Wrong Sort of Friend for Your Child

The Hollywood Bunny visited the other weekend for Two’s birthday and we went for a long walk along the beach. Husband took charge of the children which was fortunate. Neither she or I particularly felt like leaping over giant mounds of fetid sea kelp which had washed up on the shore creating little dank pools and dangerous swirling eddies, but the Dadster was in his element, getting wet ,sandy, whipped by seaweed and saving small personages from drowning as they flung themselves, foolhardy, into the waves with hysterical laughter. He loved it.

Meanwhile, on the shore, HB and I watched the three of them play and she commented how much the children adored him, how good he was with them. She didn’t remember her dad playing with her like that, she said wistfully; he hadn’t been that kind of father.
I, on the other hand, could very clearly remember my dad playing with me like that, but only up to a defined point. Then he lost interest.

When I look back on the fall from grace, the stark end of the golden years of childhood, I can clearly see now, with my adult’s hindsight, that none of it was to do with me.
Oh, but how it hurt to lose my place as the jewel in the crown of my parents’ marriage.

My mother left – unusual for those days. She went, ostensibly for three months, but never did come back, and I stayed with my father who brought his new lover into the house before the bed sheets had cooled, and there I was; ten years old, asking awkward questions, acting out, being needy and generally getting in the way of everybody’s new life. Not so popular.

After the shock wears off, when you finally understand that you are not A Little Princess anymore and you’re going to be sleeping in the metaphorical attic from now on, you start to develop some defense mechanisms to protect yourself from further harm and disappointment. Often this is in the form of a hard emotional carapace and a chillingly precocious self-sufficiency. I think this is what is commonly called growing up too quickly or being the wrong sort of friend for your child

What is interesting to me now, as an adult, a former wrong sort of friend for your child is what those of us who have been through similar experiences (and with the high divorce rates in the 70’s and 80’s I’m most definitely not alone) at have grown into.

Is it any coincidence that Gen X has waited longer than any previous one to marry and have children?

We’re terrified of making the same mistakes our parents made. We’re still searching for a perfect, happy family, one we can be in charge of this time, and we are absolutely determined not to pass any of the old damage on to our children, ergo the multi billion dollar industry of services/goods/parenting manuals that we are willing to buy into to soothe our anxieties and cover our shortcomings.

On a side note, I feel compelled to tell you all that occasionally I indulge in a fantasy where I sneak into Babies R Us at night and remove all the goods, leaving only a giant graffiti of This Be The Verse by Philip Larkin on the wall like some Madonna of the Banksy.
However, this is not helpful to my general argument, but it does illustrate how I am/was the wrong sort of friend for your child, and probably for you, too.

It seems to me, though, that the best opportunity for healing one’s inner wrong sort of friend for your child is by having a family of one’s own and learning all the angles while keeping your compassion for yourself and everyone else involved alive. There is no way that it does not crack open the carapace and all the old stuff comes out in ways that you could not have foreseen. It’s how you deal with it this time around that really makes the difference. Staying open, allowing ghosts out, trust and love in, letting the hard shell slowly melt. This is how we finally grow up, slowly and surely, with our families.

Hollywood Bunny is hoping to meet someone nice and have children. She has been married before and that did not work out (I’m being very diplomatic to her ex husband as she would not speak ill of anyone because she is not that type of person but because this is my blog I am going to send you a psychic message now about who behaved unspeakably and deserves a big smelly poo in a box. Ready? Did you get that? Good okay).
She wondered who was out there and whether there was anyone who is still available and not damaged.
I pointed out that if no damage was the criteria then those two giggling nonsense-wagons would not be there on the beach draping Husband with kelp because who would have had me? Had him?
And yet here we were, muddling through, working it out, loving each other and growing together despite the obstacles the past placed in our way.

I’m pretty sure that as soon as she is ready to open her heart again, the offers of love will come rushing in, and we will be walking along a different beach on a different day, watching a lovely man play with their children in the kelp.
What will not change is that her dad will still not have played with her like that, but I don’t think she’ll feel quite so wistful.

We all have our baggage. Love is when you choose someone and you help each other unpack.

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