This series of stories will be titled 'I'm surprised I turned out as well as I did, given my childhood ...' 62

First, a warning. Amusing though the humiliation can seem from such a long way off, and the benefit of a couple or three decades, hindsight being 20-20 and all that, and life-experiences giving us way more eduction than schools can - schools give us the knowing but life gives us the learning and life sure can be a harsh teacher... better learn her lessons quick-smart! I can see a darker hue to my home life. I've said for a long time now: My parents taught me how NOT to parent.

The evening was not over just yet though…

My father was one that believed in ‘tough love’ Well… more ‘tough’ than ‘love’ if I’m honest (and for this story, I really do have to be at least honest.)

We arrived at my house. It really did feel a bit weird, smooching in the car with Mick in the back… Certainly not an ideal situation. At least he’d sat in the back – finally…

I offered a coffee and they both said yes, so in we went.

I’m pretty sure my father wasn’t looking forward to the day his eldest daughter brought home her first boyfriend – he certainly didn’t look impressed.

He looked them both up and down and said a begrudging ‘hello’. I told them to sit down and went into the kitchen to make drinks.

I could hear the conversation from the kitchen and I didn’t want to go back into the living room with the drinks. If I thought my great-grandma’s antics were embarrassing, I’d not seen anything yet.

You all know I have ginger or red hair. That was always a source of hilarity – this is where the tough love comes in. My parents (father mainly) subscribed to the belief that if he picked on me for everything he could find, the kids at school would seem tame in comparison. Well, it is a good theory, but it’s a fine balance. I’m not sure my father got it quite right with me.

It cultivated a cutting wit and a sharp tongue. Rather than being able to brush-off comments about my freckles, ginger hair, skinny – well, skinny everything – I developed a HUGE chip on my shoulder. If anyone mentioned me being ginger, I’d fire something back at them with withering accuracy. Rather than instilling the confidence to shrug off the ‘jokes’, comments, slurs, I gave as good as I got and then a little bit more.

Here’s why…

While I was in the kitchen, I heard all the one-liners I’d grown up with. All the tried and tested, older’n god quips and jibes. All directed at me but without me having the benefit of actually being in the room to fire any back in my defence.

“She had a lovely red head when she was born…
No hair, just a red head.”

“She had lovely long red hair, all down her back…
None on her head, just down her back.”

“We’d put her in all white and send her to fancy-dress parties as a match.”

“If she sticks her tongue out, she looks like a zip.”

“She has to run round in the shower to get wet.”

“It’s a good job she has big feet, or we’d lose her in the roadside grates.”

“It looks like she’s been sunbathing under a tea-strainer…”

“We had to tie a bone around her neck when she was little, just to get the dog to play with her.”

They finished their coffees and went home. I went back into the living room and my father said:

“What the bloody hell have you brought home, this time?”

And she shoots, she scores! Result!

Oh yes, humour was a staple in our house and sometimes it went too far. For a long time, I used to wonder why I had such low self-esteem, yet such a belligerent manner… All I have to do is read back what I’ve just written.

I suppose I could be being a little over-sensitive – maybe I am but there’s something about it that doesn’t seem quite so funny now I’m writing it down. It all has a little too much harshness about it, going that inch too far, over into abuse.

We used a similar, yet way gentler tactic with our kids, but they never went out of the house or left the car without hearing “I love you,” and them saying it – and the thing is, we meant it. Haydn has since said we got it right. He was able to look the cat-callers in the eye and say, "Is that it? My mum calls me worse than that!" But the thing is, as much as we bantered, that's what it was - banter and he also knew I'd got his back, even if he did wrong, as long as he told me the truth, we could sort everything out.

I can’t recall saying or hearing 'I love you' in the house where I grew up. I certainly didn't feel like anyone had my back.

I do recall being told that if I was really REALLY lucky, when I grew up, I could be a model…

My daughter was told that when she grew up, she could be whatever she put her mind to and we helped her find her options and how to achieve it.

A few years later, my father asked me a question.

“How did you manage to get such a good husband as Trev?”

I thought nothing about the question, it was one of those regular things… I replied:

“I saw what my mum went through with you and I thought, ‘I’m not having any of that!’ Why do you ask?”

You see, it cultivated a tit-for-tat regime but heaven forbid if I ever got the better of him with my quick wit and sharp tongue. He’d point out something (for example, growing out a perm) “Why don’t you get something done with your hair?”

You see, it was OK to be clever and witty, but never to make him look bad, never belittle him like he belittled us.

My dear friend, Hilary went absolutely ape-shit when I told her that anecdote. I thought it was amusing until she showed me what it looked like from the other side of the coin – it looked like abuse. It’s what an abuser does to keep the partner dependent on them. ‘You’re no good, you’re not worth anyone’s love or affection, you’ll never get anyone that’s better than me…’

He said it as though I didn’t deserve a good husband. I wasn’t worthy of someone that made me happy, that took care of me and our kids. I didn’t deserve it…

That, dear reader is perhaps why my mind goes that little bit darker than most…

Pictures all mine or Trev's... from a misspent youth, with scars and laughter-lines to prove it (yes we did have cameras way back then!)