That's me! I only blog when I feel like it...and in the last couple of years, that's been "not too often."
Anyway, the 1st anniversary of my mother's death is coming up, on June 4th. I think of her often, and she is with me in many of the things I do, which follow automatically on her teaching. I have many conflicted emotions about my mother, my childhood, my father, and our whole family situation.
In the end, though, I think of it all less and less often, because, let's face it, it was probably pretty typical, and it wasn't horrid. It wasn't fantabulous, but it wasn't horrid. I had good food, was well-dressed, was given what I needed to learn at school (desk, pencils, quiet room), and in general I felt secure as a child.
Now, I know others who had terrible childhoods. I had friends who were psychologically terrorized by mentally-ill parents. I know others who thought everything was great, but (now with hindsight) know they were given the bare minimum: no advice, no wisdom, no guidance, no self-esteem.
One of my contemporaries left home of her own accord when she was 17. Couldn't take the crap anymore. She left. And she made it through university, is brilliant, is successful in her career.
Another friend was booted out of her home at the same age: 17. Can you imagine? "Hi honey, well, you just finished grade 12, and we've let you stay here, oh, um, an extra five minutes. Now, get the hell out."
Nice. This last friend hasn't been so successful. Her "career" is non-existent. She's my age and waitressing. Still. She's got no prospects, no back-up and her dreams, well, they drifted away long ago.
I've now reached the grand age of 54. Looking back, I, too, could be a bit bitter. Things haven't gone exactly, or even nearly, as a I planned. But like my childhood, it hasn't all been awful. There's been lots of good.
Honestly, can you really expect much more than that?