Last night my father showed up unannounced at my daughter’s dance recital. I have asked my parents repeatedly to let me or my partner know if they planned to come into contact with my children. This is not the first time this rule has been broken. I told him that if he could not respect the request to ask my permission before seeing my minor children, I would seek a restraining order. He laughed in my face and asked me why I had to make everything so difficult. What I wish I had said—I don’t think extending the common courtesy of including me in your plans with my children is that difficult. But if we’re going to split hairs, aren’t you the one making things difficult by not respecting such a simple request? I did not say that unfortunately. What I said was a bunch of too angry nonsense because don’t f*ck with my kids.

My parents project. My dad projects his self-hatred and my mom projects her victimhood. There are other issues between my mother and myself, but this is one of the deepest ruts. Of course, the way that you realize your parents have these issues is that you first recognize the issues in yourself, which is… a less than comfortable experience. I think there’s a universal cringe we all get when we hear our parents speak through us. Especially if it’s a phrase we were previously on the receiving end of. For me, it’s the intonation. Sometimes I’ll clip a vowel or accentuate a “t” and a shiver runs down my spine. Suddenly waking me up, yelling Change! Change! And I freak out. Freaking out in this case looks like running all of life’s worst case scenarios at once and simultaneously working out solutions to each. It’s too much and my brain sort of short circuits into outer space for a time. Zoomed safely out to the level of pattern. Where things make sense. Sometimes it’s so pleasant in that space that I don’t want to come back to here, where my father is telling me he will sue me for grandparent visitation.

But I do come back, and I do my practice and I breathe deeply and I keep the self-flogging to a minimum until the storm passes.

Today is Mother’s Day, again. I think I’ll wait til tomorrow to read his angry email follow up.