Our son told us he couldn’t go with us to Portugal. He had just been offered a new job, and they needed him to start immediately. Of course it is ok that I am sad he cannot go on this trip.
“I knew you would say No.” I blurted.
With all of her dizzying and big feelings, Little-Girl-Me (age 4) steam-rolled over Slow-to-Process, Adult-me. Instead of congratulating my son, I made it about me.
Instead of telling his new boss, “yes,” our lovely son waited to come home and talk to me first. “Mom, this means I cannot go to Portugal.” I felt like an ass.
My son is sweet. He has a great reason not to go. He was hired for a really cool new job. Adult-Me, my true self, understands, is excited for him and supports his responsible decision. I wish Little-Girl-Me was more healed and would not just blurt stuff out. I own my shit and continue to work. I want to be better. I don’t want my kids to have to live with the resonance of my deep pain.
Immediately, I apologized. “Hey, I am sorry I said that. It really is ok. I am happy for you.”
I left the room and was flooding-after-a-huricane, flooded. I cried, I mean, I wept tears buried deep inside and forgotten by Little-Girl-me. I did not cry because my son is not going to come on a trip with us. I cried because I recognize there were times when the unhealed trauma from my past is so big that it bled all over my children. They could not escape those large moments of my overwhelm. That must have been really hard for them. I am so sorry. I am trying to heal. I am trying to make amends.
As I sat there, I thought of my children. I felt pride. How was I gifted the best kids ever? They are nuanced and beautiful. I looked at my phone and noticed a missed call earlier from my son. I realized it was when I was in the shower. When he couldn’t reach me, he came home to talk to Dave and me. He put us first and shared his news before telling his new boss. He wanted to make sure I was ok. I took a breath and assured him I was ok. The brutality of my past is not my children’s to carry. I am healing that pain and letting it go.
I saw my mom. I heard her pleading words the time I told her we were moving to Virginia,
“BETH, I will kill myself if you leave Utah. You cannot move. Please don’t move. Please don’t leave me.”
My mind blurred. I felt the paralyzing weight of my mom’s stranglehold. I have always been determined not to do this to my kids, even unintentionally, which I had sort of done by telling my son I knew he would say no. Oof! Adult-me encourages them and truly wants them to follow their dreams.
At that moment I heard this voice distinctly say,
“You are their mom. Your burdens should not be theirs. Pull it together and make sure he knows you support him and that everything is ok and then shut up and listen to him.”
That internal voice is right.
My son and I spoke a few minutes later. I reminded him of the trip we took to Southern Utah.
“Remember how you stayed with me when Dad went rogue and hiked down that crazy canyon? You were careful. You were kind and so much fun. We are good.”
Tearfully, I paused and made sure to make eye contact. [insert me gesturing at myself here] “I am just sorry that my big feelings sometimes take over and make you feel bad. I am working on my shit. You are good and I am really happy about your job.”
“But I don’t like your tears.” He said.
“Hey. Hey. I am ok. I love how you communicate and articulate your point of view. I learn from you. My tears are tears and are not your responsibility. I have big feelings. I am healing my stuff and I am sorry when my stuff explodes onto you. I am really happy about your job. Seriously.”
Minutes later he was back upstairs sharing about his new job, his schedule and we were joking about all the discounts he could get us. I apologized for allowing my Little-Girl-Me feelings to overshadow such a cool moment.
“I am really excited about your job. Of course they hired you. You are amazing!” He shared that he is a little nervous. I encouraged, “You are responsible. You are never late to class. You show up.”
“You are right. I am always on time for class.”
We laughed and I assured him he is a great fit.
This is not the first and hopefully will soon be the last time my kids and I have exchanges like these. My sons are kind and forgiving. I am learning and I am healing. I am grateful for the grace they show me.
It is time for this cycle to end and for me to let my burdens go. That is why I need to let sweet and earnest Little-Girl Bethy, who was like a bouncy ball fighting her way out of a dark room, know that she is strong, smart, wonderful and beautiful, that her weight is perfect at any weight, that she is not disappointing Heavenly Father when she says, “Goddammit;” that I am so sorry that Little-girl Bethy was often asked to step aside, was frequently left alone to figure things out completely unsupported or sidetracked to take care of her own mom. Nevertheless, Little-Girl Bethy was strong, determined and tenacious. She survived, is fucking amazing and has always been open to figuring things out. And now Little-Girl Bethy FINALLY realizes that her mom’s pain is no longer hers to carry or to pass on. High-fucking-fives to that!
—
Parenting is difficult. Owning your shit is brutal. Healing past trauma is otherworldly. I feel weighted by grief. Breaking dysfunctional cycles and patterns is the hardest work I have ever done. I hope my children forgive me. I am grateful for the grace they show me.
All images from our last trip to Portugal.