Preface:
I never understood why stories from the point of view of kids, are written by adults. Adults don’t understand what kids go through. Sure, they can assume things based on what their children, nieces or nephews tell them but we kids don’t tell jack squat to adults. Unless you’re lucky and you have a great relationship with whoever you’re adult “outlet” is. Notice I didn’t say parent.
I’m sorry; I think I forgot to explain my theory. You must be so confused. I think that every kid has, what I call, an adult outlet. It doesn’t really matter who it is, it could be your grandma or your older sister. As long as it’s someone older then that you turn to when things get tough. And sometimes your adult outlet isn’t even a person you turn to, but rather, a guardian that you look up to; or is merely your friend. For a while, I was convinced my adult outlet was my ol’ dog Beans. Even when my parent where around, it’s not like we were close. Unlike Mr. Bean who was always there for me.
Like me, some kids have really bad relationships with their parents. Or they don’t have parents. There’s some good to having your adult outlet not being your parent. That way, your outlet can’t hold things agents you like a parent would. No grounding or extra chores for telling them about that secret relationship you’re in, or confessing to breaking mom’s favorite china bowl. But there’s also a downside. You won’t see your outlet as often. You won’t be able to let off steam, or get advice every step of the way. This downside, is the part I hate the most.
I wish I could say I miss my parents, but you can’t really miss something you never had.
I remember it was never like my parents were ever really there. It was as if, on the surface, they were by my side, raising me, but inside, their minds were in complete different places. I always assumed this was due to how old they were. When mom had me, she and dad were both in high school. My mom was a junior and my dad a senior. Yikes, I know. I actually used to be disgusted by their age. But mom and Dad were always casual about it so I never gave them too much grief on the “sixteen and Prego” factor. However, (Since it’s obvious I was a mistake) I’ve always had this secret suspicion that they wished I’d never happened. I always bid the suspicion away because I know our relationship wasn’t that dramatic. They never loathed me. They just seemed… oblivious to my existence.
I remember it was never like my parents were ever really there. It was as if, on the surface, they were by my side, raising me, but inside, their minds were in complete different places. I always assumed this was due to how old they were. When mom had me, she and dad were both in high school. My mom was a junior and my dad a senior. Yikes, I know. I actually used to be disgusted by their age. But mom and Dad were always casual about it so I never gave them too much grief on the “sixteen and Prego” factor. However, (Since it’s obvious I was a mistake) I’ve always had this secret suspicion that they wished I’d never happened. I always bid the suspicion away because I know our relationship wasn’t that dramatic. They never loathed me. They just seemed… oblivious to my existence.
Normally, you’d think since my mom was so young, she would’ve been really cool. She’d be more like a hip older sister then a mom. We’d get our nails done, shop, put goo on our faces and cucumbers on our eyes like in the movies. We’d have little outings and eat at fancy restraunts and make microwave popcorn and watch sappy movies like titanic—crying on each other yet still managing to mouth the lines when Jack slips into the icy water. She’d be my best friend and my mom. She’d be the world’s best adult outlet.
Unforatintly, I was never lucky enough to see that side of my mom. She was always perky and fun and young around her friends, whereas around me, she acted like I where a pet she no longer wanted. As if I had stolen her youth. As if everything where my fault. Of course, she never confirmed my doubts out loud, but the silent truth was obvious. Or maybe I was just paranoid. Still, her coming home with a manicure or shopping bags didn’t help my paranoia.
My Dad was sort of the same way. Only he seemed much older than his years…mostly due to his hobbies. Every morning I’d get up and he’d be reading the paper, a cup of steaming Joe next to him. I never bothered talking to him because it was impossible to communicate when he was in the “Dad zone.” During the evenings, he’d come home just in time to gobble dinner up, relocated to the couch to watch sports. It awed me how sports seemed to always be on 24/7. He wouldn’t move from the couch till I was long after in bed. Sometimes he’d watch jeopardy, which definitely docked points from his youth. Dad was so mellow and uninvolved with my life. He hardly noticed me. He didn’t realize I was in drama club till it was practically opening night of the play. Which he never went and saw. The thing about dad is he just doesn’t care. Can I go to a party dad? Mhmm. Can I ride on my friend’s dirt bike? Sure thing, kiddo. Can I spend the night at my friend’s house? Yep. I bet if I had asked him if I could have his car, he’d mindlessly hand me the keys without looking up from his paper. Call it wane of old age, or simply the inability to love.
Now that I think of it, Dad was actually relatively attractive. His hair was black with just a touch of gray, he was tall and thin despite the thick steaks and midnight snacks he was always chowing on. He had big, geeky, thick rimmed glasses--but I liked them. That’s why I got mine. Although he hardly noticed. He used to play football in high school so I can imagine he was quite the lady’s man. However he no longer was buff and his face was creased with worry lines. I suppose I had “stolen his youth” too.
My mom was a different story when it came to looks. She had a bleach blonde bob—though she was constantly in a battle with her brown roots. She wore a LOT of makeup, and short tight dresses. So many low cut shirts that exposed her *fake* boobs. In a lot of ways she was prettier than me… however she was also really scary looking. All the skinny orange flesh against tight clothes sometimes caused me to go into shock, and I had to look away from her for a moment to gather myself, remind myself that she was my mom and not a crazy Barbie-doll teenager. It seemed like any guy within a one mile radius was attracted to her, with the exception of my Dad. He was never wooed by her skimpy red dresses, and held much more interest in his good old Joe then Mom. Which was fine by me. I didn’t want to watch a bunch of kissing anyways.
My mom was a different story when it came to looks. She had a bleach blonde bob—though she was constantly in a battle with her brown roots. She wore a LOT of makeup, and short tight dresses. So many low cut shirts that exposed her *fake* boobs. In a lot of ways she was prettier than me… however she was also really scary looking. All the skinny orange flesh against tight clothes sometimes caused me to go into shock, and I had to look away from her for a moment to gather myself, remind myself that she was my mom and not a crazy Barbie-doll teenager. It seemed like any guy within a one mile radius was attracted to her, with the exception of my Dad. He was never wooed by her skimpy red dresses, and held much more interest in his good old Joe then Mom. Which was fine by me. I didn’t want to watch a bunch of kissing anyways.
And then there was me. I was the most normal of the family, I think. I’ve always been pretty typical when it comes to looks, which constantly bothered me. I wish I could have pale silky hair and twinkling blue eyes…like Annasophia Robb. She’d my idol. I can name every movie she’s in. Bridge to Terabithia, Race to witch mountain, Win Dixie, Sleep walking, Charlie and the chocolate factory… those are the ones off the top of my head. To be her, even for just a day, would be the best thing in the world. Better than winning the lottery or eating chocolate chip cookie dough ice-cream in Hawaii while swimming with dolphins (which would be the second best thing.)
The good thing about being typical is that there is nothing necessarily wrong with you apart from the occasional zit. Straight brown hair, typical. Wide brown eyes, typical. Glasses, typical. Your not really a target for bullies unless you do something that makes you untypical. Which unfortunately, I’m a victim of an un-typical personality. Or as my teachers call it “Spunk.” It’s just their way of calling me a freak without someone complaining to the school board. Not that anyone would complain.
I guess the point of me writing this, is so that I won’t forget. I won’t forget what it was like, nor what my parents were like, because I’m desperately trying to remember, wrack my brain, for any moment in the past year that they’d expressed any sort of love for me. That way, I can go to sleep at night, without feeling empty. Alone. Because despite them neglecting me, I've never felt more neglected then I do now. Now that their gone.
I guess the point of me writing this, is so that I won’t forget. I won’t forget what it was like, nor what my parents were like, because I’m desperately trying to remember, wrack my brain, for any moment in the past year that they’d expressed any sort of love for me. That way, I can go to sleep at night, without feeling empty. Alone. Because despite them neglecting me, I've never felt more neglected then I do now. Now that their gone.
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