Our little boy is four years old and quite a little man
So we spell out the words we don't want him to understand
"D-I-V-O-R-C-E," by Bobby Braddock and Curly Putnam
Growing up in Southern California in the 1950's, none of the boys I knew gave a moment's thought to the possibilities of marriage and raising children. Unlike the girls playing family with their dolls and dreaming of a white wedding dress, our concern was how NOT to have kids. It was before the pill when coat hanger abortions were common and dangerous. Many of us carried around a condom in our wallet, and its outline could be seen long before we had the opportunity to use one. Horror stories about flawed rubbers were exchanged over the lunchroom table in school.
Sex and Marriage. I consented to calm my first wife's hysteria about the possibility of my leaving. And when I finally walked out the door (or rather was locked out late one night), I left my two young boys behind, telling myself that she would kills herself if I took them away from her. I had sufficient reason for leaving from the confession she taped to the TV set before I came home one night that told of multiple affairs -- with her best friend's husband, several next door neighbors, a number of one-night stands with strangers, and my brother's friend whose hair she offered to cut. Strangely enough, we had a reconciliation of sorts for three weeks until the night I came home drunk to find I was unable to open the door (it was only because of a wind storm which I misinterpreted, but took it as a sign). But, truth be told, I left to get my freedom from marriage and from my family.
This song is for my boys and I, and my father as well.