Wednesday, July 16, 2014

high dives and puddle jumps

This is one of those posts where I feel like it could rub people the wrong way. One that puts my heart out there to potentially be cracked, but I feel it churning and when that happens, it has to come out with all of it's truth & good intention.

My son is turning three.
It's the age old tale for me of making sure everyone is included, no one is left out, and most of all my children only know love.
The tale is a twisted one with bumps and bruises from falls {high dives and puddle jumps} but it all comes down to divorce.

My parents couldn't be more opposite people, both amazing in their own right of being, but oil and vinegar always separate even IF you shake them up for a bit.

I remember when my first son was coming into the world - I worried not only about my in laws but my two sets of parents. Managing expectations and taking personal responsibility for the emotion management of others is something I can't seem to grow out of. I wear it like the five extra pounds I want to shed but can't quite commit to working off. So the burden sits there, like a noose.

Six years of grandchildren's' birthdays later, I still become achingly aware of the crevice of pain that IS my family. Not my husband's or my children's', but my past that always comes knocking. While I have learned to navigate through it, there is still a five year old girl in me who never gets used to watching her mommy & daddy hate each other.

Most of my life, I've lived near with or near my mom.
31 years of it actually.
For one year, I've lived near my dad.
Growing our friendship, sharing the ins and outs of the little things vs. one week a year relational saturation.
Now my mom is the visitor, the the home field belongs to my dad.
I am the field manager.
I am acutely aware of the precautions that need to be established, the traffic signs that need to be put up to avoid any encounter pre-game.
This year, there isn't a party, no birth for anyone to be forced to co-mingle at the center of the field for; there's just a one sided coin toss:
mom wins one week.
see you in a bit, dad.

The pink elephant in the room LOOMS there.
We all pretend fifteen miles away is one thousand, that every day grandparent roles haven't switched, and a state line doesn't divide us.

I am five on the inside, thirty-two on the outside.
I am a mom who desperately wants my children to be protected from the bad relationships that DO exist in their extended family.
I am the mom who struggles to answer their questions: 
"Who's your mommy & who's your Daddy, mommy?"
I am the daughter who probably won't ever reconcile the pain it causes me but I will continually unload the burden on Jesus to show me how to love like a grown woman, not a hurt child.

My son is turning three.
Separate celebrations will happen because it's best for everyone involved;
But wouldn't it be amazing IF we could all lay the burden down and BE love for that little boy in one place, at one time, all together?

It would.

1 comment:

  1. Beautifully said Allegra. I have been on that same journey too. I love how you say you are a hurt child in a grown body. YES! It's amazing isn't it? I will be 47 next month, and all the history of the nightmare still unfolds in the relationships- the divorce, remarriages, conflicts and bitterness linger to this day. And over and over again, I become the wounded teenager ready to cry or scream or run away. Sucks, doesn't it? I know. Then there's the wedding and the kids and all the celebrations of life- tainted with the mess of it all. I know, friend. I know. I still have to explain it to my kids- ages 8 and 11- over and over again. It's hard to get, right? Here is our world. Broken.