On fear and sadness
My parents are mad at me. At least I think that they're mad at me. Earlier today I thought that I was mad at them, too, but I'm not. What I am is sad. I feel like I've lost something that I'm not sure I ever really had. Until I met my wife's parents I was absolutely certain that I had a healthy relationship with my parents. Now that I know that isn't so I mourn the loss of something I'd managed to convince myself I had.
To be fair, I suppose I'm not a very good son. I'm not a very good son for my parents at any rate. I don't fit in. My father worked on an assembly line for over 30 years. He only retired when he did to ensure that he could keep his and my mother's health insurance. To keep busy, he now works third shift stocking shelves for a Wal*Mart. My mother grooms dogs, and my younger brother floats from job to job. He currently works at the same Wal*Mart as my father. I, on the other hand, moved away from northern Illinois to sunny California where I write cryptic notes that allow machines as old as I am to help soldiers speak to one another on the battlefield.
My younger brother played football and was on the wrestling team throughout high school. I sang in the choir and acted in plays and musicals. My parents attended both types of events and supported both of us in whatever we chose to do, but it was crystal clear whose events were better regarded.
Ultimately, I think what created this rift was my independence. I paid my own tuition to Illinois State University where I earned a Bachelor of Science in Computer Science in only four years (the average was five). I also managed to scrape together enough money to pay my own rent and utilities. A car was beyond my grasp, but most things were accessible via foot or bus. After college, I got married to the woman of my dreams. This didn't help matters any. My wife and my parents don't see eye to eye on many things.
My brother is my polar opposite. He has a high school diploma, lives at home, can't be tied down to one girl, and drives one of my parents cars. How I fit into this family, I fear, I will never know.
Things continued. I didn't understand them. They didn't understand me. In their defense, I don't call home much. In my defense, they don't call me much either. Communication is one of those things that requires two people. Then Christmas happened. This requires some explanation. My wife and I knew that we couldn't make it back to Illinois for the holidays. She works retail. Retail workers don't ordinarily get Christmas off. Them's the breaks. So it was going to be a Christmas in California. Not what I wanted, but life's like that. We got our shopping done and shipped our gifts to their recipients, feeling good that even though we couldn't be there our love would be at the party. We also decided to use the money that would have gone to airplane tickets on a big-screen rear-projection HDTV.
Christmas came, and my wife and I both called our respective parents. It seemed nice that we each had loved ones to talk to at the same time. While on the phone with my mother, she asked what I thought of the comforter she had given us. To be honest, I was confused by it; she had watched Jenny open a comforter at a wedding shower not four months before. I thanked her for the gifts (she also sent a sheet set) and we agreed that it was the thought that mattered. Little did I know this only applied to gifts that I received, not gifts that I gave.
As near as I can tell, these are the reasons my mother is angry with me:
- She didn't like her gifts: a labrador puzzle (she loves labradors) to make with my father, and a red sweatshirt (her favorite color, and northern Illinois is cold).
- I didn't call on New Year's Eve (is that a holiday where people call one another?).
- My mother liked my aunt's gift more than her own.
- We bought the HDTV instead of coming home (remember, my wife would have been fired had we gone).
- I didn't call to let them know I got a job.
Now, the reason that I didn't call to let them know about the job is that every time I think I've done something wonderful and am all excited about it, I hear about how I'm doing it all wrong and I should really be doing this, that, and the other thing. It's gotten to the point where I'm actually afraid to share good news with them. Coincedentally, it's for this very reason that I also hadn't told them that Jenny and I adopted a cat from the Humane Society. It was bound to be a problem for her that the new cat has claws and the old cat does not. When I told her today, my intuition was right. She was speechless and said she feared for Brutus's (the declawed cat) life. As I type this, the two cats are huddled together on the comforter of a queen bed. When they do roughhouse, Brutus is always the clear victor, and I've never been scratched by Cassius (the clawed cat).
As far as I can tell, my father is mad at me for only two reasons:
- I didn't call to let them know I got a job.
- I used the word 'terse' in an email.
Apparently, my father didn't know what 'terse' meant. In his mind, I chose the word to make him feel stupid. In reality, I thought everybody knew what 'terse' meant, and it was the word that best conveyed my intended meaning.
So here I am, six hours after we spoke on the phone, and I'm still not sure why they are the ones that get to be angry. I'm not certain what I've done to them, and I don't know if things will ever be right again.
The only thing I am certain of is that I miss my parents, and I hope that they come back soon.
UPDATE: The catbox topic just changed to "That's what family is, our hearts break, but we love you." I think this might be a sign of some sort.