Whether we want to admit it or not, we are the product of
our parents (and therefore, their gene pools), as well as the nurturing in our
raising (or lack thereof). We can deny it and fight this reality all we want,
but deep down, apples don’t fall far from trees. And, even when the apple gets
picked up and moved elsewhere, there’s still an unspoken influence that comes
with it.
That doesn’t mean we’re doomed to be just like our parents.
Quite the contrary. Let us not forget that our parents are imperfect like all
other beings who walk the Earth, us included. Perfection is impossible (thank goodness).
Our parents, no matter how wonderful and/or flawed, have gifts and qualities
that we should embrace and be proud of. If we happen to inherit traits from
them that we aren’t so thrilled about, we can learn to navigate them, censor
them, or channel them to be positive or useful. Those are choices we make, that
don’t happen overnight. It isn’t easy, it isn’t a one-time thing; It’s a
lifelong choice of commitment, should we recognize - and accept - the
challenge.
I spent so much of my childhood trying to be a peaceful
participant. Often that was within the walls of my own childhood home (where
just my Mom and I lived for 24 years). It doesn’t seem like a complicated
dynamic to participate in, but my Mom was one of the most complicated people
I’ve ever known (in mostly good ways) which meant it sometimes felt like I was
living with more than one person. I was her child, but also her ‘spouse’,
roommate, friend, confidante, etc. I grew up long before I should have had to,
but never knew this was strange compared to taken for granted norms.
I also tried to be the peaceful participant in my parents’
divorce. Like most children in broken families, I felt it was my fault that
their partnership had faltered. The weight and burden that brings is suffocating, and as far back as I can remember, I
tried to be the ‘perfect child’ in order to earn their love and forgiveness. Some
children rebel out of anger and frustration. I, on the other hand, conformed
out of guilt and fear. I wanted desperately for both of them to accept me,
cherish me and be proud of me. There even came a time where I would have taken
all of the above from just one of
them, if only one would express that.
For too long a stretch I doubted that either of them felt any of these things,
and yet I persevered. Straight A’s, no trouble, big smile. I love and forgive
them both, but now know – looking back - how incredibly wrong and
heartbreakingly sad that was. At this stage of my life, I look back on it all
as if it is playing out on a television screen, and I am but a bystander. That
little person is someone I want to reach out to hug and reassure, but it’s as
if ‘she’ isn’t me.
A friend recently posted this YouTube video, and it
resonated to my core. It’s heart-wrenching and raw, but so relatable, for those
who have experienced divorce as a child.
I also tried to be a peaceful participant within the walls
of my Dad’s long-time second family. I was the resented step-child, and my Dad
was seemingly unaware of how I was treated. In turn, I put up with a lot of
emotional abuse. I left one home where I dodged bullets, and entered another
where I tiptoed around landmines. Because of this, I still get weepy when my
female friends treat their stepchildren like their own. I heal when my best
friend helps her step-son apply for his OSAP, or when I get a text that she’s
emotional because she’s moving him to his college home. He’s too grown up.
Where did the years go? Where’s the little boy she’s proudly helped to raise?
Another close friend is going through an awful heartbreak,
and I genuinely believe a huge part of her sorrow, confusion and despair is
that her ex’s son is no longer a staple in her life. Who says a child must grow
inside your own body to deserve love, affection and a safe place? Not me. Not
ever.
You can imagine how it affected me - that my own two parents
didn’t make me feel these things - and to top that, my Dad’s partner didn’t
fill in any gaps, either. I grew in an environment of doubt, insecurity,
desperation and fear. I don’t say that lightly, as I know it’s a heavy thing to
hear. I’m also not asking for pity, because it’s no longer hurting me. I don’t
resent it, either (and don’t think I ever even did) but I do embrace how that environment has affected me as a grown woman. I
can’t change it, so why harbour hatred towards it? I do own it, and thus
understand who I am now because of it. And you know something? I could be
worse. Things could always be worse. And quite honestly, I’m proud of how I
turned out.
I have a lot of others to thank for this. Many I’ve
mentioned or written about in the past, so I won’t harp on that now. But when
friends, my husband, or my sweet Gramma ask how I turned out the way I did I
rhyme off all the reasons I assume; part of it is beating odds, some of it is proving my disbelievers wrong, a
huge portion of it is the love and support I got from other families and mentors
in my life.
But the biggest ticket of all? Choices. I chose to not be hateful. I let it soften me, instead of
hardening me. I let it make me sensitive, instead of cold. I put my heart out
in the open, strapped onto my sleeve, instead of locking it up and away. It
made me raw and open instead of closed and sealed. I chose to be this way, and
yes I’m imperfect, but I know what could have happened alternatively. I’ve
taught it. I’ve met it. And put simply, I’m glad I escaped it.
I may have made these choices long ago - long before I even
knew what I was doing - but it’s never
too late. I so often hear people making excuses for others; “you know what
her Mom is like”, “he didn’t have grandparents”, “they didn’t have money”, “her
Dad was an alcoholic”, “his Mom was abusive”, etc., etc.
I could make my own list of reasons I should be different,
but instead I guess I’ve climbed those hurdles like stairs to higher ground, as
opposed to stairs into a darker, deeper place. I refuse to belittle others, act
selfishly, or abuse people (or substances) because my life was ‘so unfair’. Or
because that’s all I knew. Or because that’s easier. I am a product of my gene
pools, my raising, and my choices. I
clung to the good, and when it wasn’t there, I made the good myself.
As an adult, I can now see pretty clearly the traits I’ve
inherited from both of my parents. The good, and what you would call ‘the bad’.
I can also see how my raising has affected and shaped me (for the good, and the
bad, as well). I can also pinpoint where I’ve made choices to pick up that apple
and move it (yes, for the good and
bad). In the end, I’m proud (most of the time) of who I am, where I am, and
what I’ve become.
To start, there’s the ‘nature’ part of the debate. The part
of me that’s in my genes; my wiring - my chemistry.
I am my mother’s
daughter;
-
I tell overly long and drawn out stories, where
I should be more succinct.
-
I sometimes lose my cool when under pressure
(the difference being that mine comes out as anxiety or emotion as opposed to
anger and blame)
-
I like being different from the status quo,
challenging expected and accepted norms, and befriending ‘odd’ and ‘unique’
individuals, because they spice up my life (and I am one, too).
-
I am insanely loyal as a friend, and tend to
give all of myself to those I love. The only thing I ask for in return is
respect and appreciation, no tabs taken. When I’m taken for granted or mistreated,
it (sorry for my lack of better language) eventually pisses me off. In my ripe
old age, I lose my patience with this more quickly. Don’t be surprised if you
don’t see me or hear from me as much. My Mom stormed off with zest and vigour, leaving
fires and dust in her path. I tend to bow out quietly through a back door. My
new way of explaining this phenomenon? Don’t burn ‘our bridge’ and then expect
me to swim across to you. Signal wiping hands clean motion, here.
-
I am silly and outgoing when in the company of
children, and/or people I feel I can be my true self with.
-
I love to write.
-
I love to dance.
-
I love live music.
-
I love to garden.
-
I love being outdoors (and everything ‘nature’)
-
I love being near water.
-
I love to cook, experiment with new recipes, and
to dine out in new places.
-
I love musicals and plays.
-
I love hotel stays.
-
I relish my ‘me’ time, and appreciate my time
spent alone.
-
I’m passive aggressive when I’m offended or
don’t know how to approach a difficult situation (not because I want to be, but
because I don’t know how to cope with confrontation). Reminder: I am an only
child, to a single parent, who never played competitive sports, and grew up in
a very, very small town.
If you knew her, and know me, you may be able to add to this
list. To the good, and the bad, which I embrace. She was an incredible woman
who I am grateful to have called ‘Mom’. As Jill Churchill once said, “there is
no way to be a perfect mother, and a million ways to be a good one”. This
comforts me now, knowing that very soon I’m going to be a mother, too. My Mom
was exceptional, as I’ve mentioned. Despite our difficulties, those are the
memories I relish and hold most dear.
I am also my father’s daughter. I have never lived with my
Dad for any length of time to have been truly ‘socialized’ by him. When
reflecting on my Mom’s influence, there are grey areas and blurred lines where
I wonder whether it’s genes or her
influence. Alternatively, with my similarities to my Dad, I know it’s more
likely because of our genes. In the past 15 years, as I’ve been able to get to
know him better, our likenesses are blaring. I used to think I became who I am
in opposition to who my Mom could be, and now I know that is only partially
true. And, my similarities to my Dad may have been some of the main reasons my
Mom had such a hard time accepting and loving me, as I was a constant reminder
of him. I guess we’ll never know! And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t even fully
realize it.
My “I’m just like my Dad” list goes a bit like this;
-
I’m OCD. I like things to be a certain way, in a
certain place, with a certain degree of cleanliness. I can be hard to live with
because of this, but please know, it’s not a choice I make. It’s in my bones. I
wish I could let go of this control, but it isn’t a switch. It’s better than living
with a slob though, right? I always thought it was just me creating order in an
otherwise chaotic life. That is only part
of the big picture.
-
I keep lists and notes for myself. Sticky notes
can be found in every room of our home.
-
I have a dirty sense of humour (please note – I
am not ashamed of this – but my language and crude and uncensored revelations
may catch you off guard)
-
I make friends easily, and am content to carry
on random and friendly conversations with strangers.
-
It’s hard for me to pick one vocation, and feel
I’m ‘good at’ and ‘enjoy’ too many things to commit to just one.
-
I may not have a lot, but I also don’t need a
lot.
-
I may not have a lot, but I’ll help you out and
be there for you the best way I possibly can.
-
I’d rather be content and have an even pace in
my life than be strung out, overworked, and rich.
-
I lose my cool when under pressure, and can get
frustrated easily. I won’t take it out on you, but it may seem like I’m mad at
you when I’m actually not.
-
I have an open and tender heart, no matter how
tough I may seem.
-
I bounce back from and overcome struggles with
an optimistic and grateful attitude.
Again, if you know him, and you know me, you may be able to
add to the good and bad of this list. At this stage of my life (at the age of
30) I’ve never been so grateful to have my Dad in my life. He lives all of 15
minutes away (the closest he’s ever lived) and we spend more quality time together
now than we ever have. Not having my Mom or a ‘full’ sibling I see regularly,
plus with expecting my first child in under 2 months, it couldn’t come at a
better time.
I embrace how I’m like him, I appreciate our similarities
(not everyone ‘gets it’ like he does, cares, or tries), and I savour our times
together. He gets agitated faster than most people I know, but never with ill
intention, and yet he calms me better, just by being there, than anyone else
can.
If I held our many years of a fragmented connection against
him, think of what we’d be missing. If I held a grudge for how his partner of
10 years treated me, and in turn, manipulated him, who would win? At the end of the day, he’s my Dad, and I love
him.
Looking deeper, my parents are the way they are because of
this same chain reaction and chemistry of genes and raising. Too many people
look at and judge others for their face value, without asking prodding
questions (openly, or through silent reflection). I have been blessed to build
and cherish relationships with all 4 of my grandparents throughout my life,
which has given me a more whole and rich understanding of my parents. Only my
maternal grandmother is still living, but all of them have shaped and
influenced me directly and indirectly, in good ways, and bad. I can’t change
that, or deny that, so why not embrace it, reflect on it, question it, and see
it fully so as to better understand myself.
To support my point, there are some ‘simple’, taken for
granted things that I know had a huge effect on my parents and who they turned
out to be;
My Mom was raised by a father who grew up in a very poor and
very abusive situation. One where you worked your tail off, lived in fear, weren’t
allowed to ‘enjoy’ or have fun, and punishment and shame were expected and
practiced regularly. Her mother grew in an environment where there was love and
respect, but not affection. My grandmother’s mother lost her mother at a young age, which forced her to raise her own
brothers and look after her Dad. Her nurturer was gone, and she did what she
had to. My Gramma will still get emotional when speaking about her parents and
how wonderful they were, and yet they rarely if ever hugged her or told her
they loved her. This all helps me understand my own mother, and how she
expressed her love in the best way she knew how, so much better.
On my maternal grandfather’s side there is a history of
alcohol abuse and mental health issues. The 2 often go hand in hand, even in
modern day. The former is a choice, but is often an escape from the latter.
Thankfully, so far, both have skipped me. I have no interest in drinking to
escape anything. I drink socially, to celebrate, and because I genuinely love
the taste of beer, wine, and some spirits. I’ve never gotten drunk alone, or
been hurtful to anyone when not sober. This is where, thankfully, I’m more like
my Dad.
Another huge event that shaped my Gramma, and thus her role
as a mother, was her third child only lived about a week. My Mom told me of how
beautiful she remembers Julie Ann to be. She was a perfect porcelain doll baby
sister. My Mom was only 4 or 5, and only met her once. Julie was taken from my
Gramma and sent to Sick Kids Hospital, back in the 50s. She didn’t make it, and
my Gramma never saw her baby again. They buried a newborn sized coffin, without
ever seeing its contents, and my Mom and her older brother were sent to stay
with their grandparents for some time to let the dust settle at home. When my
Mom got home, she never could understand
where her perfect baby sister disappeared to. You didn’t talk about it, you
didn’t fuss over it, you moved on. My Gramma credits her mother for pulling her
out of her misery, and I am always amazed at how she did this; my Great Gramma
Laura came over with floor wax and the two of them waxed the hardwood floors. That’s what snapped my Gramma out of her
grief, and life went on as normal. I know
I could never have recovered so quickly or stoically. But, knowing these
truths helps me understand my Gramma, and my Mom, so much more.
My Mom was also a January 10th baby. She was one
of the oldest in her class, and was smart as a whip (without even trying).
This, I might add, is a trait I didn’t
get from her. She even skipped grade 3, due to her level of intelligence, and
often challenged authority members and the expected norms with a quick wit and
daring attitude. She was admired, and feared, because she was a trailblazer who
lived outside of the box.
My Dad, on the other hand, was a December 14th
baby. As a teacher, I know this means he was one of the youngest in his class,
and a boy, which makes learning more difficult (especially early on). To top
that, from what I hear, he was quite a Mama’s boy and was very shy at a young
age. He was also very close with his aunts and uncles, of which he had plenty, and preferred spending time
doing hands-on work on their farms. He had a lot of friends, but spent much of
his weekends and summers helping his family members with chores, learning how
to shoot a rifle, or fishing in the creek at the back end of his grandparents’
farm. An academic environment was not a place he thrived, because it didn’t
lend itself to his preferential learning style. He also challenged authority
with his trouble-maker humour and avoidance strategies. He tells so many
stories of the crazy things he pulled as a child and teenager. Some are so
seemingly far-fetched they are hard to believe. But, as I’ve been told, there’s
no reason to not believe him, as
they’re actually all true. He’s lucky
to even be alive, and should really consider writing a book documenting his
many adventures.
Something he has remarked about, which I never used to
consider, is that he was raised as one of four boys. He admits that the
presence of a sister would have really altered the family dynamic, and his
choices and behaviours.
To this day, I don’t know how my Grandma did it. You can
imagine her joy when her first grandchild was born, and it was a girl. Her love,
affection and adoration was part of the foundation that has kept me whole.
As you can tell, I’ve taken a lot into consideration. I don’t
know if others have done so to the extent that I have, but if you haven’t, I
encourage it. Ask questions while you can. Don’t judge or assume based on
face-value. Look deeply at your roots; they go deeper than you think. Our lives
are tangled webs we’re born into. We learn to navigate them the best way we
know how, and weave our own influences into the pattern as well. We are as much
a product of our parents’ genes and our raising as we are our choices, and we
should constantly reflect on whether we’re proud of who we are and what we’ve
become.
I’ve had to become a peaceful participant in that area of my
life, too. I struggled - and still do sometimes - with the contrast between my
social successes versus my professional ones. I’m typically quite proud of who
I am as a daughter, wife, friend, grand-daughter, niece, aunt, etc., as I do
most things that involve ‘people’ with good intention. But, my success career
and money-wise doesn’t always measure up. Again, the choices I’ve made in this
area have been influenced by my circumstances, which I continue to grapple with
and navigate, but I’m harder on myself than I’ve ever been on any other living
thing. I guess in the big picture I’d rather be a kind person than a rich one,
but rational me and emotional me don’t always see eye to eye.
On the bright side, I’m young. I’m still so young, and have so much future to
look forward to. In just over a month I will hold my very own child in my arms,
and after some ‘light reflection’, I’ve realized that my impact on this
impressionable, innocent, and deserving child is significant, to say the least.
I am part of a process that began long before my birth, and the chain links
will continue to be added as time ticks on. I need to be aware of how my genes,
my actions, and my choices affect this person. There were too many times when I
would say to my Mom - in her more desperate moments - that I hadn’t chosen to
be born. I must remember this; we
choose to have babies, they don’t choose us.
We must be parents worth loving and respecting, despite the odds and
influences.
My choices to date have been (mostly) good ones. One of the
best I ever made was to date my husband. Another was my agreeing to marry him.
And the latest? Finally taking the
leap and becoming a Mom.
It used to terrify
me. I don’t say this lightly, either. It overwhelmed me beyond explanation, and
didn’t ignite a desire in me worth pursuing for a long time.
I used to see it as a burden. I feared the drastic change. I
avoided the responsibility. I questioned my reasons. I doubted my abilities.
And then something changed.
I can’t put my finger on it, define it, or explain it. But,
I’m glad. I’ve never felt so whole in my life. I’ve never felt so important, or
blessed. I’ve never felt so proud, or excited.
I now see being a mother as an honour, not a chore, and I
recognize that I am a small part of a very big puzzle. Part nature, part
nurture, and part choice.
What a gift to know that our baby was hoped for, tried for,
and sought after. I didn’t have that luxury, as the child to my parents, but
you can bet I’m healing from this angle, in this newfound role.
Our baby is wanted and cherished by both of its parents.
Our child will never question that. Ever. I’ll see to it. I’m making that choice.
