My dad would make me pick, the belt or the wooden spoon. I'd pick the belt because a) fuck him and b) it would be over faster.
I used to think this was normal, that every kid got this.
He'd punch me in the arm, in the chest, smack the back of my head to 'toughen me up'.
One night I had a car accident, I called him from hospital (I was fine) he asked how the car was, how bad was the car? Who did I hit?
It dawned on me that he'd never asked if I was ok. I hadn't said anything but "Dad I crashed the car".
Years of abuse that I would hide and no one would know about, except my mother who put up with it and never stopped him.
Now he has very serious dementia, in a care facility on his own, still healthy but completely not himself. He cries and my heart breaks. He asks me to help him die because he forgets who I am, but I remember everything.
They read you Peter Rabbit, too.
They give you all the treats they had
And add some extra, just for you.
They were tucked up when they were small,
(Pink perfume, blue tobacco-smoke),
By those whose kiss healed any fall,
Whose laughter doubled any joke.
Man hands on happiness to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
So love your parents all you can
And have some cheerful kids yourself.
- Adrian Mitchell