January 12 and 13 are two days that hold a weird kind of significance for me for the same, and yet very different, reasons.
January 12 is my Dad's birthday and January 13 is my Mom's. Weird coincidence, right? You'd almost think they were somehow cosmically destined to cross paths or something like that. And, obviously, they did or else I wouldn't be writing this.
January 12 will forever serve as a reminder of weakness.
My dad always had a drinking problem. As a little kid, I had no idea. All I knew was that he was just a very different person on the weekends. Monday through Friday, he'd go to work, come home, we'd have dinner, and he'd watch TV or read the paper. There wasn't a whole lot of interaction going on that I can recall. He was always kind of distant, and I have always been very much in my own head.
On the weekends, he'd get up early and mow the lawn. This isn't totally unusual for a suburban family, I'm sure. It's just that it took hours on end, and he'd come inside and just be useless. It wasn't until much later that I learned that he was really just sitting in the garage and drinking. It was then that he became Mr. Hyde. Sometimes, if we were lucky, he'd just be mean and verbally abusive. He's a pretty tall man, and of course, as a kid, he was terrifying. Other times, if you even just happened to be looking at him at the wrong moment, the belt would come out. No one was safe. Not me, not my brother, not my mom. We just lived with it.
Once he was forced into retirement in 1995 (he's 12 years older than my mom. He still wasn't retirement age by any stretch, but he was an alcoholic with no ambition or self confidence, so the pharmacy he worked at washed its hands of him), we were no longer granted a Monday to Friday reprieve. Hell came to roost every day.
Eventually, my mom couldn't take it any more. In September, a week before my 8th birthday, she packed me, my brother, and all the belongings she felt safe retrieving into the family car and we left. My dad probably would have put up more of a fight, but he was passed out drunk.
I've only heard from him three times since then. A phone call on our first Christmas apart. A generic card with no handwritten message on my high school graduation. A generic card with no handwritten message on my college graduation. That's it. Apparently, it falls on me if I want to have a relationship with him. But how can I be cordial to a man who chose booze over his family? It's not in me.
January 13 will forever serve as a reminder of strength.
My mom packed us into a car and drove us to Northern Virginia where we still reside. She's had some help from her parents, but for the most part, she's done this all on her own. There are times where I don't know how she found the reserves to get us through the tough times, but she has. We've never had a whole lot, but I've always had a roof over my head, 3 meals a day, clean clothes to wear, and both me and my brother got to go to college. All on her own without so much as a "Why me?" I never had to look far to find my hero.
There are times when I think the hand I've been dealt is unfair. There are many instances in my life where I know I could have benefited from having a father figure to mold me into a better person. There are times when I lash out unfairly at others just because of my frustration. And January 12 and 13 are the two days that come every year that really make me sit back and take an inventory, and think about how I ended up where I am.
I've always been a bit amused when my friends complain about their parents. Somehow, I've ended up with a group of people who have a two parent household (or in one case, a situation where the divorced couple remains very friendly and both parents are very much a part of his life). And, sometimes, even when I know I'm just supposed to listen and empathize, I find myself saying, "At least you have two parents who fucking care." Maybe that's unfair. Maybe my dad is sitting in a dark room in his farmhouse in Illinois and regretting the life he chose. I don't know. I assume if he'd ever gotten clean that he would have reached out. Maybe he's ashamed. Or bitter. Or angry. I guess I'll never know.
Happy birthday, mom and dad
January 12 is my Dad's birthday and January 13 is my Mom's. Weird coincidence, right? You'd almost think they were somehow cosmically destined to cross paths or something like that. And, obviously, they did or else I wouldn't be writing this.
January 12 will forever serve as a reminder of weakness.
My dad always had a drinking problem. As a little kid, I had no idea. All I knew was that he was just a very different person on the weekends. Monday through Friday, he'd go to work, come home, we'd have dinner, and he'd watch TV or read the paper. There wasn't a whole lot of interaction going on that I can recall. He was always kind of distant, and I have always been very much in my own head.
On the weekends, he'd get up early and mow the lawn. This isn't totally unusual for a suburban family, I'm sure. It's just that it took hours on end, and he'd come inside and just be useless. It wasn't until much later that I learned that he was really just sitting in the garage and drinking. It was then that he became Mr. Hyde. Sometimes, if we were lucky, he'd just be mean and verbally abusive. He's a pretty tall man, and of course, as a kid, he was terrifying. Other times, if you even just happened to be looking at him at the wrong moment, the belt would come out. No one was safe. Not me, not my brother, not my mom. We just lived with it.
Once he was forced into retirement in 1995 (he's 12 years older than my mom. He still wasn't retirement age by any stretch, but he was an alcoholic with no ambition or self confidence, so the pharmacy he worked at washed its hands of him), we were no longer granted a Monday to Friday reprieve. Hell came to roost every day.
Eventually, my mom couldn't take it any more. In September, a week before my 8th birthday, she packed me, my brother, and all the belongings she felt safe retrieving into the family car and we left. My dad probably would have put up more of a fight, but he was passed out drunk.
I've only heard from him three times since then. A phone call on our first Christmas apart. A generic card with no handwritten message on my high school graduation. A generic card with no handwritten message on my college graduation. That's it. Apparently, it falls on me if I want to have a relationship with him. But how can I be cordial to a man who chose booze over his family? It's not in me.
January 13 will forever serve as a reminder of strength.
My mom packed us into a car and drove us to Northern Virginia where we still reside. She's had some help from her parents, but for the most part, she's done this all on her own. There are times where I don't know how she found the reserves to get us through the tough times, but she has. We've never had a whole lot, but I've always had a roof over my head, 3 meals a day, clean clothes to wear, and both me and my brother got to go to college. All on her own without so much as a "Why me?" I never had to look far to find my hero.
There are times when I think the hand I've been dealt is unfair. There are many instances in my life where I know I could have benefited from having a father figure to mold me into a better person. There are times when I lash out unfairly at others just because of my frustration. And January 12 and 13 are the two days that come every year that really make me sit back and take an inventory, and think about how I ended up where I am.
I've always been a bit amused when my friends complain about their parents. Somehow, I've ended up with a group of people who have a two parent household (or in one case, a situation where the divorced couple remains very friendly and both parents are very much a part of his life). And, sometimes, even when I know I'm just supposed to listen and empathize, I find myself saying, "At least you have two parents who fucking care." Maybe that's unfair. Maybe my dad is sitting in a dark room in his farmhouse in Illinois and regretting the life he chose. I don't know. I assume if he'd ever gotten clean that he would have reached out. Maybe he's ashamed. Or bitter. Or angry. I guess I'll never know.
Happy birthday, mom and dad
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I don't think it's just the heat, it's also the length of our summers. We can expect the weather to cool down in about 3 months or even more, so I probably shouldn't even be complaining - yet.