I have two older brothers, now aged 41 and 46. I had what I recall was a pretty good early childhood, overall, up to about age 6 or 7; my parents were both pretty well-equipped to cater to the needs of young children. They made sure we had lots of their time, lots of books around, lots of creative toys, lots of time in the woods, a lot of music (both recorded and stuff we played on our own on the old piano), not a lot of TV, and they read to us a lot. There was quite a bit of screaming between the two of them, but usually they made an attempt to keep it away from our immediate vicinity. Having it come at us in muffled tones through the bedroom door was ever so much more soothing.
Sometimes it seemed my mother relished the concept of parenting much more than its realities. Occasionally my mother's screaming and stomping would overflow into our immediate vicinity (this trend seemed to increase as time went on, but maybe I was just growing more aware), and was usually completely disproportionate (like over a kid spilling the milk). My brothers and I had a little signal we'd give each other (touching the side of our nose) which meant "mom is mad...be careful". She didn't hit me, but she did throw things (plates and pots and pans), which never hit me, but did occasionally find my brothers' shins and shoulders and heads. I think she did hit my brothers, although the only thing I remember hearing for sure is that she'd hit my brother M. with a hairbrush. My oldest brother thought it was a fun joke to make up a new song based on Elton John's 70s hit "Bennie and The Jets": "Betty and Her Fits". I guess you take the laughs where you can; it helped us bond, anyway.
Although drinking was far from the only problem, roles were definitely assigned to us three kids in the manner common to alcoholic homes: My oldest brother was the Hero (always built up and cited as the role model); my middle brother, the Scapegoat (the one generally first blamed when things went wrong; extra fun for him, as he's adopted) and I, apparently, the Mascot: easy-going, the youngest, and scared to death of conflict. In a trait common to both alcoholics and narcissists, my mother spent most of her time either building us up or tearing us down, rather than just letting us be kids. Reading the tea leaves when she wasn't upset, looking for clues about what might make her upset next (despite the fact that marital dissatisfaction is a concept a bit beyond what a 4-year-old can handle), was a nearly-constant activity. Sometimes the leaf-reading occurred in the background; sometimes it was more of a primary concern.
1 comment:
Those roles are identical to the ones in my family. I, too, am the youngest. In addition to those, we were assigned talents/interests. My oldest was the artist/extrovert, the middle was the bookworm/writer, I was the academic/musician. It was like a competition to my parents. If we had interests that fell outside of these labels, they were more often than not ignored or not encouraged. It took me a long time to ditch the labels and nurture the artist, bookworm, writer, et al in me. We're all rather talented; it needn't be an excluding competition. But it was just another narcissistic game.
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