An Unconventional Childhood, Part I of ???

I think it is safe to say that I had an unconventional childhood.

For a start, my parents were divorced. I think I was five. Maybe four. I remember watching through the bars on the landing banister, my mom and dad at the front door. I don't remember what I heard. I just remember my daddy in a black jacket, holding a suitcase. Mom giving him a look that said 'leave and don't look back'. I was supposed to be in bed, but something was going on and I had to be part of it. I was used to my daddy leaving at night--that was when he went to work, night shifts for a security company. But this was different, this was final. Somehow I knew he was leaving. But why, but why? I couldn't call out because I was supposed to be in bed. This scene was not meant for a toddler's eyes. That's what I see in my head, though, when I think of the divorce. The image of my daddy, walking out the front door.

For another, my best friend was my sister. That doesn't happen often anymore. Usually there's an intense competition between siblings, a need for outside attentions away from a suffocatingly close family. But my sister was what I had. I was truly awful to her. Bossy, unkind. I ate her chocolate. I got mad at her at school. I did everything I could to assert my dominance. How kind she was, though. How lovely. The perfect playmate. We would wear the same clothes, have our hair braided in matching plaits. We would lay awake at night in our room and tell fantasy stories of all the adventures running around in our heads. Whisper secrets to each other, giggle. Take turns humming into the fan during stifling summer nights. See how long we could keep it up until Mom came in a told us off. I remember we'd say our prayers, kneeling next to our beds, and I'd always stay there far after I'd finished to appear more pious. Hannah and her beautiful cheesy smile, and her animal love, and her wild composure. I would not love my childhood had I not been loved by Hannah.

I moved around a lot. The one sure thing I always took with me, no matter what, is Bob Bear. I got Bob Bear from my uncle Tommy when I was four years old. I still have him.

Bob has been smothered in tears, snot, vomit, sweat, screams. I've told him all of my darkest confessions. He's the first one to know of a boy I like. He's the first one to hear of a fight I got into and WHY I AM SO RIGHT. I've thrown him across the room and then run over to save him and fix his broken limbs. I will have Bob until the day that I die. I'll probably have him buried with me. Once my mom put him in the washing machine and he came out looking like a sheep and I'm not sure I quite forgive her for that (sorry mom :) ). Once I attempted to convince my schoolmates that he came alive when no one else was around. I carried him in my backpack when I was in Iceland. When I went to therapy I would come home and sob endlessly into his belly. His face is squashed to one side because I have hugged him for fifteen, nearly sixteen, years in the same position.

I quite enjoyed writing this, so I'll probably do it again soon. Thanks for the suggestion momma :)

P.S. My mom has a blog. If you want the link message me.