...can be a pita.
If you are thinkng that the song by the Talking Heads1 sing always true, I don’t know. This book isn’t about statistics, it’s about me and mine. I’m pretty sure most parents have a clue. I know though mine were certainly smart enough to have that, their own selfishness overrode all logical actions.
When you choose to become a parent, that is, screw and bam! you become one. It was a choice: your choice to screw in the first place. You can make the excuses all you want, fact remains: it was a choice.
Parents have a responsibility to their children. It’s written in the laws of nature, in the sky, on the ground, in the water you drink, in the drugs you take, all around. Because you choose to ignore your responsibility doesn’t make it go away, it means your choice is to be a mean person.
There I go, digressing, trying to teach without the facts again. Let me refrain from spewing, and begin history. I’ll start with mother, and her family of my uncles, and aunts, father and his family, and those that were friends to my mother and father.
Before I start, I must admit I love my mom dearly. I look back into the years and it tears my heart for her lack of love shown towards her own children. I guess it’s true, even a kicked dog still loves its master.
These are my memories and experiences of her, not of hearsay from others.
My first memory of mom is her sitting in a chair tapping a cigarette on the edge of an ashtray. The red lipstick around the butt stood out.
As a child, milk was delivered early every morning by the milkman. I use to help bring in the milk glass bottles. One morning there was dew, it made the bottles slippery and I dropped one. I recall following it down as it broke on the floor as it sliced my hands. I might have been four. To this day, I bear the scars.
The summer before kindergarten began, she would walk me the two blocks to school. She would get me to look into the kindergarten room and identify what we saw inside. It was a nifty method that worked wonderfully. When the first day of school arrived, she asked (I don’t recall this, she told me) if she would walk with me to school and I told her that I was a grown boy, and didn’t need her help. I actually remember walking to school that first day alone, but felt brave and courageous and yet not so.
I recall many experiences in Watsonville, and only those two of specifically mom in that city. Shouldn’t that be sad? It feels terribly sad.
Mom was a nurse at one time, so when any of us got sick, she was there to help us recover. All those times of throwing up, I remember her holding my head as I did so into the toilet. Many times she would have a damp washcloth in her hand and hold it to my heated head as I spit grits. She did this with all her children.
To her credit, she stayed married to this man. To her discredit she never stood up to him either for herself or for her children.
We get in heated discussions often. When mom doesn’t want to talk about it anymore, rather than be honest and say “I don’t want to talk about it,” she does the immediate little girl act by voicing that everything she ever did was wrong and that she is a terrible person. It’s an act to put all the blame on whomever is speaking to her, avoid the issues, and avoid her own responsibilities. She does this constantly.
To her disgrace, she is big on voicing how much she gave to us children in that she cleaned and cooked and sat and worried over us all her life. The implication she points at is we owe her. She refuses to realize that was her responsibility as a parent and that her children owe her nothing.
Any wonder why she began losing her hearing at forty? She talked herself into it.
I learned that to look forward to something meant losing that something. I can remember a few times having my heart set on an adult’s promise and looking forward to the completion of that promise and it never occurred.
Selfish people make promises they never plan to keep, it’s just something to say to chill out the kids. Ignoring what they’ve promised to one, they give to another, further breaking my heart. Had this happened only once, I’d say it was a fluke, having it occur a dozen times, I must admit defeat.
I am a failure. Rather, the forces in my life attempt to declare that I am failure. I was grown and taught that I am worth nothing. Twisted were the teachings when I was young. Always taught do as I say not as I do, emotionally abused one might think for the fun of it, but in actual truth, for the selfishness.
Confusion reigns these paths, hypocrisy is obvious, blatant, absurd, scary.
Ask my brother what his son did to get where he is today, and Richard knows. He knows the history of Scott. Not all of it, but an amazing lot. Ask my sister about her daughter, and she knows.
When my dad was alive, he never knew what I was doing. Goes without saying, mom, expressed the same interest, that is, none. Neither of them knew I spent seventeen years in the technical writing field. Nor did they realize that I spent fourteen years in junior college studying writing, mathematics, electronics, and programming. But ask them about their last trip to wherever and they sure knew that. They knew it so well, they would brag about it.