Let's not do what our parents did
My mother was born in 1955, the second daughter of what would be four girls, to a plastics mogul and his charming wife in a city made entirely both physically and economically from steel. Her father, in the prime of the plastics revolution, made his fortune doing what other manufacturers wouldn't do. By purchasing used machinery, re-purposing it and selling it back into the marketplace, my Grandfather had secured a spot at the height of the plastics machinery empire. Along with his fortune came what would be years of seven day work weeks, abusive drinking and womanizing, as well as dealings with some of the most socially corrupt businessmen of his time.
My grandmother, who was focused idly elsewhere, busied herself with committees, clubs and parties, as well as with the business of raising four daughters during a time of social revolution. She looked the other way during all of his abuses, committed herself to a multitude of other causes, and hired a nanny to care for my Mom and her three sisters. My grandfather bought them all a sprawling ranch style home in the South Hills of Pittsburgh.
The back yard was paved by flagstone tiles which wove in and around elaborate flower gardens, a massive stone fireplace, deck, in-ground infinity shaped pool and a giant dual hoop basketball court. The house was a nod to the times. Browns and oranges mingled in the wood trimming, the exterior was red paneling and stone. The enormous two-level living room served as the home's centerpiece; at the right of the step down lived a shiny, black baby grand piano. Reaching out in every direction from here were rooms and hallways. At the front, a den with orange diamond patterned carpeting. A large wood-paneled kitchen and breakfast room. A dining room framed in fabric wallpaper woven with flecks of golds. At the back of the house, a row of bedrooms all designed in different patterns and color schemes. My grandparents bedroom was the most grand. Soft, shiny turquoise carpeting blanketed the room where they slept in adjacent twin beds and the adjoining dressing room with all of its mirrors and closets. From there, through gauzy curtains you could see the pool, turquoise like the carpet and sparkling underneath the sunlight.
This home and its yard, for the next thirty years, would be the scene of nearly every major gathering or celebration in the life of our family. And during every day of those thirty years, my grandparents hated one another. And my mother hated that house, and everything it stood for.
In terms of priorities, being a good husband and father ranked low on my grandfather's list. There was business to be done and fun to be had. (In modern society with all of its alternative options for living, he would likely never have married. Lived as a lifelong bachelor, wasted his money on his vices and left it all to a stripper when he died.) Unfortunately or not- the times dictated that everyone be married and contribute at least a couple of children to society. And so he did. My grandmother had other motives, arguably no more noble than his. She loved her money, her fancy parties and all of the attention that they garnered for her. And despite what they claim to be their endless love for their children, what prevailed between my grandparents selfishness and anger was a back and forth of endless bitterness. And as a result, a deep sadness exists inside of my Mom that is too far down to ever be adequately comforted.
It was easy when she fell in love then, to know what not to look for. A dictator. A flake. A man who would cheat his way to the top. She wanted, instead, a partner. Someone who respected her and didn't gnaw away at her sensibilities with alcohol and abusive language. When she found my father, cool and laid back, a boy with no money and no aspirations to take over any industry of any kind, how could she not have been hooked? The person she needed would be fun and comforting. Would be handsome and secure. Not edgy and irrational. Not boastful and hot-tempered. She'd found someone who fit all of these criteria in my Dad, and despite their inability to agree on whether or not they wanted children, pets, to live in Pittsburgh, relationships with their families, to travel, to save or spend, they vowed that they would love each other forever. And my parents each married their best friend.
It wouldn't have taken much to wind up a better couple than her parents had. If neither of them ever cheated, hit, screamed at, belittled, chastised or strong armed one another- they would have already passed the test. But they did even better. They RESPECTED each other. Their relationship remained strong albeit flawed through an accidental first baby and a law school degree. My father who didn't want kids became complacent with the idea of my brother and set himself to work in order to make the money that was essential to the success of their family. My mom relished the joys of young motherhood and they remained constantly respectful of their differences. They hadn't wanted the same things afterall. Their motives, too, had been different.
Still, they didn't scream or fight. They were still better off.
I was born when they were still in their twenties, married only six years and with a three year old already under their belts. My Mom was learning how to be a Mom, all the while striving not to be her own Mom. She loved us hard--more than she knew how to handle. She compartmentalized my Dad as someone who wasn't on board. While he was happy to be left off board. From afar they continued to respect each other and appreciated the efforts of the other. He was glad, I think, that he didn't have to actively raise children. She appreciated the resources, effort and assistance she had when she needed it most. They supported each other endlessly in their disparate endeavors. They tried their best never to let us believe that anything was ever wrong.
My Mom grew up in the midst of fundamental battles that she'd sworn never to repeat in her own life. And she didn't. They stayed so far away that a battle would never have had the space to take place. So each of my parents operated independently within their own roles, my Dad the provider, my Mom the caretaker. They must have made time to come together on something. Though in my own adulthood, I can't seem to remember what it may have been. She'd succeeded in not becoming her parents. She'd created a marriage and a family based on respect and distinction. Appreciation and understanding. Endless understanding-- an understanding that keeps you far away from the challenge that love requires to survive. It wasn't wrong. It was only the exact opposite of what her own Mother had done.
In the end, all of their distance placed them too far apart to stay together. And after thirty years of freedom, they escaped each other to be acknowledged.
And now I'm here.
I struggle with Bryan to find a flaw that might be our weakness. I was raised to understand that even when all of your cards are on the table, there is still a secret, in a strategy that the other person will never be able to see. I challenge myself to see what our delta might be. I have loved him with two eyes open, and I plan to do so always. I have registered our differences and weighed the importance of them in my own mind. Having been so resistant to loving him, for every reason you might have drawn from above, once I surrendered, I believe I did so openly. I believe in our pairing both hopefully and realistically.
I believe like my parents did, that I will not be my parents.
The lesson, it seems, is simply that. While we are all striving not to have made the same mistakes once all is said and done, along the way we will be committing all sorts of other atrocities. All complaints that our children will likely be logging in their blogs for years to come.
posted by Jen @ 1:19 PM
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