Breaking Cycles

(I started this post more than a month ago and never posted it. As I reread this piece, I realized it didn’t feel finished at the time. So here goes publishing incomplete thoughts.)

I’m not writing about my third son yet, as I said I would last time I posted. For one, the ideas are not yet formed. It’s not a conscious process, it’s something that takes shape beneath awareness and then unfolds before me as I type. I find it hard to push a subject even when it seems to be the naturally occurring next topic to discuss.

I also want to note that I feel stuck because my perspective has changed. I felt like I was emerging from the pandemic and processing from that space. Now, I realize it was but a sandbar, not the shore. I’m swimming again. Sometimes, against the tide. There’s no room for processing when some days I feel like I’m struggling to breathe.

So, instead, I am going with the flow. We’ll see what emerges.

There are certain things I hesitate to write about because I don’t want to hurt feelings. And because I don’t always take the time to write about all the nuances of a subject like today’s: feeling cherished. I hope the general meaning comes through.

My dad and stepmom visited me recently. I hadn’t seen them in two years. Over the years, I’ve noticed my dad has become more generous since he has been married to my stepmom. I’ve often felt like an afterthought with him. I know it isn’t on purpose. He holds a lot of pain for all the times he wasn’t there for me or with me. Imagine how bad he’d feel if he knew everything I’ve kept from him over the years in order to protect him from feeling bad for not being there.

As a result, I never felt cherished by him. There’s a certain frivolity that comes with feeling cherished. Cherishing involves unnecessary displays of love just because.

He was never the best gift-giver. As a little girl, all I wanted was a Barbie. I got books. The most frivolous gift I remember getting was a set of plastic combs and barrettes for my hair. The ultimate example of a bad gift was the year he gave me a Far Side calendar for my birthday. I finally asked him to please get to know me better and at least ask me what I want rather than guessing because it had become too painful to receive such ill-suited gifts.

I don’t know what happened, but on this trip, he was obviously intent on showing generosity. The little things added up: Paying for the plants I had chosen, paying for meals, paying for fancy olive oil, paying for random things I was buying the boys, etc. This happened every day of the trip. Even as I was driving them to their hotel for an early-morning flight, he pulled out his phone and ordered something for my garden. I couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t necessary. As materialistic as it sounds, I felt cherished.

At first, I had a hard time accepting the offers. I decided to just say thank you. This could sound really selfish of me to put such an emphasis on these acts of giving. But it’s so much more than that.

More than two years ago now, I surprised everyone when I told them we were moving across the country. My husband and I had intended on making North Carolina our forever home. My parents, who live in NC and South Carolina, were very happy that we had moved “home” after being in Texas for seven years. Then, Patrick and I made a choice that changed life for all of us.

“We will visit each other a lot,” I told my parents. “We’ll make our time together really special.”

Then, the pandemic hit. Suddenly, we were canceling planned trips left and right. We didn’t know when we’d see each other again. In the beginning, when Patrick deployed to New York City with less than 24-hour’s notice, my family was truly upset they couldn’t come out to help me. Then, they heard my waning spirits as virtual school lagged on and the boys’ frustrations increased. Finally, when I got sick and started falling down, and then broke my coccyx, my parents and stepparents were all devastated they couldn’t come and help.

I’m 45 years old, but I know that when they see me, they see all the younger Russian doll versions of me inside. I know that no matter how old I get, I will always be their little girl.

Even though there isn’t a “they’re” there anymore … my brother and I are here. We will always be theirs. Mom and Dad will always come together for us. I learned the extent of that when my brother went missing for more than two months.

I feel fortunate to be going through this pandemic with all my children under my roof. As hard as it’s been, I haven’t had to worry about what I couldn’t see nor about what I could have imagined. (It’s usually worse than actual reality.) Instead, I’ve been able to peek in on them from a distance, walk by and tussle their hair, or say, “of course you can sleep with us” as each has asked us at various times and frequencies.

I’ve been able to hug them, all the Russian doll versions of them — from infant to current age —, whenever they asked or said yes to my request. I’ve been able to smell their hair and feel a rush of attachment and the safety that brings.

“They are here.”

“They are safe.”

I know they feel cherished. Whether I am showing it with a smile that lights up as they walk in the door or with a cup of cocoa I sneak into their room while online with friends.

When I look at my 16-year-old, I see both the emerging chiseled features of a young man and his infant's eyes. Our relationship is the container of so many versions of him. And me. I’ve grown and evolved as a mom. I’ve let go of aspects of myself that no longer fit him and picked up new roles and relational patterns. Namely, the act of stepping back … especially when I want to step forward.

I believe that after this long time of physical separateness, my dad was intent on showing his love for me through the purchase of material goods. It was a generous act that flowed from love. For the first time in my life, I felt spoiled by him. Furthermore, though, beyond feeling spoiled, I felt cherished.

At one point in my visit, he asked, “What could your boys possibly want? They have everything.”

I didn’t know how to take that. Did he think I spoiled them? In many ways, they are spoiled with the things I didn’t have as a child. As a girl, I wanted the Barbie dolls my friends had. Most of all, though, I wanted to feel cherished by my dad even though he had to move out, away, and into a new life. No matter how it was conveyed, I wanted to feel cherished. Sometimes, there’s just too little time and the time that exists is filled with the must-dos. That’s not a recipe for cherishing.

Similarly, my dad never felt cherished by his father even though he was right there. For whatever reason, and perhaps inspired by our prolonged separateness, he found a way to break the cycle with me. It’s not just the gifts I received … it’s the thoughtfulness and the taking care of that are behind it. It’s all the actions that said: I love you. I missed you. You’re important to me.