Do you remember fun times as a kid? Do you remember playing in the sunshine or building snowmen with your parents or siblings? Do you remember the joy, the carefree feelings of waking in the morning and quickly running outside to find your friends? Not a minute of fun was to be wasted indoors. Were there times when you didn’t want to go home for lunch because you didn’t want to interrupt the fun you were having? How about a time when you were working hard but loving it, working with friends or family towards a goal - to be appreciated as an important part of a team?
I have a clear memory of a time when I enjoyed all of these feelings. I remember the house, the dead-end street we lived on, the big tree in the front yard. I remember my dog named Frisky and how he would meet me halfway between the school bus stop and home. I had friends to ride my bike with and days that were filled with activity, none of which were planned. I’m thankful for those memories! Unfortunately, they were packed into a nine-month period when I was around six or seven years old.
At that particular time in my childhood, home life was what ‘normal’ was supposed to be. I had a brother two years younger and a toddler sister. My mom stayed at home with us and my dad worked for a decent salary. We had a small but comfortable home, a station wagon less than five years old and, as I mentioned earlier, friends my age who lived nearby. Most importantly, however, I remember that there was peace in my home. Prior to that and afterward, my dad’s alcoholism and the effects it had on him and us, created chaos of every kind.
This nine-month period occurred when my dad had mysteriously stopped drinking. When sober, he was usually a gentle man and nice to be around. If, in fact, Dad was still drinking during that period, he hid it well. I doubt that was the case, however, because alcohol had a profound impact on his personality. He couldn’t have hidden his drunken alter-ego.
This seemingly idyllic period of my childhood - living on the dead end street with the big tree in the front yard - is filled with unspecific memories of good times and a sensation of happiness! I can’t recall my friends’ names or a particular day back then, but I remember the pleasant and stimulating atmosphere.
The rest of my childhood is a blur with only particular incidents coming into sharp focus. Often, when my brothers or sisters recall stories that involve me, it’s as if I were hearing about someone else. Some articles I have read on the topic of memory say we remember bad moments more than those that are good. Others day we often suppress bad memories to avoid dealing with them. I think both are true, forgetting generic and recurring bad incidents and recalling those that stand out. Then again, the worst of the worst incidents could be repressed, not that I think I have been a part of that.
So what of all this? Why bring up my childhood situation?
I hope the reader - a parent, or soon-to-be parent, will recognize how vitally important a family’s environment is for a child, not just their present well-being, but for their future happiness and outlook on life. The result of my father’s alcoholism and lack of parenting would be six children who suffered from neglect. Because my father was either missing or totally not involved, my mother had to work countless hours as a waitress to support us. Neglect allowed our unacceptable behavior to go unchecked, medical attention to be lacking, nutrition to be compromised and idyllic periods, like those of a six-year-old in a home on a dead-end street, to be nonexistent.
It had a negative impact on all six of us, some more obvious than others. Had my father read something like this before he resumed drinking, he would not likely have been convinced to stay sober. But maybe you, the reader, could be awakened (no assumptions that you need to be) to your tremendous influence as a parent and think more directly about how your kids are impacted by what you do or don’t do. Of course, it depends heavily on what is most important to you, something you honestly need to consider. Drinking was more important to our father than we were. Maybe that’s too harsh. Maybe his need to drink was stronger than his need to parent. Whatever it was, his actions have now adversely touched parts of four generations and counting.
About forty years later I found that house with the big tree. But the tree wasn’t there. The dead-end street was much shorter than I had imagined. And the house had shrunk to not much more than an oversized playhouse. It is typical for an adult to see things differently from when they were a kid. But I was shocked at how pedestrian this once magical place was, even allowing for the years of wear. I’m certain it was magical for the peaceful period and wonderful times that home gave me. It wasn’t the size of the home or the tree that once stood there.
The influences of dadhood and motherhood are remarkable and undeniable!
I have a clear memory of a time when I enjoyed all of these feelings. I remember the house, the dead-end street we lived on, the big tree in the front yard. I remember my dog named Frisky and how he would meet me halfway between the school bus stop and home. I had friends to ride my bike with and days that were filled with activity, none of which were planned. I’m thankful for those memories! Unfortunately, they were packed into a nine-month period when I was around six or seven years old.
At that particular time in my childhood, home life was what ‘normal’ was supposed to be. I had a brother two years younger and a toddler sister. My mom stayed at home with us and my dad worked for a decent salary. We had a small but comfortable home, a station wagon less than five years old and, as I mentioned earlier, friends my age who lived nearby. Most importantly, however, I remember that there was peace in my home. Prior to that and afterward, my dad’s alcoholism and the effects it had on him and us, created chaos of every kind.
This nine-month period occurred when my dad had mysteriously stopped drinking. When sober, he was usually a gentle man and nice to be around. If, in fact, Dad was still drinking during that period, he hid it well. I doubt that was the case, however, because alcohol had a profound impact on his personality. He couldn’t have hidden his drunken alter-ego.
This seemingly idyllic period of my childhood - living on the dead end street with the big tree in the front yard - is filled with unspecific memories of good times and a sensation of happiness! I can’t recall my friends’ names or a particular day back then, but I remember the pleasant and stimulating atmosphere.
The rest of my childhood is a blur with only particular incidents coming into sharp focus. Often, when my brothers or sisters recall stories that involve me, it’s as if I were hearing about someone else. Some articles I have read on the topic of memory say we remember bad moments more than those that are good. Others day we often suppress bad memories to avoid dealing with them. I think both are true, forgetting generic and recurring bad incidents and recalling those that stand out. Then again, the worst of the worst incidents could be repressed, not that I think I have been a part of that.
So what of all this? Why bring up my childhood situation?
I hope the reader - a parent, or soon-to-be parent, will recognize how vitally important a family’s environment is for a child, not just their present well-being, but for their future happiness and outlook on life. The result of my father’s alcoholism and lack of parenting would be six children who suffered from neglect. Because my father was either missing or totally not involved, my mother had to work countless hours as a waitress to support us. Neglect allowed our unacceptable behavior to go unchecked, medical attention to be lacking, nutrition to be compromised and idyllic periods, like those of a six-year-old in a home on a dead-end street, to be nonexistent.
It had a negative impact on all six of us, some more obvious than others. Had my father read something like this before he resumed drinking, he would not likely have been convinced to stay sober. But maybe you, the reader, could be awakened (no assumptions that you need to be) to your tremendous influence as a parent and think more directly about how your kids are impacted by what you do or don’t do. Of course, it depends heavily on what is most important to you, something you honestly need to consider. Drinking was more important to our father than we were. Maybe that’s too harsh. Maybe his need to drink was stronger than his need to parent. Whatever it was, his actions have now adversely touched parts of four generations and counting.
About forty years later I found that house with the big tree. But the tree wasn’t there. The dead-end street was much shorter than I had imagined. And the house had shrunk to not much more than an oversized playhouse. It is typical for an adult to see things differently from when they were a kid. But I was shocked at how pedestrian this once magical place was, even allowing for the years of wear. I’m certain it was magical for the peaceful period and wonderful times that home gave me. It wasn’t the size of the home or the tree that once stood there.
The influences of dadhood and motherhood are remarkable and undeniable!
