- Share This Post
- Pin It
- 0
- 0
-
Sparkle (0)
Day 9: When was the first time I realized that my home is not like other people's homes?
If we're referring to my childhood home, the one I remember most clearly was the one I lived in just before being removed from my mother's custody. It was full of drug addicts, so it was like a scary permanent adult slumber party with hairy, greasy men and really skinny, gaunt women in sleeping bags scattered throughout the house.
My sister and I would sneak around sprinkling fireplace ash in their hair. It was great fun.
My closest friends' all had two parents, but their parents were also drug addicts and/or violent alcoholics, so other than having fewer occupants in their homes, they were similar to mine. My house was neat, because my mother cleaned constantly in her methamphetamine-induced mania. My friends houses were neat and tidy, presumably because they each had only one child who was often at my house.
My sister and I considered ourselves lucky to have only a mom from whom to ask permission when we wanted to do something. The other girls in the neighborhood had to ask both parents, who would then fight over whether or not to allow the sleepover or whatever it was.
I was seven-turning-eight that year.
unschoolinglifestyle.com: Other people's houses
saramcgrath.blogspot.com
