Thanksgiving was fast approaching, so naturally I asked a co-worker about her plans for the holiday. She said the usual, dinner with immediate and extended family.
“Will everyone behave?” I asked.
“Probably not,” she said.
The troublemaker, in this case, was her mother. She makes everything about herself, I was told. And frankly, my co-worker was sick of it. She planned to confront her 70-year-old mother about it on Thanksgiving because . . . I don’t know . . . uncomfortable conversations around the banquet table help with the digestion, I suppose.
Since we were on the topic of festive events, I told my co-worker about a celebration that I’d like to put on everyone’s calendar. It should happen on everyone’s 30th birthday. Guaranteed to make your 30th the best birthday ever. A boon to greeting card companies.
Here’s what you do. On your special day, when you turn 30, you forgive your parents and stop blaming them for your wretched existence. They are completely off the hook. (I can still hear my co-worker screaming at this suggestion.) But I explained, we’re off the hook, too. No more holding onto past grievances with the expectation that our parents must and will make everything better. On this day, your attention shifts entirely to the pursuit of happiness despite what they did.
I picture this rite of passage bigger than a quinceañera. I’m talking really yipping it up! The buzz alone will be incredible. I imagine parents saying to their children, “It’s almost your big three-O, anything you’d like to get off your chest before you can’t? Any accusations that you want to bounce off of me? I’m all ears until your birthday.” I imagine friends saying, “Can’t wait for you to experience your big 30th. I lost 45 pounds after mine.”
My dad died from alcohol abuse. I was 22. It was difficult for me to talk factually about him without sounding bitter and resentful. Telling what I believed to be the truth made me sound rotten and nasty. The rite of passage I’m suggesting would have softened the conversation. People would have listened politely and nodded in agreement, knowing that any resentment I harbored would disappear on my 30th. If I persisted in holding a grudge after my rite of passage, I would get the gentle reminder, “Wait . . . aren’t you over 30?” Then we’d both laugh at my silliness.
Back to my co-worker—I get it. I wanted to have it out with my mom, too. For starters, she had a penchant for spanking and whacking me when I misbehaved, which was often. I wanted her to know how much she hurt me. So I manned up and confronted her. Her response—“I never hit you kids.”
I was stunned. Mostly by my behavior. I was safely in my early thirties, 12 inches taller than her and 20 years free from her last beating. From my vantage point, my mother was small and harmless. By now, more often than not, we enjoyed each other’s company. I loved and appreciated her, and I’m confident she felt the same about me. I thought, what do I hope to gain by confronting her? So I dropped the subject, and I dropped the long list of all the hurts, and I forgave her on the spot. Except for one small item. I never got my big party. Oh, didn’t I mention that parents get to pay for this proposed celebration?
Into the Comfort Zone 