When I write, I'm very careful. I choose my words with purpose. The stories that I write about show what I'm comfortable with sharing, even in cases where I'm argumentative. But what drives me to write about my son and Magic, is always hidden behind a veil. After listening recently to a podcast though, I found myself wishing I could share what drives me to spend time with Jacob and find time to share his interests. The idea for this post (and probably a few more after it) is to try to put into words things about me that I feel are worth sharing. This will be hard. Very, very hard. It will also undergo a bare minimum of editing - I want it to be as raw and visceral as I can be. No safety net, in theory and practice.
All of what I'll share today has impacted how I look at my responsibilities as a parent and ultimately led me here. I'm sorry if you came for an article on Magic the Gathering today. In fact, you'll find very little Magic here at all.
To understand who I am know and why I write, I have to take you back in time. Everything I'll write in this series of posts is true. I owe that much to myself.
Broken Promises
The first thing that I need to share won't surprise some people. My parents divorced when I was three, and my sister was one. My father left.
I have no memory of this. Likely I've blocked it out. I remember the two story house we lived in. I remember the tire swing in the backyard and the weird, crappy porch off the back of the house. I remember the winter a blizzard piled snowdrifts taller than me while I still lived there. But I don't remember my father and mother in that house together.
Why did my father leave? I only found out when I was nearly an adult that he had had enough. It was never 'my fault' or my sister's. Rather, my dad left because he couldn't get along with my mom. He moved back to his parents' house, about two hours away. My parents' separation and eventual divorce was ground zero for what would be many changes for me.
I have images in my mind, brief vignettes of events that happened to me at a young age. I don't have a clear sequence to many of them. Most of them are negative. Some I wish were not mine at all.
My first clearest memory was painful. I was about 5.
Mom's New Friend
The sequence of events following the divorce is history that I have to state for the record. I do so with no real personal memory or direct knowledge. With the divorce came the selling of the house. Custody was decided to be given to my mom (New Jersey courts forty years ago would always side with the mother so long as she had a pulse and wasn't on a ventilator). My father fought for my sister and I - and would continue to fight for years, but he just couldn't win. Dad was also introduced to a nice new lady friend - and he appeared to be very interested in her.
This is where I have to delve a bit into conjecture, but everything fits fairly well as far as timing and personalities involved. Mom saw my dad's new friend as competition. Not from the standpoint of affection, but as a threat in the courts. If my dad remarried and sued again for custody - which he did - then mom would be worried that dad's status may be looked upon more favorably than hers. The house she had us living in at the time was...well, it wasn't very nice. No angry notes please - I recognize she likely did the best she could manage. So there was likely a fear maintained by my mother that my dad would find a way to win custody.
Mom has never liked losing. So she finally started dating again. I don't know how many dates she had or with how many different men, but eventually she found someone that she could bring home to introduce to my sister and I. To this day, I still wish that I had never met the man that would become my stepfather.
Introducing the Jerk
This history is all necessary to understand my first real memory. It was one in which I knew the time, place, and players involved. I don't remember the exact conversation, but I do remember the emotions.
My mother's new friend had spent the night. They were back in her room when I got up in the morning. Not being allowed to bother them, I went to the living room/dining room at the front of the house. I remember the vinyl footing of my pajamas feet scraping against the large heating grate in the middle of the doorway between the kitchen and the front room. I remember going to the television and turning it on, trying to find something to watch. I spied, during programming breaks, something new and interesting on the coffee table. I had no idea what it was, but it had these interesting screw caps and large letters. One said 'L' and the other said 'R'.
As an intuitive reader, I'm sure you've guessed that I had stumbled upon a contact lens case. I had never seen one before. Being five, I investigate the only way I knew how to. I opened it. I wasn't paying close attention to it, but I must have tilted it. I was shocked to find my fingers had become wet. I quickly closed the cap.
It wasn't long before my mother's new friend came out of the bedroom and went looking for his contact lenses. Unfortunately, one seemed to be missing. He was at first concerned. But when he put two and two together (math was never his strong suit so it took a few moments), the Spanish Inquisition started. It only lasted a few minutes at most before he was screaming at me. How could I be so stupid? How could I be so careless? Didn't I know not to touch things that weren't mine? Why doesn't your mother teach you to leave other people's things alone?
I don't remember being hit (I'm sure it was there). I do remember running to my room, deeply afraid, crying and upset. I was inconsolable. It wasn't until I fell asleep completely exhausted that I found any relief at all.
Here's the one thought that I held onto that day and you'll find as a common theme as I write about who I am now. My mother did nothing. She didn't intervene on my behalf. She didn't step in and say, "Oy, that's my kid, back the hell off." I don't even remember her being there. She was in the house, and given the size of it there is no possibility she would not have heard and had plenty of time to intervene.
Mom failed me.
Why?
So why is it I spend what is likely a stupid amount of money on a game? Why do I write? What drives 'MTGDad'?
Simple. I want to do better. I won't fail my sons. With my older son, I had a very steep learning curve - for more reasons than a messed up childhood. My younger son though, Jacob (who at thirteen is starting to fill out and seem less like a 'younger son' and more like his own person everyday), is my last real chance to get this perfect.
Being a perfect parent isn't attainable. I'm have no illusions about that. But I can't help working towards it. I know I've made and will continue to make mistakes. I promised myself though a very long time ago, that there are two people I'd never be mistaken for when I interact with my kids. I see the same behaviors in my sister as well.
I write because I want to share small successes. I want to show people that a game can be life affirming. For what could be seen as selfish reasons, I need to prove that I can be a better parent than my stepjerk and mother.
Want to know something funny? Currently neither of them are allowed in my house. Both for different reasons. I'll share at least one of those stories soon. My mother's current story is one that is so raw right now that I'm not sure when I'll have the strength to write about it.
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Reblogs, Retweets, & Mentions of all kinds are appreciated - as an independent writer I'm only read when others like what they see and share with their friends.
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[Special thanks and credit for the idea of this series should go to Erin Campbell and her interview of Brad Nelson on The Deck Tease podcast.]
