October 26, 2010
Today is my parent's wedding anniversay. . .somewhere around 47 or 48 I think.
Almost 50 years married to the same person.
There are days, like today, that I can't imagine 5 minutes with one person, let alone 50 years!
I wouldn't hesitate to guess whether or not my parents believe they are happily married.
One is in a nursing home.
The other still resides at the Clarke family homestead.
I do know that, like all marriages, they have certainly had their ups and downs.
In fact, if I asked them to look back over their lives, could they have predicted they would be where they are today?
Probably not.
The other thing I know about marriage and life in general, is that when you make decisions about your life, decisions that will influence the lives of those around you, you make those decisions with the best of intentions.
People don't make decisions with the intention of f***ing up the lives of their loved ones.
At least not that I've heard.
For example, when I married my first husband, there was a small, very small and very quiet, almost inaudible voice in my head suggesting ever so gently that perhaps I might have been making a mistake.
However, I certainly didn't marry my first husband with the clear and lucid idea that I was going to make my life, my children's lives and my family's life absolutely, unequivocably miserable.
I wasn't joyfully deranged, gleefully thinking, "Think of the mess this'll make of my kids lives!!!!!! Muwahhhhhhahahahahahah. . . .!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Will this ever screw them over for most of their youth and young adulthood!!!!!!!!!" Whhhhhheeeeeeee!"
Nor, do I believe, that, when I was and my father retired from the military, did he think that he wouldn't secure full time employment again until I was 16.
Sometimes, we do things because at the time they were the best option we had among what is more than likely a pile of crappy options.
We just tried to pick least crappy option.
But the real question is, would you go back and change anything if you could?
I've said before that I would still have married my ex even if I knew what was going to happen because having Mer, Keith and Em was completely worth whatever I had to go through.
My mother would probably say that I was just being me, doing things the hard way, as always.
There may be some truth to that.
I was never the kind of person who listened to the logical suggestion, or followed the path of least resistance.
In fact, my mother would probably tell you that if there was a way to make a mess of something, I would always choose that option.
Telling me not to do something was THE quickest way to ensure I did it.
Suggesting that perhaps the British soldier who was visiting CFB Gagetown was not necessarily the man I should date was the most expeditious means of guaranteeing I would.
He turned out to be married.
Me, dating a married man.
Imagine.
But it wasn't on purpose.
I really didn't know.
I worked in a military bar.
There were plenty of available single men without me trolling for the married ones.
And it would seem this pigheaded stubborness, this belief that I knew everything and therefore saw those around me as mere pawns in my personal game of life, this determined rebellion against authority, this balky bullheadedess, this tenacious, steadfast singlemindedness has been passed on to all of my children.
However, they possess different degrees of hardheadedness, inflexibility, ornery persistence.
And guess who possesses the most and is, therefore, the most like me?
Just guess.
Really.
It's not rocket science.
You already know. . . .
Meredyth.
For love nor money, well, maybe money, I cannot get that child to learn from my mistakes.
To listen to her mother.
Or anyone for that matter, at least anyone over the age of 30.
From conception, she and I have been locked in a battle of wills.
There have been times when she's won, and others where I have come out with the upper hand.
She is, by far, of all the kids, the most like me.
And while this can be a good thing. . . .
. . . .most of the time it has resulted in all out war.
But no bloodshed.
At least so far.
She is unshakeable. Relentless. Resolute. Unbending. Willfull.
And opinionated????
Don't even get me started.
Oddly, this is what makes her Mer.
These are the qualities that I admire in her, because I know that no one, no where, no how, no way will EVER be able to get her to do something she doesn't want to do.
(Which is kind of scary given the things she has done, consciously, knowingly, etc. but that's for another time).
She will NEVER take crap from anyone, ever.
The only problem is when she uses these finely honed genetic skills with me.
Or at me.
Or against me.
For example, she has known her entire life how much I abhor smoking.
Really, take my money and it wouldn't upset me as much as smoking.
So what does Mer do?
Smokes.
Her first foray into the land of nicotine addiction was the age of. . . .
18 months.
This is how determined she was.
My mother is visiting because I am ready to pop Keith out at any minute.
(Although it took another 10 days for Keith to realize it was time to come out!)
My mother is in the bathroom, I'm in the kitchen (of course) and her father is in the bedroom.
By some cosmic force, we were all drawn into the living room at the same time.
Just in time to see 18 month old Meredyth with one of my mother's King Sized Benson and Hedges in her mouth, lighter in hand, ready to set that tube of nightmarish nicotine and assorted poisons aflame and send them coursing into her lungs.
All while she had put on my mother's bra, Madonna style, outside her clothes.
She screamed and jumped 6 feet when the three of us yelled, "STOP!"
Its a wonder she didn't drop the lighter and set the entire apartment on fire.
The same obstinance is evidenced when at 2 and a half, while puttering around in her grandmother's back yard with her grandmother, she simply walked over to the in ground pool and jumped in, fully clothed.
And promptly sinks to the bottom.
She's my child, there was no natural reflex to swim.
Grandma, of course, runs after her and jumps in, grabs her, pulls her out, and all Mer does is look at her and say,
"Grandma! You're all wet!"
I don't want Mer to be anyone but herself.
I just want her to listen to me once in a while, and accept that, while I am very old, I have at least one synape firing in my head.
I do know some things.
I've had some life experience.
And I'm not out to get her.
At least not yet.
Nor am I gathering family members around me for THE SOLE PURPOSE of pitting them all against Mer.
At least not yet.
I'm not trying to run her life.
I can barely manage my own.
I just want her to not do the things I did, to not make things harder than they need to be.
To listen.
So, from the moment I opened my eyes this morning, the day has been one big shit show.
Literally. . .I wasn't even out of bed when things went down the toilet.
I overslept.
7.22 am.
Instead of my usual 6.00 am.
Oversleeping sets the tone for the entire day.
Nothing, no matter how hard I try, how much effort I put into it, or what I say regardless of my intentions, works out.
By 7.30 am, 1/4 of my family, meaning those people who live in my house, was pissed off.
At 9.30 am, that number had risen to 1/2.
3/4 by 11.30 am.
And of that 3/4, 2/3 were my children.
Even without the extra incentive that landed at my feet by 11.30, I was ready to get back in bed and pull the covers over my head, not coming out until at least 5.30.
Now, I'm just plain nervous.
I have to go home and make tonight's dinner and tomorrow night's.
Knives are a necessity in the dinner making processes.
Given the day I've had, I have no idea where the knives may land.
I just hope that whatever happens, hospitalization or incarceration, or both aren't required.
Title Lyric: Bad Day by Daniel Powter
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