Staying together for the kids

I’m not a child of divorce. At least, not yet. I never thought I would be, until  last Saturday when my father called me at work — while I prepped for a 250-person event later that day. Thanks for the inconvenience, dad.

“Hey Pa,” I answered, affectionately. “What’s up?” I asked, naively.

***

My parents have been married for 32 years. I won’t say its been a strong marriage, because on many occasions it hasn’t been. They separated briefly many years ago, when I was five or six — it hardly matters. I remember very little of that month-long split, intentionally or otherwise. There was even a coffee mug thrown as their marriage teetered on the edge for a second time, though I was away at boarding school at the time and only heard that story from my sister Kathryn years after the fact. I was either too young or too far away to comprehend what was happening between my parents when they were at their worst.

But for the 10 or so years since that mug was thrown, there has been bliss, and I’ve been there for that. That’s what I know of my parents’ marriage.

Or knew. I’m not really sure yet.

***

They fought this Easter. Louder, and with more tears than I can ever remember. But my parents have never been good at getting through holidays anyways without a few verbal blows. Being children of divorce themselves, the holiday season always weighs on them pretty hard. But this was an explosion of vicious anger, hate, and frustration that had been bottled up for far too long. There was a reason the fight started, but I see now that the water had been simmering for some time, finally boiled over.

Alarm bells were ringing loudly in my head, but perhaps this was just another holiday outburst, I thought. I hoped. The times I had seen my parents in the few months since, they had been civil. More than, in fact. They took myself and my girlfriend, Alison, treasure hunting at Value Village, had us over for dinner on many occasions, and were joking and bantering as happy couples do. They had the odd squabble, as all married couples are known to, but nothing to cause concern. They seemed, well, in love.

***

“What’s up?” I asked, naively.

“Well,” my father said, with noticeable hesitation, “things aren’t so good right now.”

Oh no, I thought to myself. What did I do now? Did I forget to call my grandma back? Did my mom sneak a peek at my VISA bill? Did I . . . 

He cut off my train of thought: “Your mom’s moved out.”

And with those four words, my life changed in one swollen heartbeat. And that may sound like hyperbole, especially coming from someone who doesn’t even know if his parents are divorced or not, but it’s not. I can’t even begin to count the number of things in my life that I can relate back to the strength of my parents’ marriage, especially as so many others crumbled down around them. They were a proverbial symbol of perseverance, so much so that after their 25th wedding anniversary, my mother — a former freelance writer — wrote a story for Canadian Living about sticking it out through the worst of times (something that, if my parents end up reading this, I hope they revisit).

In the article, she mentions that despite both my mom and dad’s parents divorcing when my folks were already well into their twenties, the emotional baggage from both separations has lingered with them their whole lives (again, I see it every holiday season). There’s no age when children will be okay with their parents separating. There’s no point in time when divorce won’t affect your children, nor is there a time when it stops being selfish.

Too many of my friends are children of divorce, and though they seem well-adjusted, you can tell there are times when it weighs on them. Most of us now live on our own, and those that have separated parents aren’t forced to go back-and-forth between houses the way they did in high school. But now, as then, they have to choices to make: who to see first when they come home for the holiday? Who to spend Christmas Day with? There’s no right choice; someone will always feel jilted.

These are the questions that immediately entered my mind when my dad said those four words. Despite my parents’ anxiety around the holiday season, it has always been my favourite time of the year. “Oh God, don’t make me hate Christmas,” was the first thought that entered my mind. “Don’t make me choose.”

At the moment, my parents are not divorced yet, and who knows, by the time this is in your hands, divorce papers could be filed or the two of them could be back in the same bed. But more ways than one, they’ve already made me choose.

My dad broke the news to me. Three days later, I have yet to hear from my mom. Do I call her? Do I wait? If I call my dad back before I call her, am I taking sides? Do I even want to talk to either of them? (The answer to all of these is a resounding I have no fucking idea).

I’m stuck in limbo: unable to reach out to either parent for fear of setting the other one off, or having them grow angry at me. Two of my favourite things, gossiping with my mom and talking hockey with my dad, are gone. Even if they end up together again, how long will it be before the volatility is gone, before I can go out with one without the other being upset? It’s not only their relationship hanging in the balance; the one I share with them is, too.

I still have both my sister and my girlfriend, both of whom I love dearly, but Kathryn is in Ottawa and Alison’s life is as much in the air as my own — or any university student’s for that matter. There’s little for me to lean on. My parents have always been that rock.

As a child, divorce is terrifying conceptually in part because you depend upon your parents for everything: food, shelter, emotional support. While I no longer rely on them for the former two, they’re still a huge part of my support network regarding the latter. I feel no more equipped to deal with this now than I did when I was a child. My relative independence hasn’t made this any less terrifying.

I am now the same age my parents were when they got married. I’m staring in the face of a series of big first-steps. I’m not there yet, but eventually, I’d like to get married and start a family of my own. I have decisions to make about my degree, and my career path. I want to be able to bring my petty fears and insecurities about all of this to my parents; I don’t want to have to hold back for fear of bringing up a painful memory for them; I don’t want to second guess the advice they give me. I want to trust their judgement fully and know  that their advice, like their marriage, will stand the test of time.

I’m cautiously optimistic it can be done, if only because they’ve been through this before. But my trust in them is gone, at least temporarily. If I can’t believe them when they tell me things are fine between them, as they had been doing, I can’t believe them when they tell me something as basic as how their day was. All it took was four simple words. Fortunately, neither of them has told me, “It will all be okay,” so at least I don’t have to pretend to believe that.

My paternal grandfather passed away two Novembers ago, and that was the first time in my life I had to parent my parents. Now I find myself trying my best not to do just that: not to counsel them, not to hear them out, not to smack each of them upside the head. I can’t, because I can’t choose sides, because I can’t be a lightning rod in this storm, and because my mother has told me ceaselessly, “It should never be a child’s job to manage their parents.”

And she’s right. Too many times I’ve had to tell people I care about to stop focusing on their family’s issues and worry about themselves. It’s strange having to tell yourself the same thing, especially because now I understand how badly people want to help repair those burned (or burning) bridges. But it’s stranger when adults stop acting like adults and let their stubbornness and pride get in the way of — and potentially ruin — a family.

I have no idea who knows that my parents have separated, and there may have been some other family secrets I’ve spilled in these words. Even though I know a lot of people close to my family will read this, I think that’s okay, because I don’t want to lie when someone asks me, “Ho w are you doing?” or “I haven’t seen your folks in a while, how are they?” I shouldn’t have to — no one should. It’s damned unfair what divorced parents ask of their kids, even if they never explicitly ask.

This story is me venting; it’s my soapbox, and I’ll get down in a second. It’s a plea for my parents to sort their issues out, and figure themselves out. But more than anything, I hope it’s an illustration of how much divorce sucks and how badly it can mess someone up, even before it happens, and no matter their age. Maybe some can identify with my fears based on their past experiences. If it’s any sort of backwards consolation to them, know it doesn’t get any easier, regardless of whether you reach your parents knees’ or if you dwarf them in family photos.  My hope is that that some parent considering divorce somewhere reads this and, even if just for a second, reflects. That they realize it’s not just a marriage that divorce ruins.

***

On November 8, 1980, my mother and father got married, at ages 20 and 21, respectively. Twenty-five years later, they celebrated their silver anniversary — the one my mom wrote about in Canadian Living. That day, a 17-year-old Kathryn, ever the wiser of the two of us, wrote a surprisingly tender and youthful message in a card that I know my parents still have tucked away somewhere. It said, in part, “As long as mom and dad are OK, everything is OK.”

After 25 years of marriage, my parents  — walking proof that young love can last — were still OK. My sister’s card brought tears to my parents’ eyes, as so many of her notes have (who knows what I’ve been doing wrong this whole time) —  no doubt tears of joy knowing that they’d made it through the worst that their marriage would see.

On July 7, 2013, I said to myself “I’m not a child of divorce, yet.”

Until last week, “yet” is a qualifier I’ve never had to use before at the end of that sentence, but it’s still better than the alternative, because everything’s OK when mom and dad are. Guys, if you’re reading this, try to keep it that way.