spillage

I am not one to blame my parents for my reoccurring moments of unhappiness.
For they have loved and supported me in every way they were capable.
I know this to be true and my heart aches at the thought of not only disappointing them, but also disapproving of them.

My happiness is my choice.
I will forever be turned off by the 30 year-old who hides in therapy discussing how her parents have ruined her life. My advice to the wounded sibling whom I have witnessed make such accusations has always been… “Grow up already.”

I love and respect my parents.
And now that I have outgrown my rebellious youth, I spend my quiet worried moments hoping they approve of everything I do and everything I am. Everything.

And yet, sometimes I am emotionally paralyzed as I recall the moments when they just didn’t show up for me. I am frightened when I realize I do not approve of or appreciate every choice they made. I am deeply saddened as I recall their times of parental desertion.

My son is two-years-old.
The sun has started to set on a stunning day. A day I feel I did not live up to.
I am tired and I do not want to discuss the wheels on his classic toy car. I would like to give up playing the train conductor. I would like a hot bath while listening to the ice clank against the cold drink that I usually reserve for weekends.

I am tired and I look into his eyes. I am reminded of the moments my parents abandoned me. I wince as I realize the wounds are still there. I squeeze out a smile as grab my plastic hotdog and ask him to pass the mustard.