Growing Up In Other People's Houses
How I learned what family really means
The first inkling I got that my family was weird was at Karen Jaggi’s slumber party in fifth grade. Karen lived in a giant house with a sunken living room where we all arranged our sleeping bags. Her mother made so much food that we were uncomfortably stuffed, and we whispered happily to each other long after midnight so we wouldn’t wake her parents up.
When my dad came to pick me up the next morning, I didn’t want to leave. Of course, I didn’t say anything like that, but going home to a messy house full of cat pee and virtually empty of food was almost more than I could bear. With my mother’s erratic moods mixed into the environment, I knew that I wouldn’t be having any slumber parties of my own in the near future.
I became adept at spending time at my friends’ houses rather than mine. There was a girl in my neighborhood named Anne, and I spent more time at her house than at the house my mom lived in with her boyfriend after my parents broke up. Anne’s dad managed a McDonalds, and he would always bring home extra food after his shift (believe it or not, kids do get sick of McDonalds). Both her parents were a little unique, but I felt safer under their roof than at the pretty-on-the-outside townhouse I technically called home.
During middle school, my closest friend was actually my third cousin. Kelly and I were introduced at a family reunion and became inseparable after that. My parents had split up by then with my mother getting custody of me so, once again, I became an unofficial member of Kelly’s household. We went to the same middle school, and her father was the superintendent of schools in the Upstate New York area. He was a very nice man and so kind to let me invade his house so often. Then again, he may have been aware how hard things were at home for me.
Kelly’s mom seemed perfect in every way. She taught Kelly and I how to make delicious homemade donuts, complete with chocolate frosting. Once we had the recipe, we would sneak down to the kitchen to make them ourselves at every hour of the day and night. Kelly’s mom was definitely not “weird” like my mother. She was sweet and loving and smelled perfumy all the time.
Kelly and her family all sat down to dinner together every night. Having grown up eating frozen dinners in front of the TV, I found the idea terrifying but comforting in the end. There were five brothers and sisters, and they all did chores. They rode their bikes outside together. The oldest kids went on dates or to hang out at the lake with their friends. I didn’t understand what they meant by a curfew, but to me it sounded like parents who loved their children and made sure they were okay.
Kelly got a boyfriend as soon as she turned thirteen. I’d never had one of those either, but Kelly let me tag along on dates until I realized she and her boyfriend wanted to be alone. I was so proud of my cousin and her happy life, even if I had a tiny twinge of jealousy.
Eventually, I had to go back to my mother’s apartment that still smelled like cats and looked even worse. My mom was usually drunk or at least on her way to getting there. She was still with the same loser boyfriend, and she was always trying to get me to call him “dad.” When I’d mention that I already had a father, they rolled their eyes at me. My mother knew I secretly worshipped my dad, and she hated it with a passion.
We never ate at a dinner table together. Each of us just grabbed something when we were hungry and brought it in front of the television. We barely spoke when we crossed in the hallways. My mother was too far gone to provide anything I might need, and eventually I stopped asking.
Even though my mom and I moved to Florida when I was in high school, I never forgot Kelly and the rest of her family. Sometimes I’d imagine them all around their dinner table or playing games together like on the Brady Bunch (the TV was my babysitter). I felt like part of a real family when I was with them, and I felt lonely and uncared for by my mom. Why couldn’t she just be like other moms?
When things got really bad in Florida (ushered in by yet another of her boyfriends), my mother kicked me out of our apartment at age seventeen. If it wasn’t for my friends and their parents who let me stay a week here and a month there, I would have never known I had grown up in such a toxic family. I saw people who loved each other dearly, mothers and daughters working together in the kitchen, and I learned some of the chores that a household regularly needed before I got an apartment of my own.
Today, I still struggle with managing everything with my life, my house and my time. Still, no matter what, I’ve never made my kids feel unloved or like a burden. I’m grateful to have them in my life and show it every day. Of course, their friends are always welcome at our house, and I make a point of getting to know them because there may be a kid out there feeling unwanted just like I did. It’s always been my policy to have a house that is safe.
I’m so grateful for all the “pretend” houses I grew up in. Because of that, I learned about love, empathy, responsibility and what a real family means. I’m hoping my kids will learn all that from me.
Real and beautifull writing, thank you
Hello dear 👋🏾
I think I know you from somewhere, you look soo familiar