Does a parent who is sick and tired of a worn out marriage have the option of opting out?
Yes, in my opinion if it is endangering someone’s life, but generally my response is a loud NO.
‘Man up and make it work!’ Goodness knows that life is NOT always bunch of roses, occasionally more like a bunch of smelly khaki bos. (A South African noxious weed.)
My cousin Meg had what she thought was a reasonable life. That is, as reasonable as a severely handicapped child allows. He was the much longed for little boy after two healthy girls. It soon became clear that he would never speak clearly, sit on his own let alone walk.
She got help from my father who owned a manufacturing engineering works and he built her a specialised pram/wheelchair. It strapped him in firmly while allowing his flailing arms and legs to move reasonably freely.
She built him a foam covered ramp on which he could be strapped down on his tummy. It allowed him the joy of waving his arms in the water of a child’s paddling pool when she placed him above it.
Looking back she realised that 99 percent of her energy was spent on keeping James stimulated, fed, bathed and safe. To her everlasting regret she neglected the rest of her family horribly.
At midnight, after a fraught and taxing evening with the girls demanding attention and then James screaming and refusing to go to sleep at his bedtime, her obviously emotionally stretched husband heaved himself out of his side of their double bed and with the announcement, ‘I just can’t do this for one more minute,’ shoved some clothes into a suitcase and simply walked out on his family.
True, he did have a nervous breakdown. But it was in the peace and quiet of his childhood friend’s home.
My cousin Meg also had a breakdown of sorts, but she had neither time nor money to have it properly diagnosed. She had to manage 3 emotionally fragile children who were bereft by their father’s departure, on a shoe string budget.
Her skills as a competent secretary came to the fore. She got a decent job and in the same week tearfully put James into a home for the severely handicapped where he died less than a year later.
On a much lighter note, we’d all be weeping crocodile tears if I told you James’s full story, so time for a change of ‘tune’ continuing the theme of ‘packing and leaving’.
My friend’s neighbour came running into her house very early one morning, still in her slippers. ‘Have you seen your daughter Michelle?’ she asked frantically. ‘Well not actually,’ replied my friend’ because I’ve been busy getting the twins ready to leave for school with Bob. You know what a stickler he is for punctuality.’
‘Come……NOW Bernie, her neighbour shrieked , ‘you’ve got to see this!’
The two women stood at the front window of the house looking across the road at the bus stop.
There, sitting up as straight as a poker, as if there was going to be a prize awarded to someone with the stiffest spine, was Michelle. That was startling enough as she was only 4 and forbidden to leave the house without permission, but next to her was her little red ‘coosay’ (suitcase to lesser mortals) and on his lead sitting obediently by her swinging short legs, was Benjy their family wire haired terrier.
They were both looking out at the passing traffic obviously waiting for something eventful to happen.
‘I’ll handle this,’ my friend Bernie said, half laughing but obviously worried and cross at the same time.
‘Be careful, tread softly,’ cautioned her neighbour wisely.
‘Hello Mommy, you’ll have to get dressed if you’re coming with Benjy and me,’ Michelle announced, her half brushed curls bouncing.
‘And just where are you going?’
‘Benjy and I would like to go to a magic land in the top of the Faraway tree, but we would also like to go to build a sand castle on the beach so it depends where the bus will take us.’
Supressing a hysterical giggle, Monica, her mother, smiled
‘And what have you packed?’ she asked, seriously interested.
‘Oh take a look,’ said Michelle graciously with a twirl of her still dimpled hand.
The latch clicked open loudly and rolling about in the bottom of the bag was Michelle’s rather heavy piggy bank and a tin of dog food with the tin opener from Bernie's kitchen.
‘Well you have covered most eventualities my love but how about some hot milo before you actually leave? I’ve heard that buses are going to be delayed today.
Seeing Michelle checking the road anxiously she added, ‘and how about 3 tennis biscuits to go with that ‘froffee coffee’. Their standard little joke made the effervescent 4 year old jump down and with a ‘let’s go Benjy,’ step up to the edge of the pavement obligingly taking her mother's hand.’
Behind Michelle’s back Bernie made a ‘wiping her forehead’ gesture of relief to her neighbour, who smiled with relief.
I have a friend Tammy in my dance class….. Thursdays 9 ‘til 11… dancing for the retirees.
During the water break chat she recalled the time she ran away.
‘I was an attention seeking, dreadful child,’ she admitted. (That explained her dancing style I thought, amused!) ‘I was always competing with my serious sister for our mother’s attention. My mother called me ‘flighty’ (dancing style once again, I thought even more amused and jealous!).
I never did get her attention,’ she remarked ruefully.
‘So one day we were at a market and Hester was helping our mother choose vegetables,’ she sighed and rolled her eyeballs. ‘I was bored. I wandered off down the road quite a distance away. A policeman in a smart uniform, looked about and seeing just me, aged 4 and a half, asked ‘are you lost little girl?’
‘What an adventure I thought immediately, and lied glibly, ‘yes, I’ve lost my mommy.’ I even organised a tear to roll down my cheek.
Soon I was taken by the policeman to a crèche near the police station where I was sat on the lap of a carer with a plate of the juiciest, syrup oozing koeksusters that I’d ever seen, thoroughly enjoying myself.
Suddenly at the gate was an awesome and terrifying sight.
It was my mother looking like a cross between a furious rooster with her hair spouting on top like a crown gone wrong and an angry cat, puffed up to twice her size. She marched across the grass, snatched me off the lap of the kind lady giving me koeksusters, so that they went flying before I’d even tasted one, and soundly smacked my leg.
My wide mouth occupied the whole space of my face. I was frog marched past the policeman and with a curt, ‘thank you Officer,’ from her taut lips, I was flung unceremoniously into the back of the car on top of my sister who whispered, “mommy’s mad”.’
The entire dance class fell about laughing. The stories of runaway attempts, one a successful bid for freedom, came thick and fast. We were also remembering the days when an angry mother had the authority to smack her child if she thought it was necessary...... quite a deep discussion there.
What is it about running away?
I once did……as an adult.
I carefully and quietly closed the front door of my very nice house in a very nice neighbourhood, leaving my two small tear streaked children on the carpet just sitting there gawping at me. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ I said.
I started walking …fast round the block. It was simply glorious to be simply on my own able to think my own thoughts. I just had had enough and feared for my children’s safety from me!
As my sanity and sense of humour returned, and the black pall of something awful, lifted, I began to run.
I broke my record for an around the block jog.
3 minutes 12 seconds, I recorded.
With my heart pounding with trepidation I burst into my house. I found the ‘fruit of my loins’ in exactly the same position playing with the fringe of the mat on which they were sitting, giggling together, the earlier tantrums forgotten.
‘Have you found your 'sanity'?' asked the older child stumbling on the unusual word.
'Is mummy ready to tell us a story about flying away on the magic mat?’ asked the other one in all innocence.’
‘Yes,’ I gasped, overwhelmed with gratitude that they hadn’t managed to set fire to the house in my absence….. ‘with tea and toast on the veranda, I added generously to overcome my guilt.
Later in life I found a poster that I put up in my sewing, odd job, storage tiny study.......
ART IS THE ONLY WAY TO RUN AWAY WITHOUT LEAVING HOME.
It spoke into the depths of my being.
I took up painting and I am a better woman for it!
Pixabay
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