This weekend, I’m headed to Florida with my daughters to visit my parents. They are wonderful people. That said, I am also convinced we all leave our parents homes at eighteen for a reason.
A friend of mine from work just returned from a week visiting her parents in Florida, aiding her mom's recovery from a recent surgery. And as she recounted her honest - and amusing - stories of her time there, I could feel my anxiety for this upcoming trip building.
I am convinced that no matter how old you are, your parents never stop thinking of you as their "kid." In talking to numerous friends over the years, no matter what the strength of the relationship with your parents is, this appears to be the case. And given I tried to declare how independent I was starting at about age fifteen, this has been a friction point in our relationship for a long time now.
My parents are, in my mother's words, "from another age." They were married nearly fifty years ago, and they continue to be happy and supportive of one another. My dad built a successful career while my mom stayed home, raised my brother and I, and supported my dad. As intelligent and successful as he is, I am confident, as is he, that he owes much of this to my mom. They are are true team, and it's lovely to see. You don't see couples like them much these days. Certainly not a lot in my generation, and I can't imagine anything of the kind will exist when my kids get around to marriage. If they do get married.
HOWEVER. Marriage is one thing. How we parent is another.
I think my parents often look at me through different lenses. If they are feeling glass half full, they see a lovely daughter who is a devoted mother and committed to just about everything she becomes involved in. If they are seeing me through a glass half empty, I often think they believe I should just be committed.
It's hard for them to understand this life I lead. I try to be understanding of that, because even my friends think I'm slightly crazy. To understand me is to understand them both. Some of their most notable traits have morphed together to form my odd personality. I inherited my dad's insatiable lust for learning and his work ethic, and my mother's devotion to her children. Any kindness I may have or compassion for people clearly comes from her. And any intolerance or or bulls*it detector I have comes directly from him. It's an interesting balance.
For them, it works in harmony as a couple. And fused together in one person, it's competing personality traits that cause me to have literally created an "on/off" switch for my emotions. I stay angry for five minutes and then immediately move on. Or I can be filled with warmth and compassion for someone struggling with a challenge one minute and shift gears to fire someone the next. I respect it's not normal. But it's how one with my life and lifestyle not just gets by, but attempts to thrive.
None of this is what causes me anxiety about my trip to Florida. It is the knowledge that within five minutes of arriving the unintended comments will begin. That my hair is too long for my age, or that I would look better with some lipstick. Last time we were there, my mom actually made an attempt of putting her arm around me so as to cover one of my tattoos from the friends we were sitting with. Years ago, these things used to irritate me to the core. Today, I am at peace with it.
I am at peace, because I'm an adult. It still stresses me out though, because I know I am in for a week of it. I do what I want at this point in my life, and if I like the way I look, a comment like "Are you really going wear that?" isn't going to throw me off anymore. And I am now old enough not to be a smartass and think "You are worried about my outfit but you guys really going to wear that?!" And yes, maybe my hair is too long, and maybe I do look better with lipstick. But if you hadn't realized, I'm fairly independent, and I wasn't looking for input. But thanks.
I consider myself incredibly lucky, as parents go. They are both really good people. I had a great childhood, and I have a brother I love who lives way too far away. We certainly argue, as families do, and aren't always on the same page. Partially, I think this is how many Italian families communicate. To argue is to show passion for something. And then the meal goes on and everyone is fine.
However, the other part of this has to do with the fact that we are all just so similar, and so different, at the same time. As proud as I know they are of me, my parents will never get their heads around their daughter's life and some of the choices I've made. Sometimes I think they are in awe, and sometimes in "WTF?" mode. And I empathize. It's got to be tough to be my parent. I know it was when I was a teenager, but they should know I sure don't want unsolicited parental commentary thirty years later.
So off I go to pack, and get ready for this trip. I am excited to see my parents, and for them to get ample time to spend with their beloved granddaughters. I am excited to get some sun on this winter white body. I am excited to not sit in traffic for an entire week. But I'm totally not excited for the first "Wow, Chrissy, you're still trying to wear a bikini? That's brave." comment. I gave it until day two.
But I will look through the glass half full, as I hope they choose to do with me this week. I'm spending time with a family who loves us. No made what comments are made, it doesn't get better than that.
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