Today is my gorgeous daughter's 13th birthday. Thirteen on the 13th. My husband and I were reminiscing yesterday about where we were 13 years ago. I was in a hospital bed getting ready to have an epidural. I'd progressed over two days from a TENS machine to diamorphine (which made me sick) to epidural. I'd been placed on an oxytocin drip to speed up the contractions. Finally, on this day at 9:30 a.m. a team from the United Nations was in place. There was me, the American. My husband, the Briton. The midwife from Ireland married to a man from Burma. The OB/GYN was Australian, and the pediatrician hailed from Nigeria.
My daughter was positioned at an angle that was not conducive to a straightforward delivery. They put me in a larger delivery room because they anticipated a C-section. First, they wanted to try forceps. "I'm not having forceps" I told them. "I know someone who had a forceps delivery and her son was born with cerebral palsy."
"OK," they said, "we'll try the Ventouse, but if that doesn't work, it'll have to be a caesarean."
"I'm not having a caesarean," I said. "You may not have a choice," they replied.
The Ventouse worked, thankfully, and my beautiful daughter was born with her eyes wide open. She looked all around her as if to say "Hello, world, I'm here."
She's still like that. She has my mother's green eyes, nose and mouth. She is darker than me; her chestnut hair has auburn streaks that the sun picks out. She is nearly my height now. Years of dance have ensured that her body is muscular, though with a small layer of puppy fat still. A typical Libra, she gets upset by conflict, though she doesn't shy away from it. She is stronger emotionally than me, more confident than I was at that age. Not surprising. She shares her birthday with Margaret Thatcher.
We seem to have achieved a trusting relationship. Yesterday, as we drove home from the hairdresser's, she told me about girls in her class (12-year-olds) who have had sex. She told of another now in Year 10 who had an abortion over the summer when she was 14. I don't know whether to believe these stories. You know what girls and rumours are like. I asked her to promise me she wouldn't have sex before she's 18. She said she couldn't make that promise. I then said, "At least make sure he uses condoms because pregnancy isn't the only thing you have to worry about. And please be in a mutually loving relationship."
She asked if I was 18 when I first had sex. I lied and said yes. I'm not ready to tell her yet that I was only 15, that I regret to this day my early sexual activity. I will in time when she and I are ready. I never had conversations about sex with my mother. I felt very uncomfortable if she ever brought the subject up. My daughter is more innocent than I was at that age. I intend for her to stay that way for as long as possible.
Tonight she is having a party with a few school friends and some boys. She says the boys are mates. She is taller than all of them. Thank God. Twelve- and 13-year-old boys don't like taller girls, as I recall. But then I moved on to older boys. I've warned my daughter against that. "Older boys will expect you to do things older girls do. Don't ever do anything you're not comfortable doing."
That she did promise me.
Saturday, 13 October 2007
Thursday, 11 October 2007
The Family Tree Part II
Oh the joys of puppyhood. Minnie, one of our cats, got locked in the computer room last night. I thought I saw her on the patio when I was locking up, but it must have been Pearl. Anyway, she left a steaming present for me this morning (and Jake didn't, for once). But Jake thought he'd have a snack before breakfast. He is NOT licking me today.
But I digress. I was going to write about my dad's side of the family.
I don't know much about my great-grandparents on my dad's side other than these stories. My great-grandfather was a German immigrant farmer who moved to Colorado. When his first wife died, he remarried a woman who already had a daughter of her own. She was unkind to her stepchildren. My grandfather lost his left leg when a wagon ran over it when he was 12. Rather than buy a new pair of shoes when the right shoe wore out, his stepmother insisted he wear the left shoe on his right foot. She would give treats to her daughter, who would eat them in front of my grandfather and his siblings.
When my grandfather grew up he got a wooden leg and, ironically, became a shoemaker. His first wife died soon after giving birth. My grandfather, with the help of his in-laws, tried to raise the mother-less boy. When he met my grandmother and proposed, she said she would marry him only if he gave the boy to his in-laws to raise. This he did, and never saw his first son again.
My great-grandmother (my grandmother's mother) was a tough farmwoman, also of Germanic stock. She had five children with her first husband, my grandmother being the oldest. When her husband died, she moved her children from Nebraska to Colorado, but left my grandmother behind with relatives. Why? My mother said one of the sisters told her it was because no one could get along with my grandmother. Eventually, my great-grandmother remarried and had another son who was the apple of her eye. My grandmother rejoined her family only to be sent to a preacher's family to be educated. The preacher's family apparently viewed her as a servant and treated her terribly. Meeting my grandfather must have been her salvation. She was very young when they wed, only 19. Taking on another woman's son must have been too onerous for her.
My father's parents must have looked odd. My grandmother was very tall, about 6 feet, with red hair. My grandfather was only about 5'6. By the age of 21 my grandmother had two sons (born 16 months apart) and had lost all her hair. It started to fall out after my father's birth and never grew back. She wore a wig and pencilled in eyebrows every day till the day she died at the age of 94. She must have blamed my father's birth for the hair loss for he always speaks of it with guilt. She had another son three years after my father's birth, her golden boy.
My grandfather lost his shoe shop during the Depression. He and his family had very lean years till the New Deal came in. My dad was a bit of a hellion, but in a mischievous way. He quit school at the age of 15 and joined the Navy when he was 16 to serve as a bombadier in the Pacific. He came home when he was 21, got his GED, and enrolled at Denver University using his GI Bill. My mother also was a student at DU. They met through my dad's best friend, who married my aunt. Those two are still married, which my aunt lords over my mother every chance she gets.
After my parents married, they moved in with my dad's parents. My mother describes that time with mixed emotions. On the one hand she says she was treated like the daughter they never had. On the other, my grandmother didn't always treat her right. My mother quit college and got a job at the telephone company to support my dad. My dad was never an academic, but through sheer hard work and some help from my mother, he got a PhD in clinical psychology. My mother had my sister after three years of trying to get pregnant. She was doted on by her grandparents and uncles. Then my parents moved to South Dakota, where my dad had a fellowship. I think that is when things started to go pear-shaped in their marriage. My mother thought my dad had an affair. She was jealous of the time he spent away from her. She left him and went home to her parents, taking my sister. Her mother told her, "You're not woman enough to keep a man." Those words would echo strongly many years later when my dad finally did leave her.
Somehow they patched it up and moved to Florida a year later. My dad started in a new firm and worked hard to build up his career. He was told by his boss, though, that my mother would always hold him back. Was it where she came from (Tampa was an incredibly snobbish smallish place back then) or was it her sometimes odd behaviour? My mother had my brother a couple of years later. The birth was problematic. He was given too much oxygen. He was a difficult baby -- a fussy eater, crying a lot. He was even worse as a toddler. My mother, who has never handled frustration well, would spank him and slap him in an attempt to subdue him. And the boy was not turning into the kind of son my dad wanted. He was clumsy (he turned out to have terrible eyesight) and uncoordinated.
Three years later my mother wasn't feeling too well. "Oooh, I think I'm pregnant," she would tell my sister every night as she struggled to curl my sister's fine, limp hair. My dad accused my mother of sneakily getting pregnant. In my mother's defense, I don't think she thought she could get pregnant, having suffered from endometriosis for many years. I was born in January 1960. My dad was disappointed because he'd hoped I'd be born before the first of the year so he could get a tax break. My sister was disappointed because she didn't want a baby sister, and certainly not in her birth month, and it meant she couldn't have riding lessons. My mother and brother, however, were quite happy, or at least OK about it.
My dad's career was starting to go well, and he would spend more and more time away from home. When I was 7, my mother decided to go back to college to finish her degree. At first she took one or two classes a week, and only in the day while we were at school. As I got older, she took on more classes, some at night. My dad was away at night too doing group therapy. My brother and I (my sister had gone to Florida State University by then) were left to our own devices a lot. I started drinking at the age of 9 when my brother's friend came over and we would play drinking games. Then my sister, who had always been the favoured child, left FSU and moved in with her boyfriend without telling my parents. My dad found out when he decided to drop in on her while driving through Tallahassee. Her roommate told him where to find her. She lived in a crummy part of town in a crummy house. My dad cried all the way home.
My sister married this guy in spite of my parents' protestations. He was a con artist, they were convinced. He had delusions of grandeur. The more they complained about him, the more she stuck up for him. She had a son the year after they married. Money was tight. The husband would go for runs to get rid of his stress. He did run, straight to his mistress's house. My sister stuck with him through three more children. He finally left her.
Meanwhile, back at home, my mother finally had a hysterectomy after years of suffering from endometriosis. Then her mother died. Then my dad met my stepmother and decided to leave my mother. It was messy and ugly. I've posted about this before so won't repeat it. My parents' divorce came through in November 1975. My dad and stepmother married that Christmas while skiing in Colorado. But no one is supposed to know that. They had another ceremony in Florida the following April. My mother sold her house and moved to California that summer. My brother and I stayed with her for the summer, and I moved in with my dad and stepmother and stepsister when I came back.
At first we all worked hard to get along. My stepmother gave me a watch pendant as a token of affection, but soon she showed her true colours. All my stepsister had to do was whine, and I would be blamed for the least little thing. The three of them went to Washington, D.C., and left me alone on my 17th birthday. So I had a party. My brother helped me clean the house before they got back. I missed a handprint on the wall, which my eagle-eyed stepmother spotted the second she came through the door. Things deteriorated after that. Remember that watch pendant? One weekend when I came home for a visit from college, my stepmother and stepsister sandwiched me on the couch, and my stepmother asked for it back because her daughter wanted it. I never saw my stepsister wear it and I doubt if she has it now.
My dad made it clear from the start that he would always take his wife's side and so he has for the past 32 years. He is living out a pattern started generations before him. I struggle to maintain a relationship with him and my stepmother. They have mellowed but I have so much hurt inside me that I've never been able to express or acknowledge. I took a motto of theirs from the 80s and made it my own: Living well is the best revenge. I have a loving husband, two wonderful children, two cats, a puppy, and a nice home. My stepsister is a drug addict and alcoholic whose two children are being raised by her brother. She has been in and out of rehab many times. I am trying hard to see the familial patterns and not pass them onto my children.
And what of my sister and brother? That will have to be in another post because this one has exhausted me.
But I digress. I was going to write about my dad's side of the family.
I don't know much about my great-grandparents on my dad's side other than these stories. My great-grandfather was a German immigrant farmer who moved to Colorado. When his first wife died, he remarried a woman who already had a daughter of her own. She was unkind to her stepchildren. My grandfather lost his left leg when a wagon ran over it when he was 12. Rather than buy a new pair of shoes when the right shoe wore out, his stepmother insisted he wear the left shoe on his right foot. She would give treats to her daughter, who would eat them in front of my grandfather and his siblings.
When my grandfather grew up he got a wooden leg and, ironically, became a shoemaker. His first wife died soon after giving birth. My grandfather, with the help of his in-laws, tried to raise the mother-less boy. When he met my grandmother and proposed, she said she would marry him only if he gave the boy to his in-laws to raise. This he did, and never saw his first son again.
My great-grandmother (my grandmother's mother) was a tough farmwoman, also of Germanic stock. She had five children with her first husband, my grandmother being the oldest. When her husband died, she moved her children from Nebraska to Colorado, but left my grandmother behind with relatives. Why? My mother said one of the sisters told her it was because no one could get along with my grandmother. Eventually, my great-grandmother remarried and had another son who was the apple of her eye. My grandmother rejoined her family only to be sent to a preacher's family to be educated. The preacher's family apparently viewed her as a servant and treated her terribly. Meeting my grandfather must have been her salvation. She was very young when they wed, only 19. Taking on another woman's son must have been too onerous for her.
My father's parents must have looked odd. My grandmother was very tall, about 6 feet, with red hair. My grandfather was only about 5'6. By the age of 21 my grandmother had two sons (born 16 months apart) and had lost all her hair. It started to fall out after my father's birth and never grew back. She wore a wig and pencilled in eyebrows every day till the day she died at the age of 94. She must have blamed my father's birth for the hair loss for he always speaks of it with guilt. She had another son three years after my father's birth, her golden boy.
My grandfather lost his shoe shop during the Depression. He and his family had very lean years till the New Deal came in. My dad was a bit of a hellion, but in a mischievous way. He quit school at the age of 15 and joined the Navy when he was 16 to serve as a bombadier in the Pacific. He came home when he was 21, got his GED, and enrolled at Denver University using his GI Bill. My mother also was a student at DU. They met through my dad's best friend, who married my aunt. Those two are still married, which my aunt lords over my mother every chance she gets.
After my parents married, they moved in with my dad's parents. My mother describes that time with mixed emotions. On the one hand she says she was treated like the daughter they never had. On the other, my grandmother didn't always treat her right. My mother quit college and got a job at the telephone company to support my dad. My dad was never an academic, but through sheer hard work and some help from my mother, he got a PhD in clinical psychology. My mother had my sister after three years of trying to get pregnant. She was doted on by her grandparents and uncles. Then my parents moved to South Dakota, where my dad had a fellowship. I think that is when things started to go pear-shaped in their marriage. My mother thought my dad had an affair. She was jealous of the time he spent away from her. She left him and went home to her parents, taking my sister. Her mother told her, "You're not woman enough to keep a man." Those words would echo strongly many years later when my dad finally did leave her.
Somehow they patched it up and moved to Florida a year later. My dad started in a new firm and worked hard to build up his career. He was told by his boss, though, that my mother would always hold him back. Was it where she came from (Tampa was an incredibly snobbish smallish place back then) or was it her sometimes odd behaviour? My mother had my brother a couple of years later. The birth was problematic. He was given too much oxygen. He was a difficult baby -- a fussy eater, crying a lot. He was even worse as a toddler. My mother, who has never handled frustration well, would spank him and slap him in an attempt to subdue him. And the boy was not turning into the kind of son my dad wanted. He was clumsy (he turned out to have terrible eyesight) and uncoordinated.
Three years later my mother wasn't feeling too well. "Oooh, I think I'm pregnant," she would tell my sister every night as she struggled to curl my sister's fine, limp hair. My dad accused my mother of sneakily getting pregnant. In my mother's defense, I don't think she thought she could get pregnant, having suffered from endometriosis for many years. I was born in January 1960. My dad was disappointed because he'd hoped I'd be born before the first of the year so he could get a tax break. My sister was disappointed because she didn't want a baby sister, and certainly not in her birth month, and it meant she couldn't have riding lessons. My mother and brother, however, were quite happy, or at least OK about it.
My dad's career was starting to go well, and he would spend more and more time away from home. When I was 7, my mother decided to go back to college to finish her degree. At first she took one or two classes a week, and only in the day while we were at school. As I got older, she took on more classes, some at night. My dad was away at night too doing group therapy. My brother and I (my sister had gone to Florida State University by then) were left to our own devices a lot. I started drinking at the age of 9 when my brother's friend came over and we would play drinking games. Then my sister, who had always been the favoured child, left FSU and moved in with her boyfriend without telling my parents. My dad found out when he decided to drop in on her while driving through Tallahassee. Her roommate told him where to find her. She lived in a crummy part of town in a crummy house. My dad cried all the way home.
My sister married this guy in spite of my parents' protestations. He was a con artist, they were convinced. He had delusions of grandeur. The more they complained about him, the more she stuck up for him. She had a son the year after they married. Money was tight. The husband would go for runs to get rid of his stress. He did run, straight to his mistress's house. My sister stuck with him through three more children. He finally left her.
Meanwhile, back at home, my mother finally had a hysterectomy after years of suffering from endometriosis. Then her mother died. Then my dad met my stepmother and decided to leave my mother. It was messy and ugly. I've posted about this before so won't repeat it. My parents' divorce came through in November 1975. My dad and stepmother married that Christmas while skiing in Colorado. But no one is supposed to know that. They had another ceremony in Florida the following April. My mother sold her house and moved to California that summer. My brother and I stayed with her for the summer, and I moved in with my dad and stepmother and stepsister when I came back.
At first we all worked hard to get along. My stepmother gave me a watch pendant as a token of affection, but soon she showed her true colours. All my stepsister had to do was whine, and I would be blamed for the least little thing. The three of them went to Washington, D.C., and left me alone on my 17th birthday. So I had a party. My brother helped me clean the house before they got back. I missed a handprint on the wall, which my eagle-eyed stepmother spotted the second she came through the door. Things deteriorated after that. Remember that watch pendant? One weekend when I came home for a visit from college, my stepmother and stepsister sandwiched me on the couch, and my stepmother asked for it back because her daughter wanted it. I never saw my stepsister wear it and I doubt if she has it now.
My dad made it clear from the start that he would always take his wife's side and so he has for the past 32 years. He is living out a pattern started generations before him. I struggle to maintain a relationship with him and my stepmother. They have mellowed but I have so much hurt inside me that I've never been able to express or acknowledge. I took a motto of theirs from the 80s and made it my own: Living well is the best revenge. I have a loving husband, two wonderful children, two cats, a puppy, and a nice home. My stepsister is a drug addict and alcoholic whose two children are being raised by her brother. She has been in and out of rehab many times. I am trying hard to see the familial patterns and not pass them onto my children.
And what of my sister and brother? That will have to be in another post because this one has exhausted me.
Wednesday, 10 October 2007
The Family Tree
I've been thinking about genealogy lately. My mother and her twin sister have spent quite a bit of time researching their side of the family. And my mother-in-law has researched her and her husband's family trees (and found a branch of the family in Australia thanks to me).
They have names and dates, but I'm interested in the emotional genealogy. I can only go back one or two generations of my parents' emotional family trees, but I think they reveal a lot.
What started me on this subject was the realisation last summer that my niece is following her mother's parenting footsteps. I wondered what made my sister become what she became, i.e. a single parent with four children who stayed in a disastrous marriage far too long and blamed my parents' divorce for that. Where did this all begin?
On my mother's side, I know a lot about her maternal grandmother because my aunt wrote a story about it (which I rewrote and she never acknowledged). My great-grandmother was one of several children of a Baptist minister. She married a farmer/Baptist minister and they went to live on his parents' farm in Missouri. They had four children, the youngest of whom died at the age of 2 (cause unknown but most childhood illnesses could have been the cause). Then my great-grandfather suffered a sunstroke after helping to dig a grave for a friend on an unseasonably hot March day. He was bedridden till that August, when he forced himself out of bed to bring in the harvest. He suffered a relapse and my great-grandmother, with three young children at home, could no longer cope with nursing him. She sent him to a state hospital, asking them to contact her if he got worse. He pined for his family apparently and died after banging his head on the wall repeatedly.
These are the facts as I know them. But I wonder if there's more. Did he suffer from manic depression? Was that the real cause of his illness? And whose grave was he helping to dig? Could it have been Riley's, the little boy they lost to illness?
After her husband's death, my great-grandmother had to sell the farm as she couldn't manage it herself. She moved her family to town, where she took on a variety of jobs to support them. As her three children grew to adulthood, they moved to Wyoming one by one. She followed them there, living with one child, then another. She sold beauty products door to door (don't know if she made much money in Wyoming). Eventually the three children married and had families of their own. She lived next door to my grandmother in a tiny house for many years. My mother and her twin sister slept in that house every night because there was no room for them in their own, but did so gladly. Despite all her many misfortunes, my great-grandmother was by all accounts a loving and lovely woman. Even my father said that. She died of stomach cancer before I was born.
Her daughter, my grandmother, was a much more complicated character. The loss of her beloved father, whom she physically resembled, was a big shock apparently. As the oldest, she was expected to take on many duties in raising her siblings. Though she and her sister were less than two years apart, they apparently were great rivals. My great-aunt was an ethereal sort who loved to pray and play the piano. She looked like her attractive mother and behaved like her as well. Her grandchildren remember her fondly. Oddly enough, she married a man who resembled her father. My grandmother was the late bloomer.She married my grandfather when in her 30s after years spent as a teacher. She had a son quite quickly, whom she doted on. Three years later she was due to give birth again. Little did she know she would soon be giving birth to twins. When she got pregnant, she had been taking Lydia Pinkham, a popular tonic at the time for women's "ailments" which consisted of mostly alcohol. My tee-total grandmother must have been legless. My grandfather always told the story that after the twins were born, she got up from bed, found the Lydia Pinkham bottle and threw it as hard as she could out the back door.
My great-grandmother moved in to help with the twins, who had colic their first year. I don't think my grandmother ever wanted girls or twins and she got both. She had a tempestuous relationship with her daughters her whole life. But her son could do no wrong. My grandfather had two jobs to support his family so wasn't home very often and was sleeping when he was. He had run away from home in Missouri at the age of 15 after a severe beating from his older brother. He was the youngest and was much favoured by his many sisters. But I wonder now if he didn't have a bit of a temper because of a newspaper clipping my mother recently sent me. It was an article about Wyoming pioneers. It mentioned him leaving a job after a fight with his boss. Just made me wonder. But his daughters adored him till the day he died, even after many strokes left him incontinent and prone to attacks of paranoia. He was a great man in many ways. Even my father said that.
My mother and her sister were and are each other's best friend and worst enemy. I think my grandmother encouraged this as a divide and conquer strategy. The twins both have a terrible temper, suffer from depression (especially my mother) and insecurity. I could tell you stories that would make your hair curl (or straighten if it's already curly). My father tells the story of my mother taking out her frustration on a sewing machine, repeatedly beating it with something. He told her to stop, but her grandmother, who had given her the sewing machine, told my dad that it was my mother's machine and if she wanted to beat it that was her business. So this temper was coddled and tolerated (if not encouraged).
My mother tried to recreate her relationship with her sister with my dad, who in his way encouraged it. There was the rivalry. I think my mother was extremely jealous of my dad's career. There was the paranoia. There was the name-calling and hitting (mostly on my mother's end). There was the belittling and petty arguments. Sunday was fight day in our house. My mother threatened divorce many times, threatened suicide almost as many. Yet it was my dad who finally left. And I was saddened by the end of our family life, as dysfunctional as it was, because at least I had a place in it. I was the youngest of three children. We had messed-up parents, but they were our parents.
Tomorrow I will tell of my father's side. There are some tragedies there as well.
They have names and dates, but I'm interested in the emotional genealogy. I can only go back one or two generations of my parents' emotional family trees, but I think they reveal a lot.
What started me on this subject was the realisation last summer that my niece is following her mother's parenting footsteps. I wondered what made my sister become what she became, i.e. a single parent with four children who stayed in a disastrous marriage far too long and blamed my parents' divorce for that. Where did this all begin?
On my mother's side, I know a lot about her maternal grandmother because my aunt wrote a story about it (which I rewrote and she never acknowledged). My great-grandmother was one of several children of a Baptist minister. She married a farmer/Baptist minister and they went to live on his parents' farm in Missouri. They had four children, the youngest of whom died at the age of 2 (cause unknown but most childhood illnesses could have been the cause). Then my great-grandfather suffered a sunstroke after helping to dig a grave for a friend on an unseasonably hot March day. He was bedridden till that August, when he forced himself out of bed to bring in the harvest. He suffered a relapse and my great-grandmother, with three young children at home, could no longer cope with nursing him. She sent him to a state hospital, asking them to contact her if he got worse. He pined for his family apparently and died after banging his head on the wall repeatedly.
These are the facts as I know them. But I wonder if there's more. Did he suffer from manic depression? Was that the real cause of his illness? And whose grave was he helping to dig? Could it have been Riley's, the little boy they lost to illness?
After her husband's death, my great-grandmother had to sell the farm as she couldn't manage it herself. She moved her family to town, where she took on a variety of jobs to support them. As her three children grew to adulthood, they moved to Wyoming one by one. She followed them there, living with one child, then another. She sold beauty products door to door (don't know if she made much money in Wyoming). Eventually the three children married and had families of their own. She lived next door to my grandmother in a tiny house for many years. My mother and her twin sister slept in that house every night because there was no room for them in their own, but did so gladly. Despite all her many misfortunes, my great-grandmother was by all accounts a loving and lovely woman. Even my father said that. She died of stomach cancer before I was born.
Her daughter, my grandmother, was a much more complicated character. The loss of her beloved father, whom she physically resembled, was a big shock apparently. As the oldest, she was expected to take on many duties in raising her siblings. Though she and her sister were less than two years apart, they apparently were great rivals. My great-aunt was an ethereal sort who loved to pray and play the piano. She looked like her attractive mother and behaved like her as well. Her grandchildren remember her fondly. Oddly enough, she married a man who resembled her father. My grandmother was the late bloomer.She married my grandfather when in her 30s after years spent as a teacher. She had a son quite quickly, whom she doted on. Three years later she was due to give birth again. Little did she know she would soon be giving birth to twins. When she got pregnant, she had been taking Lydia Pinkham, a popular tonic at the time for women's "ailments" which consisted of mostly alcohol. My tee-total grandmother must have been legless. My grandfather always told the story that after the twins were born, she got up from bed, found the Lydia Pinkham bottle and threw it as hard as she could out the back door.
My great-grandmother moved in to help with the twins, who had colic their first year. I don't think my grandmother ever wanted girls or twins and she got both. She had a tempestuous relationship with her daughters her whole life. But her son could do no wrong. My grandfather had two jobs to support his family so wasn't home very often and was sleeping when he was. He had run away from home in Missouri at the age of 15 after a severe beating from his older brother. He was the youngest and was much favoured by his many sisters. But I wonder now if he didn't have a bit of a temper because of a newspaper clipping my mother recently sent me. It was an article about Wyoming pioneers. It mentioned him leaving a job after a fight with his boss. Just made me wonder. But his daughters adored him till the day he died, even after many strokes left him incontinent and prone to attacks of paranoia. He was a great man in many ways. Even my father said that.
My mother and her sister were and are each other's best friend and worst enemy. I think my grandmother encouraged this as a divide and conquer strategy. The twins both have a terrible temper, suffer from depression (especially my mother) and insecurity. I could tell you stories that would make your hair curl (or straighten if it's already curly). My father tells the story of my mother taking out her frustration on a sewing machine, repeatedly beating it with something. He told her to stop, but her grandmother, who had given her the sewing machine, told my dad that it was my mother's machine and if she wanted to beat it that was her business. So this temper was coddled and tolerated (if not encouraged).
My mother tried to recreate her relationship with her sister with my dad, who in his way encouraged it. There was the rivalry. I think my mother was extremely jealous of my dad's career. There was the paranoia. There was the name-calling and hitting (mostly on my mother's end). There was the belittling and petty arguments. Sunday was fight day in our house. My mother threatened divorce many times, threatened suicide almost as many. Yet it was my dad who finally left. And I was saddened by the end of our family life, as dysfunctional as it was, because at least I had a place in it. I was the youngest of three children. We had messed-up parents, but they were our parents.
Tomorrow I will tell of my father's side. There are some tragedies there as well.
Tuesday, 9 October 2007
Tuesday Twins II, Awards, and Frenemies
Well, they look alike to me.
I've been given two awards in the last few days, the Breakout Blogger award from Kaycie and the Rockin' Blogger award from Crystal Jigsaw. Thanks very much, guys, and here are my nominees:
For the Breakout Blogger award I nominate Pixie, the Rotten Correspondent (who already has every award out there but so what), VI, and Queenie (or Chantay as I know her).
For the Rockin Blogger award, I nominate annie, debio, Queen Vixen, and mind the gap.
All of you are great, and I enjoy your blogs very much.
Now onto the frenemy issue (and none of you are like that). Yes, it takes a special person to become a frenemy. Someone who is so confused and confusing in their behaviour that Freud would have a field day.
Here are some definitions from the Urban Dictionary:
"frenemy" 1. The type of "friend" whose words or actions bring you down.(whether you realize it as intentional or not) The type of friend you ought to cut off but don't cuz...they're nice... good ...you've had good times with them. U know...they're good people that you can count on to bring you down again sometime in the near future.The friend you may or may not have cornered about their quicksand like ways and keep around because "its in the past"...and so was one minute ago. The person that will continue to bring you down until you demand better for yourself. When you ask yourself is that person my friend or enemy...they are your frenemy. Straighten em out or leave them. Don't put up with it.
2. Someone who is both friend and enemy, a relationship that is both mutually beneficial or dependent while being competitive, fraught with risk and mistrust.
And that pretty much defines my relationship with the frenemy I mentioned yesterday. She is one of a group of friends who came together when our kids were at nursery together. Actually she and I met when I was pregnant with my first child and went on weekends away together and meals out before she ever met the rest of the group. But she hid this from them for a long time. I don't know exactly why but I have my suspicions. Her daughter is six months older than my daughter. Her son is three weeks older than my son. There is a LOT of competition about the kids. Her kids are pretty bright, go to private school, are given everything they ask for and more, go on exotic holidays every single holiday. Yes, they are spoiled. My kids can't stand them anymore. My son always disliked the boy, who is a bit of a thug and know-it-all. He used to beat up my son and the two sons of another friend in the group. He has broken things in everyone's house. We dread having him round. The daughter is morbidly obese and goes to Slimming World now (though officially we don't know that). She is also sneaky, hides food, and winds her brother up so he gets in trouble all the time.
We (my kids and I; hubby won't go) went skiing with Frenemy and her family in February. They have a house in Tremblant, Canada, which niggled me because I was the one who "discovered" Tremblant several years ago. But she graciously invited everyone in the group, and I was the only one to take up her offer. She was good fun, and she and I got totally legless on the plane (I threw up). Her kids, though, became a problem. We split the cost of a rental of a mini-van. I had the option to drive, but her husband did it all since he knew his way around better. We were all supposed to take turns sitting in the very back, but she never did and her kids only did it once. It became a big issue for my daughter, in particular, who thought it was unfair (and so it was). Frenemy and her husband bought her son new skis while there. The son wanted to use them there and then. They said no, he had to wait till Christmas. My kids saw him jumping on his old skis in an effort to break them so he could use his new ones. Didn't work. He lost his Spider ski gloves in a store (despite me finding them once and giving them back). Frenemy's kids made no effort to mix with my kids, playing on their PS2s when not skiing. I tried very hard to be on my best behaviour because Frenemy is the sort to remember things and bring them up at the most embarrassing moments. So I more than paid my share for food, drink, gas, meals out. I helped clean the house (because she is manic about having a clean house). I made coffee and breakfast every morning while she lolled in bed reading her book and eating breakfast (her husband brought it up to her every morning). She did not come down once without all her makeup on.
However, I did lose my rag once. At the kids, mine included. We'd agreed I'd take them swimming while Frenemy and her husband went to look at Jacuzzis (don't ask). We told Frenemy's daughter to meet us at the bottom of the slope, and I assumed the others either heard or she would tell them. Along the way, her brother tripped her and she fell. The rest of them skied on. I think she purposely didn't tell them because she was in a huff. Anyway, we're waiting, and the daughter eventually appears. We ask where the others are. She said they skied off without her. I walked up to the pool eventually, carrying my kids' snowboots (I'd hurt my back before we left and I wasn't feeling too good). I found the kids' skis, but no kids. I walked down. I took the gondola up. I took it down. Finally, they appear. I shouted at my daughter, who said the son had told them to look in the shops for his mother. I really wanted to shout at her kids, of course, but couldn't. I said I wasn't taking them swimming. Her son had a fit, and said lots of things about me to my kids when I wasn't there. To the point of making my daughter cry. I tried to put this unpleasant episode behind us, but Frenemy obviously thought I was out of line. She allowed her kids to make fun of me to my face. I didn't want to lose my rag again so I laughed it off and counted down the days till we got back. Still, I would have gone again but she and her husband made it clear they weren't going skiing in February. So I made plans with another friend in the group to go to Italy. Frenemy found out about it at a barbecue at the end of August and promptly invited that friend and her family to the Canada house at Christmas and New Year. In front of me. With no shame whatsoever.
It has been Frenemy's great ambition to become a magistrate (an officer of the court who hears minor cases and must demonstrate good character, social awareness and sound judgment). She put down my husband's name and another friend's as references, though she didn't bother to ask them first. This annoyed my husband greatly. Also, we know too much about her. We know she frequently drink-drives (with her kids in the car). We know she is unashamedly prejudiced about every minority group and is elitist as well. We know she has made comments suggesting our son is homosexual. I happen to know a few magistrates and gave hubby the phone numbers to ask them for advice. He didn't write a glowing reference, quite the opposite. She kept bringing up the subject when we saw her, how she'd heard nothing and she didn't know why. We would secretly smile. Then Friday she announced she was starting her magistrate training and she looked right at me, as if she knew something. Then she gave me two fingers (she knows which two fingers to use). I asked her what that was for, and she said it was for all of us.
Frenemy talks about all of us behind our backs to the others. And we talk about her. It's become a favourite topic of conversation. How do she and her husband get the money for the holidays, the houses? They buy and sell property. Allegedly. And now they're moving, despite her saying for years she'd never move. I am wondering whether my "friendship" with her will continue because I think she would like to push me out of the group. But she can't because I get on really well with the others, to the point that their kids and mine are almost like brothers and sisters. I think that really bugs Frenemy, though she'd never admit it. And why do I maintain this "frenemyship?" She and I fell out many years ago and didn't speak for months. It was very awkward for everyone, and my kids missed out on lots of stuff. A couple of the other friends in the group brokered a peace deal which we agreed to, and we've had our ups and downs since then. But this move might put things in a different perspective. I haven't wanted to upset the group so I swallow the shit Frenemy has tossed my way. And I'm not always the one she treats badly. So we'll see. Frenemy may fade in the distance at some point, though I would love to see how her kids grow up. And how her magistrate training goes.
Monday, 8 October 2007
Monday Moaning II
Well this Monday isn't getting off to a great start. I woke up at 4:30-ish thinking it was 6:30, took Jake outside for a wee, came in and thought about making breakfast and waking up the kids, then looked at the clock, then looked at another clock because I didn't believe the first one. Then I decided to go back to bed. But of course I didn't get back to sleep.
That's Moan No. 1. Here's Moan No.2: I have conjunctivitis. Again. So it's off to the chemist in a few minutes for the drops.
And here's a third moan. My No.1 frenemy (friend who's sometimes an enemy) told us Friday night that she's moving to the wilds of Cheshire. It's a half hour away, and while she thinks it won't change things, it will. For one thing, I'm not sure I want to travel half an hour to spend time with someone who treats me the way she does sometimes. This has obviously been in the works awhile and she only told us because another friend's husband spotted the for sale sign out in front of her house. So we're all a little pissed off at her for being so sneaky. But that's how she is and that's one reason she's a frenemy. Because she's never upfront about anything, you never know exactly where you stand with her.
Onto to Moan No. 4: I spent 12 hours yesterday in Wrexham cooped up in an overheated auditorium watching girls and boys compete in a dance competition. My daughter's group didn't win in any category, and I am so relieved because that would have meant going to Coventry. And I don't fancy going to Coventry to be cooped up in an overheated auditorium. Little did I suspect when I first sent my daughter to dance lessons when she was 2 that ten years later I would be spending my precious weekend time taxiing her to and from these competions, getting up early to do her makeup and hair, arguing with her about her costumes and everything else. I did manage to get away for about an hour when another mother and I sneaked out to find a pub. Over a glass of wine, we had a good laugh about what Plas Coch might mean in Welsh.
Now for Moan No. 5 (I must have been saving these up): I took Jake to the vet on Friday for his first immunisation. The vet said I must be mad to have taken on a non-pedigree border collie puppy from a Welsh farm. Why? He said because they are bred to be working dogs and need a lot of exercise and stimulation. Otherwise they get bored and tear up the house. He said by Christmas I'll be coming in complaining that he's eaten the Christmas tree and decorations. That got my dander up because first of all I know border collies need a lot of exercise and stimulation. We discussed that as a family (well, the kids and I did) and decided that we would between the three of us take him out three times a day. I think Jake will be like a child: the more time I put into him, the more rewarding he will be. And he won't be allowed in the room with the Christmas tree. I once had a Golden Retriever who got hungry in the night and ate all the Christmas decorations. So I know about puppies and Christmas. And if anyone wants to give me some advice on training him, please feel free to do so. Oh, and I can't post photos of Jake because my husband's camera has packed in, and my daughter needs to figure out how to upload photos from her phone.
(Big SIGH) I feel a lot better, and I'm off to Pilates to feel even better.
Thursday, 4 October 2007
Lessons on Life
I forgot to post the answers to these fascinating questions. Here they are.
1.What is the financial help called that is available to young people from low income families who leave school early?
A. After School Allowance
B. Education Maintenance Allowance
C. Housing Benefit
D. School Leaver's Payment
Now, you might think it would be After School Allowance or School Leaver's Payment because they've left school. Sounds right, doesn't it? Wrong, it's B., Education Maintenance Allowance.
2. What proportion of young adults in the UK have used illegal drugs at one time or another?
A. One quarter
B One third
C. One half
D. Two thirds
This is purely subjective. How many young adults will admit to using illegal drugs is how it should be phrased. The answer is C., one-half. But only after smoking a spliff and snorting some cocaine.
3. Which of the following is not an agreement produced by the UN?
A. The Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination against Women
B. The Convention on the Protection of the Ozone Layer
C. The UN Convention on the Rights of the Child
D. The Universal Declaration of Human Rights
Wait a minute. Isn't this supposed to be a questionnaire on life in the UK? WTF does the UN have to do with it? Anyway, the answer is B., the Convention on the Protection of the Ozone Layer.
4. What percentage of Christians in the UK are Roman Catholic?
A. 10%
B. 20%
C. 30%
D. 40%
Judging from the enrollment at the local Catholic schools, I assumed a big number. It's not. The answer is A., 10 percent (except when trying to get their children into a Catholic school).
5. What percentage of the UK population say they attend religious services?
A. Around 10%
B. Around 20%
C. Around 30%
D. Around 40%
The answer is A., Around 10 percent, which is why the Mormon Church has targeted the UK as a country to send missionaries to. Seriously.
1.What is the financial help called that is available to young people from low income families who leave school early?
A. After School Allowance
B. Education Maintenance Allowance
C. Housing Benefit
D. School Leaver's Payment
Now, you might think it would be After School Allowance or School Leaver's Payment because they've left school. Sounds right, doesn't it? Wrong, it's B., Education Maintenance Allowance.
2. What proportion of young adults in the UK have used illegal drugs at one time or another?
A. One quarter
B One third
C. One half
D. Two thirds
This is purely subjective. How many young adults will admit to using illegal drugs is how it should be phrased. The answer is C., one-half. But only after smoking a spliff and snorting some cocaine.
3. Which of the following is not an agreement produced by the UN?
A. The Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination against Women
B. The Convention on the Protection of the Ozone Layer
C. The UN Convention on the Rights of the Child
D. The Universal Declaration of Human Rights
Wait a minute. Isn't this supposed to be a questionnaire on life in the UK? WTF does the UN have to do with it? Anyway, the answer is B., the Convention on the Protection of the Ozone Layer.
4. What percentage of Christians in the UK are Roman Catholic?
A. 10%
B. 20%
C. 30%
D. 40%
Judging from the enrollment at the local Catholic schools, I assumed a big number. It's not. The answer is A., 10 percent (except when trying to get their children into a Catholic school).
5. What percentage of the UK population say they attend religious services?
A. Around 10%
B. Around 20%
C. Around 30%
D. Around 40%
The answer is A., Around 10 percent, which is why the Mormon Church has targeted the UK as a country to send missionaries to. Seriously.
Wednesday, 3 October 2007
Morning Coffee, Afternoon Tea
When I first moved to the UK 15 years ago, I experienced a culture shock I hadn't planned on. I had to phone my husband at work and ask how to get the vacuum cleaner to work. There were a million other little everyday details that flummoxed me at first. How do I get the shower to work? What's the emergency services number? Is that the doorbell or the telephone? I also had to cope with not working and not knowing a soul other than my husband (though we weren't married yet), my new neighbours, and my (rather hateful at the time) future in-laws.
I read a lot of books. I listened to Radio Four. I wrote a lot of letters to my pals back in the US (who would never write back). I would gaze out the window at all the people going past and fantasize about knowing them and inviting them in for coffee and a chat. We didn't have a computer. The internet was in its infancy then. My two cats had to go into quarantine for six months. I would visit them three times a week, and that is how I learned to drive in this country.
I met an American woman who lived locally, and while she made it clear she wasn't interested in friendship with me, she did recommend I try to volunteer at my local Citizens Advice Bureau. That was a wonderful recommendation. I went for an interview with the then-manager. I did the training, and my time at the CAB helped me adjust to life in the UK greatly. And I like to think I helped a person or two while I was there. Most of the other volunteers were retirees who took me under their wing. One or two in particular were extremely helpful. I left the CAB a few years ago when I got volunteer fatigue and became dissatisfied with the direction it was going. But the friends I made then are still my friends now.
I got involved with an American ex-pats group in the early days, but gradually stopped going. The people who belonged to it were mostly wives of men sent here by their companies for three to five years. They were only here for a short time and then going back to their friends and family. I was here for the long run and had to make a life here. They would sit around and drink coffee and complain about life in the UK. I joined in but found over time that it was holding me back from accepting my life here and getting on with it. I think all ex-pats go through stages -- the first stage is Everything Is So Wonderful And Different, followed by Everything Is So Crap. If they stay long enough, they then enter the Everything Is Different But So What phase. I'm there now.
When I got pregnant, my social horizons expanded. I became involved (I do a lot of involvement) with my local National Childbirth Trust (a charity that promotes breastfeeding). Again, some of the friends I made then are still my friends now. It was having children that made me finally accept that England is my home. During my pregnancy, I fretted about having children over here, as if it were some third world country. I worried that my children would grow up liking different food and reading different books (haha, little did I know that I would produce children who don't like to read). But the NHS, despite its bad press, turned out to be a positive experience. The midwives were lovely, the doctors caring, the health visitor helpful. I needed their support as a new mother in a foreign country with hostile in-laws.
The weather is what got me down the most. I couldn't accept that sometimes July is worse than February, that August is usually rainy and dreary, except when it's not. I would come down with winter colds during summer. My sinuses still don't like it here (but they're not too keen on Florida either). Each morning I would pull back the curtains and exclaim "It's another crappy day." My husband took it personally. He would try to reassure me: "(Fill in the month)can be a lovely time of year in this country." I say it myself now. Bill Bryson's book "Notes From a Small Island" helped enormously too. In fact Bill Bryson is another reason I came to accept my life here. He loves this country, quirks and all. He's my hero, by the way.
The language was another hurdle. Simple words like shag have a totally different meaning here. I'd hear my husband use some words and assume I knew the meaning, then use them myself, to hilarious effect. Example: We had a houseguest, a rather distinguished older gentleman my husband had worked with. I thought I'd impress him with my knowledge of UK English and proceeded to talk at length about a certain person I described as a wanker. My guest's face registered shock. I didn't understand why. Didn't wanker mean something innocuous like jerk? No, my husband explained later, it's a bit stronger than that. I wasn't averse to using strong language during my newspaper career. However, I decided after the wanker incident that, for propriety's sake, I should clean up my mouth. Thus fanny has been banned from my vocabulary as have numerous other words (except in times of extreme stress and never in front of the children). Although I do say bloody from time to time. And I stopped giving people the finger when I drive because people do two fingers over here and I get all confused and forget which two fingers and the moment is past by the time I remember.
My husband and I had had a whirlwind relationship. We met May 31, 1991. By April 1992 I had moved over here lock, stock, and broken glassware. We'd only seen each other a total of five times in those months, and most of that was spent travelling to various places. We hadn't really known each other in our native habitats, so to speak. So I had a new relationship, new country, new lifestyle (I haven't had a paying job since moving to the UK). It took me years to adjust, but I did. Thank goodness I found help along the way because I couldn't have done it on my own.
Crystal Jigsaw has bestowed the Rockin Blogger on me. I'm having a really good week here. Thank you, Crystal, and I shall spread the wealth.
I read a lot of books. I listened to Radio Four. I wrote a lot of letters to my pals back in the US (who would never write back). I would gaze out the window at all the people going past and fantasize about knowing them and inviting them in for coffee and a chat. We didn't have a computer. The internet was in its infancy then. My two cats had to go into quarantine for six months. I would visit them three times a week, and that is how I learned to drive in this country.
I met an American woman who lived locally, and while she made it clear she wasn't interested in friendship with me, she did recommend I try to volunteer at my local Citizens Advice Bureau. That was a wonderful recommendation. I went for an interview with the then-manager. I did the training, and my time at the CAB helped me adjust to life in the UK greatly. And I like to think I helped a person or two while I was there. Most of the other volunteers were retirees who took me under their wing. One or two in particular were extremely helpful. I left the CAB a few years ago when I got volunteer fatigue and became dissatisfied with the direction it was going. But the friends I made then are still my friends now.
I got involved with an American ex-pats group in the early days, but gradually stopped going. The people who belonged to it were mostly wives of men sent here by their companies for three to five years. They were only here for a short time and then going back to their friends and family. I was here for the long run and had to make a life here. They would sit around and drink coffee and complain about life in the UK. I joined in but found over time that it was holding me back from accepting my life here and getting on with it. I think all ex-pats go through stages -- the first stage is Everything Is So Wonderful And Different, followed by Everything Is So Crap. If they stay long enough, they then enter the Everything Is Different But So What phase. I'm there now.
When I got pregnant, my social horizons expanded. I became involved (I do a lot of involvement) with my local National Childbirth Trust (a charity that promotes breastfeeding). Again, some of the friends I made then are still my friends now. It was having children that made me finally accept that England is my home. During my pregnancy, I fretted about having children over here, as if it were some third world country. I worried that my children would grow up liking different food and reading different books (haha, little did I know that I would produce children who don't like to read). But the NHS, despite its bad press, turned out to be a positive experience. The midwives were lovely, the doctors caring, the health visitor helpful. I needed their support as a new mother in a foreign country with hostile in-laws.
The weather is what got me down the most. I couldn't accept that sometimes July is worse than February, that August is usually rainy and dreary, except when it's not. I would come down with winter colds during summer. My sinuses still don't like it here (but they're not too keen on Florida either). Each morning I would pull back the curtains and exclaim "It's another crappy day." My husband took it personally. He would try to reassure me: "(Fill in the month)can be a lovely time of year in this country." I say it myself now. Bill Bryson's book "Notes From a Small Island" helped enormously too. In fact Bill Bryson is another reason I came to accept my life here. He loves this country, quirks and all. He's my hero, by the way.
The language was another hurdle. Simple words like shag have a totally different meaning here. I'd hear my husband use some words and assume I knew the meaning, then use them myself, to hilarious effect. Example: We had a houseguest, a rather distinguished older gentleman my husband had worked with. I thought I'd impress him with my knowledge of UK English and proceeded to talk at length about a certain person I described as a wanker. My guest's face registered shock. I didn't understand why. Didn't wanker mean something innocuous like jerk? No, my husband explained later, it's a bit stronger than that. I wasn't averse to using strong language during my newspaper career. However, I decided after the wanker incident that, for propriety's sake, I should clean up my mouth. Thus fanny has been banned from my vocabulary as have numerous other words (except in times of extreme stress and never in front of the children). Although I do say bloody from time to time. And I stopped giving people the finger when I drive because people do two fingers over here and I get all confused and forget which two fingers and the moment is past by the time I remember.
My husband and I had had a whirlwind relationship. We met May 31, 1991. By April 1992 I had moved over here lock, stock, and broken glassware. We'd only seen each other a total of five times in those months, and most of that was spent travelling to various places. We hadn't really known each other in our native habitats, so to speak. So I had a new relationship, new country, new lifestyle (I haven't had a paying job since moving to the UK). It took me years to adjust, but I did. Thank goodness I found help along the way because I couldn't have done it on my own.
Crystal Jigsaw has bestowed the Rockin Blogger on me. I'm having a really good week here. Thank you, Crystal, and I shall spread the wealth.
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