The frequency of arguments between my parents during the early years of my childhood is hard to recall. One thing that does stand out in memory though, is that I have very few recollections of moments of complete joy or laughter in the household. My dad left for work at 7:30 each morning. You could virtually set your watch by the car coming up the driveway at 5pm. Most nights he would have a bottle of Victoria Bitter (VB) beer to have a couple of glasses with dinner and afterward. This single vice was occasionally the ignition source for any potential argument. I mean it’s not like my mother didn’t enjoy a glass of wine, or smoke cigarettes for that matter.
Do we want to talk about physical violence in the domestic setting? Might as well, while we’re on the topic. So during one of these arguments, mum was cooking ‘spaghetti and tuna’ in one of those electric frypans that you could get in the day. Hey, just googled them, turns out you can still get those things! Who woulda thought? Anyway, who knows what the cause of this particular argument was, but the result on this occasion was the dispatch of a full plate of pasta to the kitchen wall across from the dining table. It’s amazing how kids remember this stuff.
On another occasion, dad was running the bath for us kids. In the midst of battle, mum appeared and whacked the back of dad’s head, pushing the front of his face against the faucet with some force. Dad was physically hurt. I remember him walking out of the house in tears and through the backyard. Mum in pursuit behind him, apologising to him. He got in the car and disappeared for a while. Presumably until he could come down enough not to return a physical response. It is one of the few times, through all the events I witnessed, that I felt dad might actually leave. On multiple occasions, I asked myself why the hell he stayed to deal with the sort of loveless marriage of which he was a part. By the end of my childhood, I was actively and consciously wishing they would separate. Maybe life would be easier. Happier. More stable.
Sometimes, when the arguments were really bad, my sister and I would ride our bikes up the street to the telephone box on Corrigan Rd and ring our aunty and uncle. I would beg them to cover for a cup of tea or a visit for a little while because then mum and dad would stop fighting. Sometimes this strategy worked, oftentimes not. There was always an enormous sense of relief on those days when riding down our cul de sac on my way home from school, I could see an extra car in the driveway. It didn’t matter who it was, but this was usually a sign that mum would be in a good mood and there was less chance of an argument later on. It was a good day.
It wasn’t always fear and fighting though. Sometimes we would have fun. Mum and dad didn’t have a large circle of friends, a few close friends and relatives. When grown-ups came for dinner things were usually good. Wine and beer helped. Unless dad said something ‘nasty’ or to ‘put mum down’ during the conversation, then it was almost a fait accompli that the minute the guests backs were through the front door there would be a blue. While washing the dishes. I guess I’m making this sound entirely horrific and negative, which is not actually the point of the exercise. And as I said, it wasn’t always a landscape compromised of egg shells and land mines, though even now it still feels like it.
Before I sign off. The arguments, when they did occur, were f*&ked. Don’t get me wrong. I hated it and it made me upset. But I actually think what was worse, was the egg shells. It was only years later that I realised that much of my childhood was spent walking barefoot, tip-toe on very sharp egg shells. Because you just never know how much damage those f*&kers can do.. And we didn’t even have chickens.
OK, I’m leaving the whole parental volatility thing alone for now. We can come back to it another time. I’m not sure where I’m headed next but I want to talk about the complex nature of parent-in-law relationships as well as provide you, dear reader with some insight into why I believe the relationship dynamics were so fragile and volatile. Then I want to come back to the whole infidelity issue and some of the reasons complex early childhood problems play a role in setting up for failure in adulthood, whether it be romantic relationships, sense of self, infidelity or a hundred issues.
Til next time. Most likely tomorrow. Because I need to keep getting this down on paper. It’s not you, it’s me.
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