Who fashions the tools?

Last week I attended a birthday party for a ten-year-old friend of my youngest. I passed the time talking with the other adults who were there with their own ten-year-olds. A friend asked me what my plans were for the holiday. It’s just us, I answered simply. People usually know not to pry. How about you? She told me her mother and father-in-law would be coming to stay for a while. I can’t remember how long exactly, but it was over a week. They stay for six weeks every summer. My eyes must have given away my thoughts. She quickly assured me it wasn’t bad. They were helpful in-laws. She cooks and cleans and he steadily ticks off items on a list of woodworking projects she and her partner compile between visits. So that’s how the other half live?

Out of the four grandparents in my children’s lives only one of them ever washed my dishes and certainly no one offered to put up a shelf. My friend had won the in-law lottery and she didn’t even know it. My initial wave of jealousy was quickly followed by a wave of gratitude that I had not been blessed with more supportive parents. As a result, I can do a lot of things on my own. I can hang a shelf in near silence during a two hour nap time window. Where would I be without that skill? I’ve learned how to triage dirty dishes and our small family celebrations guarantee there are never too many anyway. A blessing.

I am really good at the gratitude game. Of course, its not meant to be a game, is it? I shouldn’t use gratitude to admonish my disappointment in not experiencing the consideration that comes with caring parents. At least I had a roof over my head. At least I had food. I had access to education. What do our parents really owe us anyway? How much love do I need exactly? Are they obligated to care about me forever? And so, I fall back on being grateful for what I got. What else am I supposed to do with the disappointment?

My therapist and the rest of the mental health industry are big on processing emotions. According to them I should be sitting with my emotions before I pack my bowl. Only I don’t know what it is I’m supposed to do while I’m sitting. Am I supposed to find meaning in my dad not knowing which college I attended? Am I supposed to grieve for my mother who ridiculed me for her own insecurities? I think I’m supposed to just let things suck. How does that help anyone? I don’t get it. Where did I put my lighter?

I would have been a different person. The unimaginable version of me would be nothing like who I am today. Had my parents been paying attention, they might have noticed my learning differences before I figured out how to over-compensate for my blip from the norm before it could be detected. They might have seen the value in driving me to sports and clubs so I could connect with other kids over similar interests. They might have encouraged me to explore a few more fields of study before settling on the first one I knew I could do. I could have lived an entirely different life in some alternate universe where my parents were helpful shelf hangers. But this is the universe I am in. The one where none of that happened and I get to figure out how to manage the fallout on my own. How do you process emotions like that? Sometimes it hurts so deeply I stop breathing.

We’re out of milk again. Life goes on.

I am grateful that I can admit that the way I grew up was less than ideal. I can admit it because I have my own children. I think about the amount of time I spent alone as a child and then I think about my own children alone and how unnatural that is for them. My daughter routinely throws herself into my arms for hugs just like she did as a toddler, only now she has a couple of inches on me. My youngest follows me from room to room chatting idly about a guy in a game that can do something really awesome. In truth, my oldest could probably do without me at the moment, but generally they need me around. They need me to see them. That’s so clear from this side as the parent. I can admit now that it was hard to grow up with no one to talk to. It doesn’t excuse me from struggling with tasks that other people seem to accomplish without any depletion of their souls, but it does give me a kind of explanation. It’s hard because it was hard. That I buy. That matches what I see in the world around me. I am able to see myself as part of a spectrum of outcomes alongside those who had it better, and those who had it worse. I feel disappointed and grateful.

I’m happy for my friend and her helpful in-laws. I’m glad she is supported in a way that I bet she isn’t even able to name because it has always been there for her. I am grateful that there are people out there caring for each other. I probably sound so f*cking sarcastic but I swear to you its true. Her in-laws come for six weeks and its something she looks forward to, that gives me hope. It makes me want to hang shelves for my kids and believe family can be comfort. I can make mine feel that way.

It’s hard because it was hard. I don’t have my sh*t all the way together. To say I am lightyears away from an active list of home projects would be generous. I’ve been in the weeds lately, and my friend and her partner are making lists of things for his father to complete when he comes to stay every summer. I guess it’s less of a struggle to dream up the perfect coffee table when you know someone who might build it for you. Maybe its a burden to my friend in some way. Maybe her father-in-law is one of those guys who needs something to do and she and her partner are panicked before they arrive, racking their brains for projects to put on the list. The coffee table, two raised garden beds, and a step stool. Is that enough for six weeks?! Still, it’s nice to know people who want to do favors for you. You can afford to dream a little bigger. If you aren’t cared for by any carpenters, you end up adding the coffee table to the end of your own to-do list. The whole exercise is scheduled use of your future time. Dreaming becomes more work. It sounds bleak, but I think it’s just realistic.