Well .. this has been an interesting day to say the least. I've just finished writing this message and having read over it I realise that it is very intense, but I don't apologise for that. I've had a stark realisation and its been quite an emotional awakening that I thought it was worth sharing.
It's not entirely on topic but it just goes to show that even as adults we can learn from each other about kids and, remembering that we were all children once, we can learn about ourselves.
And a big thanks to Fi ... I think you've given me the knowledge to understand why I am who I am and how I used to be.
I just happened to be clearing out some of my emails when I came across a reference to Stephen Biddulph. That made me track down the thread (this one) and read what I'd missed.
Fi, ... I told you I skimmed this thread - mainly because it was addressed to Vicki. I wish I hadn't ... and so glad I came back to it.
I was also a very very angry young boy. I'd always put it down to being the smallest in my classes and getting picked on. Reading the excerpt from that book (thanks Fi for posting it) highlighted a very important point for me.
My most aggressive times were early primary (2,3,4) and also years 8,9. My Mother's Dad died when I was in year 2 and my Mother's Mum died when I was in year 8. All of my Father's family live in New Zealand and NSW so my Mum's parents were the only family I had regular contact with.
I was too young to really remember my Pop, but I have a strong memory of sitting on his knee while he made his cigarettes in a tin case, carefully laying out the paper and the tobacco on this leather strip inside the case. Then upon snapping the case closed out would pop a rolled cigarette. I thought it was magic! I also remember the smell of his pipe. I still love that smell of pipe tobacco.
Pop had a stroke and was in hospital for a number of days and we had come up from the country to stay with Nanna. I remember the telephone call that Mum got whilst we were there and my Mum bursting into tears and running outside to see Dad. They just stood there holding each other and I knew something was terribly wrong. I also still remember the nightmare that I had for days after.
I didn't go to the funeral. I never questioned it, or at least I don't recall questioning not going.
My Nanna died in 1982, when I was at the end of year 8. I have a lot more memories of her. We were living in the country again and had a police officer come around to tell Mum & Dad the sad news because we didn't have a phone (hard to imagine that now).
Mum & Dad went to Perth for the funeral and left us kids behind with friends. They were gone for a few days. I pleaded with them to let me go with them and to go to the funeral but they said I was too young. I was 12.
I had a teddy bear that I'd owned since I was born and had loved so much that the soft fur had almost all come off and only small patches were left intact. My Nanna had knitted a complete cover for it (yellow wool with new button eyes and black wool mouth and nose) when I was about 6 or 7 to protect it. I cried myself to sleep each night while hugging that bear and that bear is still my most precious possession.
I have never really forgiven my parents for not allowing me to go to the funeral. I've told them that, though not so bluntly. They still believe that they did the right thing at the time - I can't argue with what they thought best, but I knew differently.
The first funeral I attended was a very dear friend of the family when I was 22. A lovely old Italian woman who practically adopted my family when we were neighbours. We were always a part of their celebrations - every engagement, wedding and baptism. I grieved at her funeral, not only for that loss, but also for my grandparents for whom I never had the chance to say farewell.
Reading the quotes Fi posted struck a chord with me. Yes .. that is exactly what I had felt. The anger and the hurt and the frustration.
Finally I could start to understand the angry young boy. What a relief. What an awakening.
I guess that is why I was so set on taking Sophie to the funeral of my Uncle (Dad's brother) in NSW. Sophie was 3 and I carefully explained what had happened and why we were going to Newcastle. I took her to the chapel and she saw Uncle Peter laying peacefully in the coffin and she blew him a kiss goodbye.
It was just so perfect of her to understand and not be scared.
As we were sitting in the chapel during the prayer service (typical catholic formalities ... not even at the funeral yet) I was obviously looking a bit soulful and Sophie jumped off my Mum's knee and came over to me, gave me a big hug and said "Uncle Peter's safe now" and then she had a cry with me.
I wish I could have had that opportunity when I was young.
Thanks, Fi, for helping me discover a part of myself.
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