Childhood

Many adult Aspies have blogs where we write about Aspergers from our Adult points of view. We write what we see and feel today. Very few of us write about what it was like to be a child without the voice to explain it through our own eyes back then. I believe that is because many of our childhood memories are colored by our misunderstanding of the people around us.
I was a very young child when I first viewed my parents with distrust. They put my 15 month old sister on the back of a horse and watched her fall off. They laughed while I melted down. At five, I realized they were irresponsible and not to be trusted. It seems my lifelong relationship with my parents was cemented in that single moment.

When I was about 7 my family’s Sunday visits to my dad’s parents stopped. Every Sunday we would go to their house and have dinner where everybody would talk real loud. After dinner grandpa would sit on his chair and my dad would sit on the end of the couch adjacent to grandpa. Grandma sat in her grandma chair, and mom, sis and I sat on the couch with dad.
“No, I believe that chickens are more trouble than they’re worth.”
“That’s because you are stupid.” Grandpa shouted at Dad, his only son.
“I’m not stupid, you will never get enough eggs to make them worthwhile.”
“Well, you’re stupid.” Grandpa sang the refrain.
This is one of the strongest memories I have of Sundays as a child. I must have been about seven when I asked my mom why Grandpa and Dad spent every Sunday screaming at each other. She didn’t answer me, but Sunday dinners at Grandma’s stopped. 500_F_59547634_Pv2SQvLdwKoMAd7V3pFF2F1pVxHjmp11
Mom detested my grandparents, so this was a handy way to take Sundays back from my grandparents.
Dinner at home was never any better.
The family is at the table and my mother has put all the food on the table. We are sitting down and now it’s time to do what they do on tv.
“How was your day?” Mom asks Dad.
Dad always has an anecdote about one of the stupid sons of a bitches he works with, sometimes it’s a mad anecdote, but often it’s funny.
Mom asks sis and I in turn, and we are hoping it will all go ok; that there is nothing to rock the boat. It never really mattered. It was going to be something. Maybe we were having fried potatoes and Dad would mention that nobody could fry potatoes like his mom. This is where mom came in with her pointed but ineffective reply. Something like, “Go live at her house then.”
“Well, I’m allowed to say I like my mom’s potatoes.” Dad said.
At this point mom was crying; She was a very emotional woman when it came to any
disapproval from Dad.
I would invariably pop up with whatever positive affirmation that this situation required.
“You and Grandma both make good potatoes. Dad thinks you make good potatoes.” shirley-temple1
Dinner was an experience that always seemed to escalate. First it would rock, and then it would shake, then it would boil, then it would churn, all the while I was trying to keep peace so this wouldn’t happen. Again.

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