mom’s bed while Dad and Jaret watched TV. I don’t remember what the fight was about, but I remember my mom crying.
I remember the fight when my mom slammed the French door in our house, breaking one of the panes of glass.
I remember crying into my big white stuffed bear that I deemed my “crying” bear. Here’s the thing: I received that bear as a Christmas gift when I was twelve. So my parents must have fought alot more than I remember that last year, in order for him to be as tear stained and dirty as he was.
Apparently there were times that they fought when my siblings and I would all gather in one of our bedrooms and play with toys. To drown out their noise, our voices would grow louder to match the pitch of their fighting. I don’t remember this, but this is what I’m told.
For a couple of weeks prior to the day Mom left, I had been staying with Grandma under the guise of taking care of her while she was ill. Well, in retrospect, she sure didn’t seem that ill! Now I think it may have been a ploy to get the youngest out of the house as my mom made preparations to leave. Protect the young and innocent perhaps?
I always said my life is perfectly compartmentalized in a way. Carefree childhood years on a farm, with plenty of fresh air and open fields. Several cats and dogs for pets. A tree house with a trolley, a wood fort, a trampoline, a play house with child sized wooden furniture, a swing set. Huge trees perfect for climbing. Then, just as I reached the age where those things lost interest and hanging out with friends held far more appeal, I was moved into town with my best friend a mere two blocks away. Though I visited Dad often, I mainly lived with Mom in town, so I went from being a “farm kid” to being a “town kid”. Then, at the age 18, the age of graduation and entrance into the world of adults, I packed up and moved to “the big city” (which isn’t nearly as big as it once was to me!) There you have it, perfectly divided into sections. Childhood on the farm, teenage years in town, adult in the city.
I never gave much thought to how the split may have affected my siblings. I was thirteen, the age of being completely self-centered. My sister was fifteen, and considering the world of difference between thirteen and fifteen, it is easy to understand how we hadn’t yet developed the friendship we have today. As for my seventeen year old brother… well, he was the foreigner with a bedroom across the hall from mine. At the time I could’ve sworn we weren’t even related, what with his long hair, teen acne, and scary Pearl Jam posters on his bedroom walls. It must have been harder on them than it was on me, especially for my brother who was a mere five months away from graduating high school.
My parents’ split is unlike any I have ever heard about. Like mentioned, it wasn’t a surprise to me. And I can honestly say that my parents’ split was a good thing. Their relationship today is amazing. Dad is still “Uncle Brian” to all the cousin’s on my mom’s side. In fact just last month at my dad’s 65th birthday celebration, all twenty plus guests were relatives from my mom’s family. Mom’s brother is Dad’s best friend. If Mom holds a family supper at her house, Dad is invited, and vice versa. In fact, that first Christmas, only a couple of weeks after Mom moved out, Dad came and spent the night in the spare room so we’d all be together as a family Christmas morning just like always. Maybe my parents don’t love each other but guess what? They sure as hell love their children. Any messy divorce battles, of which there has been a couple, have been conducted without my parents involving myself or my siblings, and they have been careful never to say anything bad about one another to us.
My only wish is that I knew more about how my parents were before they drifted apart. I found out only recently that at one point, they were so in love they would positively gush over one another. Hard to imagine them like that. I don’t even know how my parents met. My mom is 51, and my dad is 65, which is quite the age gap. I would like to know how they met and fell in love, and even what happened to their relationship so that they drifted apart. I’ve asked both my parents, but both are reluctant to talk about it.
It makes me sad to think that it is quite possible that my parents’ split, that was so easy on me, might have hurt them and my brother and sister more than I will ever know.
