It's been over eight years. I measure the time based on my son's current age and the seasons. He was 8 when it happened and it was the summer. It was the last time I saw my mother and father, as well as my brother and his family. Our family trip to Cooperstown, New York did not go well, certainly not a home run. There was constant discord between myself and my mother, mostly surrounding my son and his behavior. Parenting your child in front of your parent can be daunting.
My son had been typical for a boy, lots of energy, needs to be constantly focused, and mischievous, but not in an awful way. Whatever he did or didn't do that weekend was quickly handled by my parents. He was told to stop running, sit down, be quiet, stop splashing and more. My attempt to guide him was thwarted by their need to control him. I can only gather they did not believe my husband and I were doing a good job, thus their obligation to step in.
Lunch at an overcrowded restaurant was the precursor to the nail in the coffin for these relationships. My son ordered a plate of nachos as did my oldest daughter who was 11 at the time. As soon as I saw the plate I knew my children would not like it. The cheese was processed, the kind I grew up on but never gave to my kids. I made nachos with real cheese. My two did not want to eat the meal, which was fine for my daughter in my mother's eyes but with my son she became quite angered and chastised him. He wanted his second choice of chicken fingers and fries and didn't want half of a half of her sandwich, which my daughter agreed to eat, as she wanted to please her grandmother. This would delay our time at the table as well and there was no time for this in her eyes. My son got his desired meal, I would have it no other way, but you could see the sadness in his eyes that he had yet again disappointed her. My heart was broken.
We went shopping at few more stores. As we came out of the store with bags in tow my son darted out and nearly got hit by a van. The collective reaction was shouting to get his attention and that of the driver, who was speeding in a crowded parking lot. Thankfully he was not hurt, but both my parents proceeded to yell at him, in his face, as though he was a dog they needed to train. My son began to cry and looked at me with despair. He was already shook by the near accident and now he was being shredded by their words. I was done. Let me remind you he was 8 years old.
The remainder of the trip was difficult, yet familiar, as most memories I have of trips, special occasions and holidays are marred by a fight, disagreement or discord. Those were my memories and I didn't want that for my family. This experience is not extraordinary. My mother and I had serious relationship problems since I was a child. It was not uncommon for my mother to stop talking to me for days, weeks or months. Reconciliation depended on the severity of my infraction. Both my parents had no or very limited relationships with their siblings, so we had no relationship with aunts, uncles and cousins for the most part.
Once home I called my mother to talk about what had happened and let her know what my son had said to me. I knew it would not be easy to discuss, but the playing field had changed. I now had to protect my son and honor his spirit which was being destroyed by his grandparents. I would later find out more egregious punishments that were given to him the few times my parents watched my children. The phone call ended with irrational screaming. My mother's final words to me were, "If I die of a heart attack it's on your head." Soon after my father called to rip me apart, as my mother called him at work and said she thought she was in fact having a heart attack. Instead of rushing home or calling 911, he decided to question me, never listening to my words, but cementing the obvious, our relationship was over.
I think the game changer for this event were the words of my young son. He sat with me and said, "Why does Ma hate me so much?" It wasn't a reactive statement. He put thought to this and had developed this idea over time. It certainly struck a chord with me. With honest intentions I shared this with my mother as we spoke for the last time. I was not prepared for her explosive reaction, but expected she would feel disparaged that her grandson thought this for even one moment. Instead she made accusation that he was being manipulative and the anger that erupted from her was worse than I had ever heard. It was a rubberband that snapped in my face. It stung for a moment, as it could no longer withstand the tension. The family ties that bind were severed.
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