Welcome Back, Me

A three-year hiatus, but I’m back. I stopped writing for a few reasons. But mainly – One: I moved twice in one year; Two: I was too emotionally involved in my pain with the forced separation from my adult son, K.

There’re always the jokes and horror stories about mothers-in-law (MIL). I presume they’ve been written and spewed out by indifferent and ungrateful sons- and daughters-in-law (DIL). I have friends who have the sweetest, most loving children, SILs and DILs. I once had a sweet and loving son. We had a close relationship. My sister, not of the touchy-feely sort, complained while walking down streets with him; he walked so close to her. My son and I walked that close together comfortably while sharing comments, observations, jokes, moments of peacefulness and quiet.

His first day at college, I didn’t know how to leave him. He was great about it, ready to throw himself head on into his new life. I was busy tucking in his bedsheets and blanket, something I hadn’t done since his striving for independence at eight years old. Delaying the time I would have to walk out the dorm and on to a life concerned mostly with my own well-being, my own thoughts and actions about feeding, clothing, sheltering, protecting, pampering, bolstering, boosting, encouraging, confronting, scolding, sweet-talking, soothing, growing, and educating myself – not our selves.

He graduated from a top-notch university, where I sent him to rub elbows with connected kids, children of similar aspirations, a future of unlimited possibilities. Instead, he met an insecure, whining steel magnolia, member of a family of female man-eaters – except for one: the patriarch who guided his family of female acolytes and cultivated their boyfriends/fiancés/husbands to genuflect and obey. That family had unerring eyes set on what type to pick: sociable, non-confrontational, gullible – and maybe somewhat over-protected – young men whose adolescent social age belied their marriageable chronological age.

Once K’s girlfriend, C, found out I “peeped her whole card,” and wouldn’t comply with the role of simpering and fawning MIL, I was done. I never saw my son again, alone, for the next three years until she was safely married to him. Visits and phone calls were sharply curtailed. Feeble excuses and outright lies slid more easily from his lips. False accusations inflicted on my heart became the norm. Isolation from “unacceptable” members of the family was completed through C’s unrelenting encouragement. His “favorite” family members became only those two or three that, for whatever their own reasons, appeared to dislike me. I don’t know how many there are. The ones that matter, who love and care about me, I’m still in close contact with.

The cult-like tactics were many. I began to refer to them as “The Cult Fs”. No way I could blow him away from them with a guided atom bomb.

I finally built up the courage to cut myself away from that pain. This year I sent out letters to friends and family I had not regularly communicated with in all that time to reestablish our ties. Although the pain cut deep, I was healing.

Truth: my son does not like me. Period. Live with it.

And so I have. My health is improved; my mind is at rest. I gained additional friends, and I’m closer to the rest of my family.

I’ve made emotional adjustments to the fact that I will age without child or grandchild by my side. But, just the same, I’m not alone . (smile)

I’ve made financial adjustments by not putting a down payment on their house, and buying a two-bedroom, two-bath apartment with a 500sq ft terrace in Harlem – my house. (BIG SMILE)
I party, I travel, I'm gardening, I'm back to writing, I'm returning to customizing my jewelry creations again.

I'm back to myself. Welcome back, me.