Family Games—Was it Bad Parenting or Clever Life Lessons?
My parents' weird idea of fun bordered on child endangerment, and made me the person you want around if there's an active shooter or natural disaster.
It would mean a whole lot to me if you’d hit the like button and turn the heart red ❤️.
Some of the things my parents called family fun could be seen as child endangerment, abuse, or neglect.
Maybe because they’d come up during the Depression, were still pretty broke in the 60s, or maybe it was just who they were.
We’d drive through Long Island’s fancy neighborhoods, like Flower Hill or Brookville, trying for a small glimpse of the homes of the rich and possibly famous. But, the rich and famous build their homes far from the road, behind acres of frequently wooded property, at the end of long driveways—versus our 750 square foot Levittown house set on 1/10th of an acre, with a driveway that accommodated a single car. All I ever saw were rich and famous trees, and occasionally a small brick house near a frequently gated entrance we’d assumed housed a caretaker or groundskeeper.
Our family outings cruising the homes of rich folks were hard reminders of what we didn’t have & would probably never achieve.
They also pushed me to dream big, firing up my imagination with possibilities.
I’d imagine running away from home, finding my way up one of those long driveways some rainy night, feigning amnesia so some nice, rich, normal family would adopt me. At three or four years old I was a very cute little blonde girl, who, unfortunately couldn’t figure out how to get to Muttontown if Daddy wasn’t driving.
Not having things everyone else seems to have can make you a little obsessed with getting enough to feel…secure. My next plan involved a divorce (from who I did not care, not one bit) and writing very nice thank you for the alimony notes every month. Eight years old might have been too young to get married and divorced, but ten or eleven was old enough to fine tune that plan to marrying an old, rich man I assumed’d have a heart attack on the honeymoon. If not, old men fall down flights of stairs all the time…
None of that materialized, but after finally getting sober, I managed to nail down a fairly secure life thanks to some of the other “quirky” life lessons I was inadvertently given as a child.
Family vacations, when we had them, were three of us and a very farty black lab mix sleeping in the faded asparagus green VW bus, middle seat removed. Eventually we got fancy enough for a canvas tent, sleeping bags and cooking over an open fire. My father invented a camping game he called, “Little Lost Child in the Forest” where my parents’d get far enough ahead of me on a trail to hide in the brush, leaving me to find my own way back to base camp. Years later, they’d swear they could see me the whole time, but I never knew where they were.
As a result of being regularly abandoned in the forest as a child, I’ve never let not knowing where I am, or where I’m going, interfere with moving forward.
As long as I keep moving, I’ll eventually see a way out, forward, or home.
Summers at the beach, Mom liked to park a piece of food—a chip, some bread, something small—on the top of my head, then back slowly away warning me not to move. Don’t move, sit still. Wait. Wait, until a gull’d swoop down and snatch the treat from the top of my head. She literally jumped up and down with glee at the sight of her toddler as avian food tray.
Skills learned when I was a toddler, acting as entertainment for my mother and a buffet tray for gulls would save my life in my 20s.
Our family’s games sound heartless and kinda tough, but they molded me into the independent, intrepid woman you see before you today.
Yes, of course, I developed trust issues, and that’s where independent teeters at the edge of “loner” and interpid often appears to be “foolhardy,” but I am the person you want in crisis, whether an active shooter or a natural disaster. Unflappable. Pragmatic. Able to be still and not breathe for extended periods saved my life decades later, leading my attacker to think I was already dead. I will find my way out of the darkest situations (see previous sentence). Thanks for that, Mom and Dad.
I’m also still in therapy at 67, because abandoned repeatedly in the forest for God’s sake. Don’t move while a wild animal dive bombs & snatches food off the top of your head. Thanks, again Mom and Dad.
Mom and I played a game she called “A Brick is Not a Brick,” which consisted of naming all the things—outside of the obvious—you could do with a brick: doorstop, paper weight or bludgeon (which just occurred to me because why?) Does it matter if that was another we don’t have much money so let’s improvise, or was intentionally meant to be a lesson?
She gave me
1) the ability to think outside the box and
2) taught me there’s always more than one way to accomplish something.
This week, Mom turns 95. A rock star photographer friend I haven’t seen in person in ages asked to photograph us. A painter friend asked permission to paint Mom’s portrait based on some of my photographs of her. I’ll share the results of each when they’re done. She won’t know what’s going on, but what a nice gift for me on her birthday.
She is still teaching me things and bringing people into my life.
Here's my take on unorthodox family peccadillos—if I came out of it stronger, how can I fault them for it? I mean, where would Jeanette Walls be if her upbringing had been normal? But, I might be wrong. What's your experience been?”
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Thank you for your eyeballs, your time and attention. You’re welcome to buy me a coffee, and you’re welcome here if you don’t.
And now I am anxiously waiting to hear the story of when you had to play dead…
Love. Love. Love. I grew up in a town that neighbored Muttontown. Mom’s birthday on Thursday? Can’t wait to see the artwork. Also, are you going to write about playing dead? I need details, please! xoxo