LIfe Without Parents

Although I don't consider myself old, I've noticed lately more people of my generation losing their parents; or if not physically losing them... losing them to dementia or other similar cruel afflictions that rob us of the people we know and love.

I see their heartache, their grief, their loss for words, and their desperate desire to have one more day with their precious one.  To say goodbye, to tell them they love them, to reminisce about times, or merely just to be with them.

I don't know that.  And I never will.

I didn't have a dad, and I barely had a mum.

I had a father, and I've met my father once.  Well, once that really counts. 

And it was for a week, so I guess one could argue I've met him seven times.  Every time I woke up.

My mother left him when I was 18 months old, then moved away when I was around 4.  From Christchurch to Napier.  Not far, in this day and age, but back in 1976, it may as well have been to the moon.

Now that I have grandchildren, I realise she didn't just leave my father.  She also left my Grandad and my Nana.  I was the same age as Little K and Little N are now... they must have been absolutely heartbroken.  Not because I'm anything spectacular, but because I was THEIR Little K.

I saw my Dad once or twice, I believe, when I was young, before he moved to Aussie.  I know I saw him at least once, because he took me to see Star Wars and then took me to get my ears pierced.  I realise now that the piercing was probably a big "FUCK YOU!" to my mother, and for that I applaud him.  I kinda wish he'd taken me for a tattoo at the same time - like the one he has of my name on his arm.

He didn't get to see my first day at kindy, or my first day at school.  He didn't get to see me ride my bike without training wheels, or do my first back flip on the monkey bars.  He didn't get to see me go to my first school ball, or walk me down the aisle. 

And I never got to use the word "Dad". 

I was 24 when I met him for "real".  Pregnant with Madison, about to become a parent myself.  All illusions of my mother being the righteous and ill-treated victim long gone.  I'd been treated no different, in the end, to my father. 

Something to show off to friends, something to pass the time while bored, and something to discard at the end of the day when it all became too boring.

I have four brother and sisters to my father.  Four wonderful, happy, cherished and gorgeous brothers and sisters.  That I never fought with.  That I never stole clothes from.  That I never said "piss off out of my ROOM or I'm going to TELL ON YOU!" with.

I also have another brother and sister - from my mother - that I missed just as much.  I didn't know about my brother until I was 24, but I knew about my sister from the day my mother started showing.  I was six when she was born and adopted out...   I didn't even get to show her my Wombles doll that I'd been saving for her.

I spent a week in the thriving metropolis of Merinda, Queensland watching my father - they called him "dad" - be a loving, caring, funny, and sometimes awkward - parent to these four wonderful siblings.  And I loathed my mother for it.

Some might say that's unfair. 

I don't know what she went through.  I don't really know what he was like.  I don't know if he really truly did shotgun a joint into my mouth in front of his friends when I was two years old when he had me for a few hours one Sunday afternoon.

What I do know is that I never had a dad.  Although I did have plenty of men come and go.

The first man that left his wife and four children for my mother moved in without any notice.  And suddenly what I also knew was that, despite being petrified of the dark, he decided that I was old enough at 8 to sleep with my bedroom door closed .  I also knew that after he had a shower he like to put talcum powder on his penis because it made it feel soft and smooth.  I know this because he showed me, but he obviously never showed my mother, because she didn't believe me when I told her.

But they weren't all bad.   The second man that left his wife and children for my mother was a real decent bastard.  He'd already raised kids, so he knew what I needed.  Love and stability.

I spent many years of my childhood with my best friend Kylie.  She had a mum AND dad.  And a brother and sister.  And I stayed at her place for sleepovers as often as her mum would let me. 

And Kylie always had a packed lunch that was more than a marmite sandwich and an apple.  I know some kids have less than that even now - but to me, her family were RICH.  She even had corned beef mashed with tomato sauce sandwiches, on fresh white bread.  Whenever I had a bought lunch (which was always a mince pie) she would eat the filling, I'd eat the pastry, then I'd eat her sandwiches. 

She also had new clothes.  I never did, because there was never enough money.  There was always enough to buy cigarettes and beer, but I always had second-hand clothes.  

And I'm not knocking this as I bought second-hand clothes for my kids all the time - those kindy paints are a fucker to get out of new clothes - but it wasn't exclusive.  And it wasn't because I'd spent my money elsewhere.

They were RICH.  And I thought it was because they had a dad.

When I was about 12 my Grandad sent me some money for my birthday.  And a new clothes shop had opened at the Tamatea Shopping Centre.  I was able to buy a new pair of jeans - dark denim with white piping down the sides.  I wore those jeans until they fell off me.

I also bought a golden velvet track suit, but we'll ignore that minor detail for now.

The second man that left his wife and children for my mother ended up being cast aside for being an alcoholic.  Because he met his mates at the pub every night for a pint before going home.

It was pretty hard to reconcile this as a 15 year old.  I spent years as a seven, eight, nine and ten year old coming home from school to an empty house, and having to call my mother at the Onekawa Pub asking what time she was going to be home.

Fortunately for me, two other families played a large part in raising me, and I had two surrogate dads.

Firstly Doug and Kirsty's parents, who we met when my mother was pregnant with my sister.   They were the weekend parents when my mother was at the pub, or on a diving trip for a few days, or just disappearing out of town for reasons only known to herself.

Unfortunately they moved over to England, but we've kept in touch, and it was Kirsty's wedding I attended when doing the Big UK Trip of 2017 and completely missed the Tower of England.  Doug and his wife Tracy visited us over here about three months ago.  They're my baby brother and sister.

The second family was Susan and Roy, who started out as my babysitters and ended up my big brother and sister.  When they were too old for babysitting, their parents Rosemary and Derrick took over the duties of raising another person's child.  

They too were the weekend and dive trip parents, although this soon extended to week nights, and sometimes even school holidays.

Uncle Derrick walked me down the aisle at my first wedding.  It's a shame that one didn't count, right?! 

The third man that left his wife and children for my mother was the father of a student at my school.  A year younger, but that's not many degrees of separation.  And that wasn't much comfort to know that one my of peers then didn't have a dad either.

It didn't last, but he didn't end up getting his dad back.

Eventually, when I turned 17, my mother cast me aside like all the men in her life.  She moved away to marry a man she'd known for about 8 weeks, and I wasn't invited with her.

That was when I finally realised that not only did I not have a dad, I didn't have a mother either.

I had been told, from a young age, that I was "a mistake - but not an unwanted one."   Now it was apparent that the mistake had finally fun its course.

I tried.  When Madison was born, I tried.  When Briar was born, I tried.  When Tyra was born, I'd given up trying.

My Nana always said to me "you've only got one mother, you should give her one more chance!"

Then she always clarified it with "but I can totally understand why you don't."

My mother has not met Tyra.  My mother has not met any of my grandchildren.

As far as I'm concerned, I no longer have a mother. 

I will not feel their heartache, their grief, their loss for words, and their desperate desire to have one more day with their precious one.  I will not want to say goodbye, to tell her I love her, to reminisce about times, or merely just to be with her.

Why am I writing this?  I'm sitting here drinking a couple of quiet gins looking for cars to buy for two of my three daughters, and eventually - possibly as a hand-me-down - for my step-son.  My third daughter already has a mean set of wheels that I bought her when I got my wee beast... so she's set for now.

Do I do too much for them given their age and stage in life?  Maybe.

Do I yearn to make up for the relationship that I never had with my own mother, and try and give them the things that I never had growing up?  Probably.

Do I feel guilty about my marriage breakup and leaving them with their Dad as "day to day" carer, while I pursued an aviation career, and in essence acted no better than my mother?  Most definitely.

SHOULD I?  Most definitely not. 

And right now I'm saying a big "FUCK YOU" to anyone that judged me for doing so.  Anyone who has never walked a day in my shoes.  Anyone who has never felt the overwhelming suffocation of a marriage in which they entered as a carefree daredevil, risk taker, adrenalin junkie;  and then existed not allowed to be anyone but "Mum"..... just the bottle washer, the nappy folder and the meal maker. Yet didn't want to acknowledge that for fear of turning out like their mother.

Do I want my girls to know the heartache and grief of losing me when I eventually depart this world to meet my maker, and hopefully Ryan Gosling?  Most definitely so.