Eleven

Eleven must be a hard year.

For me, my parents divorced and months later, my Dad took my siblings and me to the Philippine Islands where he had reconnected with his first love and a very good friend of my Mom’s, even at that time. I remember it took me three months of the foreign environment and culture to finally stop hating being there—culture shock can be rough. My step-mom got me into sixth grade while there which was fun. It helped a lot. I spent more time away from home than in it except the weekends periodically.

I guess it’s a year of testing boundaries and independence. I turned twelve when I was there which was ok for an American child, only gifts were a few tchoskies and a telescope my grandmother sent me which I had for well into adulthood before it finally broke.

One of my favorite memories there is when I was invited by the local university to bring my telescope to the roof top of a really nice (and family friend’s) hotel to look at the planetary alignment. It was so cool!

Another favorite memory was being allowed to bring my Brother with me on a school day trip to a major local city and we got to spend money, play games, eat out, just the two of us. It was so much fun. I also kept getting asked if he was my boyfriend and I kept having to reiterate that he was my brother. Nothing wrong with being close to you siblings, just wish that bond lasted longer is all.

I was supervised but not parented while there. I acted like a normal American child in the late 1990s in a foreign country where religion could get you killed and political kidnappings of retired military were more common than anyone wanted to admit. We had good friends though and despite everything, somehow I was kept safe but the point is…

Eleven is a trying year for parents because the kid(s) doesn’t even realize what they’re actually doing; they’re just doing it which doesn’t help the parent(s) to have more compassion for the kid(s) and the parent(s).