They may not mean to, but they do.
I still don’t really know what they meant to do. My brother and I were spectators of something that wasn’t our childhood. It was their play.
They blew hot and cold with love / hate. For each other. Often not in sync so there were four states they might, as a pair, be in.
They fill you with the faults they had
I’ve taken the worst traits from both of them. They don’t like me saying that. I can keep a lid on it though. Usually.
And add some extra, just for you.
It made me default to silence, around them. Just not saying anything, not getting drawn into the performance helped. It made me turn to books and friendships outside the home. And I connected with my grandmothers. My brother, being the other spectator, was able to confirm the sometimes imbecilic immaturity of my parents. We didn’t have those words for it then.
We moved home and country enough times through childhood that intermittent turmoil and dislocation just seemed the norm too.
Now? Things are reasonable. I treat them both like children in a way. Dad? He’s OK. I never expect anything, so what he brings to the table always feels like a bonus. Mum? She knows I can see through her and half the time tries to behave around me. In a way they are scared of me.
They are not together. That’s for the best. However, I wouldn’t exist without them, so I have thanked them.
The main added extra in my Larkinised life is that I learned to blank out the drama and attempts at emotional blackmail and found out that I could get what I wanted away from their little stage.