Before my parents divorced, when I was 8 or so, we lived in a beautiful home in the suburbs of Chicago. I went to an elementary school that can only be described as ‘sweet.’ I was shuttled in by one of several mothers, including my own, who were part of a carpool. And the entrance to Woodland Hills Elementary School was up a long and tree-lined lane. It was the perfect little place to spend my early, my formative, years. Or so I thought.

I have such fond memories of that time in my life. I was young, my parents were still married, we had activities going on all of the time, and it was simply idyllic. I went to school, which I adored. I’d eagerly run-walk the halls to get to Miss Sirota’s art class, where we’d make little clay dishes, decorated with Chinese characters. Or paper mache animals (a horse for me!), plaster finger puppets (William Shakespeare: check…). And then I would head to lunch (where memories of Aziza spitting out a hunk of a tuna fish sandwich onto the cafeteria table have so deeply scarred me that I cannot eat tuna, to this day, without a flashback to that incident). After school, walking through the back grounds, I have vivid memories of searching through a pile of leaves, from recess earlier in the day, for a ring of turquoise and silver that my beloved Grandfather (“Poppy”) had given me, from a recent trip to Santa Fe. And I found it! Can you imagine? And Erik, the future pro-hockey player, helped me to locate it. Can we say “first crush?”

There were birthday parties on the weekends. And tennis lessons. Swimming at Mitchell Pool. The “tornado slide” at Jaycee Park. Ballet with Miss Marilyn. Tape-recording sessions in Jen Ariano’s bedroom of the two of us, singing the most ridiculous made-up songs ever, and then falling into fits of laughter at the absurdness of it all. Eating green onions in her backyard, right out of her mother’s garden beds, the dank taste of dirt still on the thin stalks. And always something at my home, a party, a dinner, a brunch. My parents were social butterflies. As far as childhood went, it couldn’t have been more perfect.

And then, divorce. And life as I know it took a dramatic turn. For the worst, I would have to say. And Indian Princesses? That good old father – daughter rite of passage? Let’s just say that the father who escorted me to the meetings? Well, he wasn’t my father. And he was mean. A certain fallen ice cream cone never to be replaced comes to mind… What I would have given not to be the odd girl out, the first child of divorce, in what turned out to be our snotty little suburban hamlet.

My father? He moved into the basement. He used an entrance to the house that allowed him to avoid my mother, but also allowed him to avoid my brother and myself. And then, he moved into the city. And while we saw him on weekends, it was never quite right. The hand-off was on a Saturday morning, in the parking lot of my mother’s office. And one day? There was a woman with him, sitting in the front seat of his car. And when I mentioned her presence to my mother, my mother couldn’t help but reach into the car, her hand extended, to properly introduce herself to this other woman. And this other woman? She recoiled, as if my mother had the plague. And a mere nine months after my father and my mother split? My father married her. This other woman. I was all of nine-years old. And miserable.

And my relationship with my father? It was never the same. Ever. I went from being Daddy’s Little Girl to being persona non grata. He went on to have another kid with his new wife, and then they left Chicago for NYC. There, they rebuilt a new life for themselves, for their new family. One that my brother and I didn’t seem to fit into. And so, our visits were few and far between. And over the years, they became even fewer and farther between. Until my father became more of a distant uncle, rather than a dad.

I went off to college, my father divorced #2 in a “War of the Roses” type of situation that had us all choosing sides. It was a horrible time. But not for long, at least not for him. He met #3, gave me a step-sister, and at the ripe old age of 25, he gave me yet another half-sister. This one? He left news of her impending birth on my answering machine. It was devastating.

And I’ve long since gotten over all of the details of my early life, those defining years that can make of break a little girl’s psyche. You know, will she have abandonment issues? Will she even trust anyone again? But what I’ve never really gotten over was the literal loss of my innocence, of my childhood. And sure, boo hoo, whoa is Melissa, right? But come on, think back to your own childhood. There are just certain unalienable rights that I believe we were all due as children. And while those “rights” might seem superficial or impossible to attain, I can’t help but wonder, what if? What if my parents had remained together? Worked through their differences? What if my father had decided that it was okay to have a wife – a partner – with a career of her own? And not some corporate drone of a spouse? And what if my mother had decided that it was good and lovely to be a stay-at-home mother? And that doing such did not mean she was stupid and boring? And what if we’d remained in our home in the suburbs? And I’d gone on to become Homecoming Queen? Or Valedictorian? And gone on to college, only to proudly graduate in four years? And so on, and so on…

Alas, that was not to be my destiny. Instead, my mother, my brother and I moved into a little townhouse a few miles away from my childhood home. And my mother threw all of her energy into building a successful career as a sought-after designer. And my father forged ahead in a new relationship with a woman who purposely and jealously drove a wedge between us. And I went on to grow into a young woman with abandonment issues, who trusted no one. And I bounced around the country, in and out of college. Every year, I’d move to another state: New York, Virginia, California, Iowa. I had boyfriends, friends. And I thought nothing of leaving them behind, in my wake; no reason, no excuse, no forwarding address. I felt cheated and I was angry and resentful and then…

I grew up. I met the man of my dreams. We dated, fell in love, broke up, got back together, broke up once more, got back together again, moved in together, became engaged, got married, moved a few times, worked through our issues, started a family, and landed here, in Utah. And it’s been blissful. Everything that I hoped it could be, but didn’t believe I’d ever live to see.

And as I spent this evening looking back on my childhood, my only regrets? They’re not what you’d think they’d be. Not in the least. My regrets? They are simple; innocent. I no longer regret the loss of what could have been. No. I regret not knowing how to press flowers in between the pages of a heavy book. I regret never learning how to whistle, blowing out, instead of sucking air in. I regret never being taught how to make a textbook cover out of a paper shopping bag from the grocery store. Or making an Ojos de Dios on a lazy Saturday afternoon. Or being the proprietor of my very own lemonade stand. Or being taught how to change a tire on my first car. Or the delicate and specific art of folding origami fortune tellers. Or the rules of Jacks.

But my girls? They will know all of the above. And then some. Because their mama was smart enough to order a copy of “The Daring Book for Girls.” I don’t want my girls to miss out on the same things that I did. I want their lives to remain as innocent as possible, for as long as possible. And while I know that in this culture of gossip magazines, Bratz dolls and cell phones, this might seem unlikely, I am going to do all that I can to insure it is not. Sleep-over parties with “Light as A Feather, Stiff as A Board?” We’ve got it covered…