the fact that I lied to the old man, hoping he’d be alarmed by the prospect of my mother expecting me, when the reality was that she had no idea where I was and wouldn’t have worried about me unless I wasn’t home after dark. I was on a very loose leash—too loose, I feel now. I can think of several occasions when I was very lucky that something more traumatic or dangerous didn’t happen to me while I was farther away from the nest than I should have been at my age.
It goes without saying that parents are responsible for their children’s well-being. We can’t leave things to chance, or expect our kids to “know better” (not without our teaching them, that’s for sure), or assume that they’ll always report potentially dangerous scrapes to us. Children want to please their parents, and, right or wrong, they may withhold information for fear of disappointing their mom and dad or making them angry. I’m not advocating holding our kids’ hands everywhere they go, but there needs to be regular communication and not so much distance that they feel neglected. You know, children may act annoyed at being checked on and monitored, but as long as you can say honestly that you aren’t smothering them, such parental attentiveness actually makes them feel loved and secure.
Certainly my mother and my father went through periods where they were aloof and even negligent. Yet I can’t say that I didn’t feel loved. I just accepted the fact that they weren’t always capable of being there for me to the extent that I wished they would be. They didn’t choose to be that way. Circumstances—mainly poverty—prevented them from being the ideal parents that, in their hearts, they probably had hoped to be. I honestly don’t believe that I’m making excuses for them, although I can see how some may think that I’m rationalizing their behavior. Life isn’t like a TV series. There is no perfect parent. I do realize, however, growing up the way we did, we probably saw our parents’ shortcomings earlier than perhaps other kids do. I feel that we were certainly exposed to too much, too young.
But then, even with my son, although I have the best intentions, I’m sure I’m not always the mother he expects me to be. I have to say that the understanding I’ve reached about my own mother and my father has allowed me to be more forgiving toward myself when I fall short of my own expectations as a mother. No parent can be perfect in every situation or all the time (and this applies to our other roles in life as well, be it spouse, relative, or friend), no matter how much he or she may want to be or try. Ultimately, I’ve realized that my responsibility is to do my best, whether I succeed or not. My parents deserve the same degree of understanding and compassion that I afford myself and those around me. Anyone who gives a good, honest effort wins my respect every time, and in that regard, my mother and my father deserve my thanks.
3
Tomboy
M oving day again, just months later. I’m not unhappy about it, though. To be leaving our maggot-infested bedroom in the basement apartment belonging to the dirty old man? I’m packed and ready to go! Especially since we’re relocating to a city called Sudbury, located about four hours south of Timmins. I’ve never lived in a city before, so I am excited about the prospect of a place with real skyscrapers. This will be the year I get into my first physical fight and win my first gold award of excellence in track-and-field, as well as discover the excruciating pain of breast development. I won’t realize it until later, however, that Sudbury is a small city compared to Toronto or New York, for example, and that I wouldn’t find real skyscrapers there.
The apartment house on King Street in Sudbury was an upgrade for us compared to our last two houses in Timmins. By that I mean it was clean, new, and spacious enough for me to not be embarrassed if a friend came over.
King
It goes without saying that parents are responsible for their children’s well-being. We can’t leave things to chance, or expect our kids to “know better” (not without our teaching them, that’s for sure), or assume that they’ll always report potentially dangerous scrapes to us. Children want to please their parents, and, right or wrong, they may withhold information for fear of disappointing their mom and dad or making them angry. I’m not advocating holding our kids’ hands everywhere they go, but there needs to be regular communication and not so much distance that they feel neglected. You know, children may act annoyed at being checked on and monitored, but as long as you can say honestly that you aren’t smothering them, such parental attentiveness actually makes them feel loved and secure.
Certainly my mother and my father went through periods where they were aloof and even negligent. Yet I can’t say that I didn’t feel loved. I just accepted the fact that they weren’t always capable of being there for me to the extent that I wished they would be. They didn’t choose to be that way. Circumstances—mainly poverty—prevented them from being the ideal parents that, in their hearts, they probably had hoped to be. I honestly don’t believe that I’m making excuses for them, although I can see how some may think that I’m rationalizing their behavior. Life isn’t like a TV series. There is no perfect parent. I do realize, however, growing up the way we did, we probably saw our parents’ shortcomings earlier than perhaps other kids do. I feel that we were certainly exposed to too much, too young.
But then, even with my son, although I have the best intentions, I’m sure I’m not always the mother he expects me to be. I have to say that the understanding I’ve reached about my own mother and my father has allowed me to be more forgiving toward myself when I fall short of my own expectations as a mother. No parent can be perfect in every situation or all the time (and this applies to our other roles in life as well, be it spouse, relative, or friend), no matter how much he or she may want to be or try. Ultimately, I’ve realized that my responsibility is to do my best, whether I succeed or not. My parents deserve the same degree of understanding and compassion that I afford myself and those around me. Anyone who gives a good, honest effort wins my respect every time, and in that regard, my mother and my father deserve my thanks.
3
Tomboy
M oving day again, just months later. I’m not unhappy about it, though. To be leaving our maggot-infested bedroom in the basement apartment belonging to the dirty old man? I’m packed and ready to go! Especially since we’re relocating to a city called Sudbury, located about four hours south of Timmins. I’ve never lived in a city before, so I am excited about the prospect of a place with real skyscrapers. This will be the year I get into my first physical fight and win my first gold award of excellence in track-and-field, as well as discover the excruciating pain of breast development. I won’t realize it until later, however, that Sudbury is a small city compared to Toronto or New York, for example, and that I wouldn’t find real skyscrapers there.
The apartment house on King Street in Sudbury was an upgrade for us compared to our last two houses in Timmins. By that I mean it was clean, new, and spacious enough for me to not be embarrassed if a friend came over.
King
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