Bea V. Larsen . . . .Commentaries |
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Bea V. Larsen is a Senior Mediator at the Center for Resolution of Disputes in |
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Conflicted This entry was posted on 12/6/2008 7:10 AM and is filed under Personally Speaking. Am I the only parent of grown children who is conflicted about their visits? Two live far off, another several hours away. They lead busy complicated lives so don’t come often, although would come more frequently if I asked. But I do not ask. It is our email and phone connection that is constant, and comforting. Yet, on special days, their arrival is happily anticipated. Both sons came last weekend, each accompanied by a loving partner. It is wonderful to see them, to hold them close. So why, two days later as they are packing to leave, am I relieved to have them on their way? And why am I lonelier and more troubled after they are gone, than I was before they came? The morning after our joyous coming together, we sit at breakfast and make plans for a movie and dinner out. We foresee a frolic, an escape, but from what? On our return home a call is placed to their far away sister, and the phone is passed from one to the other as they walk to a corner of the room to have a more private conversation. I’m reassured by their intimacy, knowing they will have each other to rely on when I can no longer protect them should troubles arise. Of course, this is an absurd thought, for I can’t protect them now, but shouldn’t I, the mother? Or have the tables already turned? It is a lighthearted day that ends with ice cream. But the next morning, there is a downcast look on one son’s face. No one appears to take notice. I ask if he slept well and he tells me he did not. Were there disturbing interactions of which I’m unaware? Did some old family tension intrude on the make-believe of our perfect gathering? Perhaps I should ask, but I do not. Then he rises from the breakfast table and moves to stand behind the woman with whom he is rebuilding a house, and a life. He gently kneads the tense muscles of her neck and shoulders. I am both relieved and pained, for I remember that touch, so often received from my loved one. The message is clear: we are in this together. I’m here for you, to pleasure you, to work with you, a constant presence in your life. My throat tightens. They know well how I miss him. They miss him too, but do not speak of him. Do they think it would make me sad? It would not. Lingering over coffee, laptops at fingertips, concerns arise of approaching bad weather, and the leave taking is hastened. Smiling departures are made, with hugs and promises of future visits. Then my rooms are empty. I go about the satisfying task of returning seldom used items to their well-ordered places. Glad to be alone, I try to push concern aside, and name it as theirs, no longer mine. But it doesn’t work. What triggered my melancholy? An old family trouble come back to life? Was it something I did or failed to do? Should I have probed, asked more questions? Or am I misreading the signs? If I had not glimpsed that look of sadness, would I now be at ease? The thought that follows: a parent should be able to restore a child’s well being. Twisted thinking. He is not a child, and for me to probe, uninvited, would be meddling. How can I help? I cannot. Should not? Conflicted. There are so many emotional undercurrents when families reconnect. For us, they usually remain unspoken when together, to be sorted out when we return to our separate lives. Is this a failing? Then I recall the boundaries I maintained with my parents as Len and I worked out whatever difficulty each or both of us faced. That felt right. Independent. Mature. I will get on with managing my own life. They will manage theirs. These are grown men with loving partners. I need to let go, and I will. Tomorrow, or the next day. CommentsDisplay comments as (Linear | Threaded)
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