Guest Rant : Until Death Do Us Part, Or Something Better Comes Along.

Happy Hump Day! And to make it even better, today's rant is from our favorite anonymous ranter. Enjoy!

Cya in 7

"Growing up I remember being asked, “What do you admire most about your dad?” Uh. Uh. Uh. Uh. “Well, he works hard I guess. And he’s loyal to my mom and I know he loves her.” I really appreciated that fact. Even though I didn’t see eye to eye with my dad on just about everything, there was one thing we both had in common. We both loved my mom. I didn’t trust my dad not to hurt me, but I knew he would never hurt her. It made me feel safe. So imagine how devastated I was to learn that my dad was leaving my mom because he “didn’t love her anymore.” Thirty four years of marriage down the toilet.

A few hours ago, I returned from a trip to McCall where my dad ::clearing my throat:: has a cabin. He is remarried now to a very sweet woman. I would like her very much. I would like her a lot more if my mother were dead.

Let me be clear that I try very hard at this whole “your parents are divorced” thing. I know very well it would be hypocritical for me not to love my father. After all, the reason I’m angry at him is because he doesn’t love my mother. So not loving my father because he doesn’t love my mother, although understandable, is wrong. But it’s hard. I know logically that I am to forgive others of their trespasses. I know that judging others is not my job. I know that criticism tears down relationships. He couldn’t get past the things about her that bothered him. So even though I have a huge list of things that I do not like about my father and feel very justified in those things, I know that I should overlook his past misdeeds, hurts, and wrongs, and love him anyway. So I try. I try very hard not to do to my father what my father did to my mother. Yet still it is hard.

Take today for example. The cabin is now my father’s, but it has my mother’s stamp all over it. Looks the same. Looks like her. Looks like them. Stupid, stuffed animals all over the place. The only things missing are the four quilts my mom made for the beds upstairs. They kind of disappeared. It irritates me that my dad won’t say, “Hey I took those quilts off the bed that your mom made and replaced them with different quilts. Would you like them before I give them to DI?” Everything gets tossed. Really irks me.

Then there’s breakfast at the Pancake House. A family tradition, and when I say ‘family’ I mean my old family, the one where my parents were married. My old PD (pre-divorce) family went there on a regular basis as I was growing up. Now it’s something that my father enjoys with his new wife. Anyway, when they eat out, they always order the same entrée and split it. They ask what we’re going to order and we ask what they are going to order. His new wife says they are going to order McCalls’s Best because “we’ve never had it before.” I choked on my water and held my tongue. I can’t count how many times my dad has ordered and eaten McCall’s Best. He never corrected her. He never does.

That reminds me of the trip they took to Boston. A while back she told me all about their wonderful trip to Boston and what a fun time they had together walking the Freedom Trail and seeing the historic sites. Oh you would have been so proud of me for not saying, “Oh really? My dad took my mom to Boston at least three times. Besides Hawaii, it was their favorite place to go. In fact, one year they took me for my senior trip. The three of us had a blast. Would you like to see my pictures? I have one in front of the Paul Revere statue just like you do.”

I don’t blame him, but I don’t think my dad has ever mentioned a single thing about his 57 years of living before he met her. It’s like it’s all been erased. Was it really that terrible?

So our breakfast comes and they start eating their McCalls’s Best, which supposedly my dad has never had before, and they start talking about their recent trip to Wyoming. They are always traveling. They tell me all about it and the stops along the way, and they talk about the little towns and where they ate and where they stayed and have I ever been here or there. They ask me have I ever been to Tetonia? Oh yes. Tetonia. The beautiful place in Idaho where my grandmother was raised. Yes, I have been there. With my grandmother. And her sister. Again I remain silent and pretend like I have never been to or heard of Tetonia. Then my dad says, “Your uncle Tom was born there.” Oh really? He’s not the only one. Have you forgotten that my grandmother, you know, your ex mother in law was born and raised there?

Hearing about their perfect life is tantamount to fingernails on the chalkboard. And I can’t talk about 90% of my life. I can’t talk about my heritage. I can’t talk about my current plans or future plans if they involve my mother. I can’t talk about why I am the way I am or what my values are. It takes all the energy I have to stay positive and nice and not drift into feeling pained and angry.

So then we go boating. I’m not much of a boater although I’ve spent countless hours on the lake in a boat. When I think of boating, I think of stress. My dad turned into bigger jerk whenever we would go. Don’t step on the seats. Get the sand off your feet. Sit down. Don’t let the boat hit the dock. I could never do anything right. Neither could anyone else. I just tried to stay out of the way. Growing up with a dad that’s really critical makes you feel really nervous all the time. When I’m around him, I can’t relax. I’m borderline scared all the time that I’m doing something wrong. I was like that all day today. I hated it. I was extra cautious and critical of everything my husband and my kids were saying and doing. I was a nervous wreck and I’m sure they didn’t appreciate all my disapproving looks. But it was all because I know how my dad thinks. I know he didn’t appreciate my husband seating our baby next to him at breakfast. I know he thinks my husband is ridiculously nice and borderline cheesy. I know he thinks my daughter is dramatic. I know he doesn’t want my son jumping on the couch. I know he disapproves when my husband orders a soda when everyone else gets water.

After boating we go to the beach and let the kids play in the sand. We’re all chit-chatting and then my dad looks at the mountain across the lake and says, “We’ve taken you to such and such mountain haven’t we?” What? I am so confused. When he says “we” who does he mean? The “old we” or the “new we” because I’ve never heard of that mountain so maybe he means the “old we” when I was a kid? Because the new “we” hasn’t taken us up there. So confusing. And frustrating.

By the end of the day, I was so glad to be going home. It’s exhausting to not feel comfortable in your own skin. I feel bad for other children whose parents are divorced. It sucks the life right out of you. That’s how I was all day. Trying to avoid conflict. Trying to follow all his rules that I’ve internalized—mainly how to be good and stay out off his radar. Being overly grateful for the littlest things because I know how he hates to put himself out. Repressing the anger. Pushing against the bitterness. Remembering to smile once in a while and look like I’m having fun. I’m tired just thinking about it.

So that was my day and this is my rant. Are your parents divorced? How has it affected you? If not, how do you think it would affect you? I’m curious. Do tell."