Although she says it feels like in happened in a previous life, and almost doesn’t seem real at this point artist Barbara Stanton still remembers every detail of a series of hellish Thanksgivings tied to her now ex-husband and his family. The first two set the tone but the third is when the turkeys come home to roost.
Thanksgiving 1
It was one of our very first Thanksgivings as a married couple and we had a three-month old child. We went to my grandparents' house, which was a lovely gathering with wonderful food. My husband picked fights with my grandpa and uncle and I couldn't figure out what his deal was. We did eat dinner but left early, my husband in a huff.
On the way home we had a big fight because he said everyone was phony and only pretending to be nice. He accused my grandfather of not loving me as much as he loved me. He claimed my uncle was drunk. He said he would not go to any more of my family's events in his lifetime, and he stuck to that pledge. When I went, I had to go alone with my kids.
Thanksgiving 2
The next year we went to his relatives' for Thanksgiving. It started out fine but about halfway through everyone was screaming and yelling. He had four brothers and three step-dads (although only one was there!) so there was a lot of drama. I realized why he had been so uncomfortable at my normal family gathering: it was a completely unfamiliar concept.
Thanksgiving 3
Several years later, when I had two young children, ages three and six, I got his mother to allow me to host Thanksgiving dinner for the first time. Although I’d never cooked a turkey myself, I thought I was capable and was excited to do it. And I did have a mom I could consult. But his mother insisted on bringing the turkey, so I decided to make a ham. Three of his brothers were coming with their little kids, plus his mom and current step-dad.
My husband was an avid pot smoker and his brother was even worse. The day before Thanksgiving, the brother came over and raided my husband's stash. My husband was irate. He went over to his brother’s house but when no one was home he left a note on the door threatening to kill him the next time he saw him. So my brother-in-law called his mother and told her he and his family weren't coming because his life had been threatened. (I told my mother-in-law that the fight was over a "bud," figuring she would think "Budweiser.")
Thanksgiving morning everyone showed up around the same time. The mother walked in with the turkey but announced she wouldn't be staying because then she wouldn’t see her other grandchildren on Thanksgiving. So she was going to the brother’s house. They dropped the food, kidnapped my kids and went out the door. My husband had a raging fit. Luckily he didn’t blame me. He left in yet another huff, and I don’t know where he went.
So within 20 minutes of their arrival, everyone had left and I was all alone with a full Thanksgiving dinner. The next day I invited some friends over and we had a big dinner with the leftovers.
I told my husband I would never have his family over to my house again. No one ever apologized to me.
Check back later for hellish Christmas stories!
Originally published Nov.13, 2008.
Showing posts with label divorce. Show all posts
Showing posts with label divorce. Show all posts
Together for the Holidays
This year, my family will be together for Thanksgiving. I don't mean my extended family, I mean my husband, son and I will eat together. That may not sound like a big deal, but considering that my husband and I separated recently, I think it is.
My parents divorced in the 1970s, the Dark Ages of splitting up. No one knew what the hell they were doing back then. Oh, there was some vague understanding that one parent shouldn't badmouth the other, but no collective wisdom beyond that. No Oprah. No Elizabeth Gilbert. We had Dr. Spock and Elizabeth Taylor and had to piece it together from there. If there was actually a divorcee in the neighborhood, which was unlikely, she was considered a dangerous hussy or a pathetic loser, possibly both.
Holidays were especially fraught, as embarrassed children had to explain to their friends about "Daddy's new apartment." Yes, at the time kids were ashamed when their parents got divorced. They didn't have the examples of scores of classmates, teachers, neighbors and celebrities to reassure them that they weren't "different."
For the first Thanksgiving after my parents divorced, my mother invited my dad to come for dinner. She felt intuitively that holidays should be spent as a family. Well-meaning, yes, but intuition-wise, not so impressive: dinner was a disaster. I've learned the hard way that holidays should be spent in a way that provides the least possible anxiety and the most possible calories and, if relevant, presents. But 30 years ago all we had to go on was our flawed gut, and that gut called for togetherness at all costs.
We all like to believe we're different from our parents, but I think we just make different mistakes. Certainly I know my divorce will be different from my parents'. My (still current) husband and I respect each other and our joint savings account too much to get into a long, drawn-out, bitter legal battle. We love our son too much to have a Thanksgiving dinner that is more about posturing than pumpkin pie.
So this year we will head over to the home of a close and understanding friend. I'm sure the day will be calmer than last year, when a blow-up in the car on the way to dinner almost killed Thanksgiving completely. Of course, my own intuition isn't always on target either. Let's just cross our fingers.
My parents divorced in the 1970s, the Dark Ages of splitting up. No one knew what the hell they were doing back then. Oh, there was some vague understanding that one parent shouldn't badmouth the other, but no collective wisdom beyond that. No Oprah. No Elizabeth Gilbert. We had Dr. Spock and Elizabeth Taylor and had to piece it together from there. If there was actually a divorcee in the neighborhood, which was unlikely, she was considered a dangerous hussy or a pathetic loser, possibly both.
Holidays were especially fraught, as embarrassed children had to explain to their friends about "Daddy's new apartment." Yes, at the time kids were ashamed when their parents got divorced. They didn't have the examples of scores of classmates, teachers, neighbors and celebrities to reassure them that they weren't "different."
For the first Thanksgiving after my parents divorced, my mother invited my dad to come for dinner. She felt intuitively that holidays should be spent as a family. Well-meaning, yes, but intuition-wise, not so impressive: dinner was a disaster. I've learned the hard way that holidays should be spent in a way that provides the least possible anxiety and the most possible calories and, if relevant, presents. But 30 years ago all we had to go on was our flawed gut, and that gut called for togetherness at all costs.
We all like to believe we're different from our parents, but I think we just make different mistakes. Certainly I know my divorce will be different from my parents'. My (still current) husband and I respect each other and our joint savings account too much to get into a long, drawn-out, bitter legal battle. We love our son too much to have a Thanksgiving dinner that is more about posturing than pumpkin pie.
So this year we will head over to the home of a close and understanding friend. I'm sure the day will be calmer than last year, when a blow-up in the car on the way to dinner almost killed Thanksgiving completely. Of course, my own intuition isn't always on target either. Let's just cross our fingers.
The First (Hellish) Thanksgiving
I've lived through another Thanksgiving. This one was good, or at least relatively calm, although I must admit I drank a lot of wine so I've almost blocked out the slight disagreement on etiquette we had on the way to dinner.
Thanksgiving is my least favorite holiday. The pressure to enjoy being with a dysfunctional family, the nightmare of travel, the overeating—there’s so much that sets up the inevitable disappointment. Other holidays can be nightmares in their own ways, but Thanksgiving will always be number one in my hardened heart.
I wised up years ago: we now check into a hotel or go to a friend’s Thanksgiving dinner (her own crazy family is amusing in a way mine can’t be). I refuse to travel by plane or drive more than 100 miles, which precludes seeing immediate family. Overeating remains an issue, but I can’t completely blame the holiday for that.
Despite the coping mechanisms, years of hellish Thanksgivings continue to haunt me, and I know I’m not alone. We all have our history of high-anxiety gatherings with battered, battling or blended families. We all have the dread of seeing those people, and the guilt over the dread.
My first hellish Thanksgiving was when I was 15, the year my parents got divorced. My mother had the misguided idea to invite Dad to dinner. “He probably doesn’t have anywhere else to go.” “Yeah, you’ve seen to that, Mom.” Let the festivities begin!
My friends’ parents fought all the time but stayed married. My parents never fought in front of us—until that Thanksgiving. Maybe it was the knowledge that they didn’t have to be together any more that made them so open in their hatred of each other. Maybe they wanted to stave off those “will you two get back together?” questions from the younger ones. Maybe it really was about the money. All I know is the experience was so traumatic for me and my siblings that all six of us didn’t share a meal again until my wedding 15 years later. And even then, we sat at different tables.
The difference today: these bitter family gatherings are being captured on video and shared with the world. Not everyone is willing to expose the craziness of their own flesh and blood, but luckily for the voyeurs among us, there are plenty who are. Personally, I get a warm fuzzy feeling about my own family when I see how bad some other people have it. Sure, we’re nuts, I know that. But it could always be worse.
Thanksgiving is my least favorite holiday. The pressure to enjoy being with a dysfunctional family, the nightmare of travel, the overeating—there’s so much that sets up the inevitable disappointment. Other holidays can be nightmares in their own ways, but Thanksgiving will always be number one in my hardened heart.
I wised up years ago: we now check into a hotel or go to a friend’s Thanksgiving dinner (her own crazy family is amusing in a way mine can’t be). I refuse to travel by plane or drive more than 100 miles, which precludes seeing immediate family. Overeating remains an issue, but I can’t completely blame the holiday for that.
Despite the coping mechanisms, years of hellish Thanksgivings continue to haunt me, and I know I’m not alone. We all have our history of high-anxiety gatherings with battered, battling or blended families. We all have the dread of seeing those people, and the guilt over the dread.
My first hellish Thanksgiving was when I was 15, the year my parents got divorced. My mother had the misguided idea to invite Dad to dinner. “He probably doesn’t have anywhere else to go.” “Yeah, you’ve seen to that, Mom.” Let the festivities begin!
My friends’ parents fought all the time but stayed married. My parents never fought in front of us—until that Thanksgiving. Maybe it was the knowledge that they didn’t have to be together any more that made them so open in their hatred of each other. Maybe they wanted to stave off those “will you two get back together?” questions from the younger ones. Maybe it really was about the money. All I know is the experience was so traumatic for me and my siblings that all six of us didn’t share a meal again until my wedding 15 years later. And even then, we sat at different tables.
The difference today: these bitter family gatherings are being captured on video and shared with the world. Not everyone is willing to expose the craziness of their own flesh and blood, but luckily for the voyeurs among us, there are plenty who are. Personally, I get a warm fuzzy feeling about my own family when I see how bad some other people have it. Sure, we’re nuts, I know that. But it could always be worse.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)