Interactions
I wrote quite a bit last week about my emotional preparations with regard to Sam’s arrivals and departures from my life.
One of the first ways I prepare for Sam’s visit and arrival is to find out who will be driving Melissa. If it’s her boyfriend, it’s always easier: I don’t have any baggage with the guy, and so the meeting is much more pleasant. If it’s her parents, that’s another story: I can’t stand to look at them, and her father’s contemptible and pathetic efforts to make small talk as if everything’s hunky dory just piss me off more. Upon reflection, there’s actually a lot of emotional preparation when the parents are involved: I go out of my way to be as passively unpleasant as I can be without being openly belligerent.
This week, my professional friend wants me to explore two themes. What interactions with Sam’s maternal side of the family serve Sam best? What do I have the opportunity to teach Sam?
The answer to the first question is simple to state, but difficult to actually practice: the interactions that probably best serve him are those in which he doesn’t see his father getting angry and upset when he’s dropped off. Interactions that are positive, or at least neutral, between his grandparents and me. The kid’s only 3, after all, and has no concept of the difficult emotions involved (well, perhaps he does, but more on that in a minute).
I’m sure he understands that I’m sad to see him go: on the ride home, I usually reach back to hold his hand, and he usually doesn’t let it go until I pull back when my arm gets numb. I also know that his last departure was complicated for him: the night before he went home, he started crying before bed and said he didn’t want to go home, a marked contrast to the midnight cries of “Mommmmmy” at the beginning of the week. As Christina noted, “He wants to be in both places at once, and it’s confusing for him.”
I also know that he doesn’t know about, and probably can’t even conceive, of the mind-boggling and all-encompassing rage that courses through me at the very thought, never mind the sight, of his grandparents, to whom I owe so much misery and so much well-deserved retribution. Christina thinks that when Sam sees me pitching his bags into the back of his grandparents’ car like so much freight, and sees my body language, tensed up and sullen, he might blame himself for what’s going on. She wonders if seeing his father clearly upset is a good thing for Sam to see. My professional friend and I spent a good part of the afternoon discussing issues about anger, and whether Sam sees this side of me: I related to her the toilet training story, and how unpleasant it made me feel when Christina asked Sam, “What happens when you wet yourself” and Sam said “Daddy gets angry“. That really hurt me: my mom was always the yeller in my family, and that’s not the way I envision myself. I don’t want my kid to be scared of me (unless he’s really screwed up). I changed my behavior accordingly, immediately during that visit: I chilled out on the negative reinforcement and went for the positive instead. The results have largely borne out this strategy: Sam’s past three visits have engendered very little yelling, and fewer and fewer time-outs: when we get into a disagreement, I usually end it by reminding him that he doesn’t get to visit with his dad all that often, and that it’s silly to waste our time together fighting when we could be having fun. That usually works.
I honestly do not know what to do. Yes, Sam would be better served by seeing positive, or at least neutral, interactions between his grandparents and me. It’s easy to say that, but quite a different thing to practice. I don’t know if I can swallow the little bit of vomit that pops into my mouth when I see those two lying sacks of shit. It’s already a struggle not to grab his grandmother’s cigarette from that ghastly hole she calls her mouth, and smother it under my foot while saying “You promised to quit smoking after Sam was born.”
One compromise I thought up was to speak in an upbeat and positive tone of voice while saying all manner of shitty and hurtful things to the grandparents. “Hey Addie, that dye job looks really good. Have you thought about getting that twitch looked at before it turns into full-blown Parkinsons? I see you’re still smoking: hey here’s an idea! Instead of glaring at me all the time, why not keep your promises to your grandson?” “Hey Al, good to see you. I’ll bet you’re the only guy in Montreal who can boast that his daughter’s Ivy League education is getting put to good use as a waitress.” The kind of little cuts that send someone home seething. “Hey Addie, just wondering: how long did it take you to get over putting your son up for adoption? I’m just wondering because I’m wondering when I’m going to get over having mine stolen from me, and I figure you know better than anyone.”
And then I think that’s just being silly and immature about the whole thing: problem is, when I interact with those two disgusting troglodytes, I see red, and it’s just blinding. It makes me physically ill to be anywhere near those two people, and the notion of making the situation any less uncomfortable for them is a non-starter. I want them to hate driving down to Syracuse (more than they already do), and I want them to hate seeing me (more than they already do).
From Sam’s perspective this can’t be very good. It’s not his fault his grandparents are a couple of assholes. I have a responsibility to be the bigger man and show him how an adult deals with matters like this. I can always express to his grandparents what my real feelings are when he’s out of sight and out of earshot, in a normal, indeed quite civil, tone of voice. Maybe.
But here I go again, writing about ME, when I should be writing about and reflecting upon how this affects him.
More on this, and on question two, later. Like all of my professional friend posts, comments are closed. I guess that seems counterintuitive: why write posts like this if I don’t want comments? The reason is that I’m better able to arrange and track my thoughts when I write them down. Unfortunately, I don’t keep a private journal: every time I’ve tried to keep one of those, it inevitably turns into the kind of bullshit, pompous writing I despise. I’ve always preferred writing for an audience, and while I don’t mind sharing the more painful and complicated aspects of my life, some of it isn’t up for debate and discussion.
I know, I know, I’m a head case.
