It seems very strange to me that so many parents are so totally unsuited for the children they have, and vice versa. If my parents and I had met on a date to see if we were compatible, we would have nodded politely, smiled, and cut the evening short with a feigned excuse or two.
It's not that my parents were bad. In many ways they were very good parents. My father worked hard so that my mother could stay home with my sister and me for the first ten or eleven years of my life. My mother was a terrific homemaker. There were homemade Halloween costumes, nutritious dinners, daily story times, and adventures at the park. I was never abused or neglected.
And yet, I don't think I got what I really needed from them. I don't think they even realized I needed anything beyond what they provided, which, granted, was beyond what many parents provide their children.
I was a sensitive child, and I got the impression (erroneous or not) very early on that I couldn't quite trust them. When my sister needed glasses, they told me sternly to protect my eyesight so I wouldn't end up like my sister. I needed glasses soon after, but rather than telling them, I hid my worsening myopia from them for the next three years, by the end of which I was pretty damn blind. They didn't seem to notice. I didn't ask for much from them; they might have given it if I had, but I always felt too guilty to ask. Even a ride to a friend's house was made out to be a favor granted at considerable inconvenience to them.
In high school, my parents were busy with their own pursuits and seemed to think that as long as I was a good kid and got fantastic grades, I was doing fine. And to some extent, I was. I had my cat, who has probably always been closer to me than my parents have. I had my friend Tracey's family, who taught me how to drive, gave me rides everywhere, fed me, and all but adopted me. More recently, when I got my first flat tire on my way to a tutoring appointment and was stranded by myself on the side of a freeway with a dying cell phone, my parents were oblivious to my panicky phone call. It was my student's father who came to wait with me for the hour it took the tow truck to show up. And of course, there was that whole heartbreaking month in which Naomi died, the worst time of my life up to this point. Not much from them then, either, although they were there for all of it. Being stubborn, proud, and standoffish, I never asked for help. And they never thought to offer. That's our relationship in a nutshell.
Before meeting Kevin, I never realized I had any emotional baggage. I didn't have any prior relationships; my relationship with the cat was uncomplicated but totally functional; I knew I wouldn't have to worry about codependency or biological clocks. I have since discovered that I have major trust issues and find it hard to believe that even a husband would go very far out of his way for me, even though past precedent should have persuaded me otherwise by now.
Inevitably, I'd make a pretty poor parent, impatient, unaffectionate, and far more interested in cats than toddlers. I'm not sure it would even be a matter of poor fit; I think I'd be bad for any child. (Although I think I'd make a great eccentric aunt to visit from time to time.) I don't want to mess anyone up for life. Just call me Ms. Biological Dead-End. I'll take it as a compliment.