My friend was complaining about her mom’s being blind to the evil actions of a particularly naughty grandson. The mother is unfair to my friend’s kids, blaming them for things they didn’t do, assuming they’re always guilty of something. Because of this, my friend has not been on speaking terms with her mother for two months now.
While she was telling me about this, my father went to the post office to drop off a small prepaid package for me. He had never dropped one off before so I told him that he couldn’t put it in the mailbox, but he didn’t have to wait in line- he could just drop it at the front counter. A few minutes later, around 4:15pm, he returned with the same package in hand and said,
“They said to drop it in the mailbox”
“It’s too heavy for the mailbox. Who told you that?”
“They said it was OK”
“Who? The mailman or the people in line?”
“The people in line”
“Why didn’t you just put it on the counter?”
“There was only one person working”
“You can just drop it at the window where they’re not working”
“I’m tired, I’m going to rest”
I was frustrated because I wanted the package to be dropped off by 5pm, but I was stuck working. As my father walked into the office and started playing with his iPad, I turned to my friend and continued our conversation,
“So why does it bother you? Does your mom loving your sister’s son more than your kids mean that your kids suck?”
“Well, no. Even other people see how she’s unfair because they see how the boy behaves. And my mom admits that she loves him more than all her grandkids because she raised the boy with her own two hands.”
“If you feel your mom is biased, everyone around you sees it that way, and your mom even openly admits it, what are you still fighting for?”
What was I still fighting for? I knew my dad, just like my friend knew her mom. Yet, we continued to fight what we knew. I kept putting my dad in situations he was uncomfortable with and my friend kept wanting her mom to change whom she loved. When they refused to bend our way, we got frustrated with them, and convinced ourselves that it meant they didn’t even try, they didn’t love us enough.
But was it possible that what my dad and her mom did had nothing to do with us? My dad’s discomfort with unfamiliar situations wasn’t confined to just situations I put him in – it was all unfamiliar situations. Her mom’s love for her grandson wasn’t a mystery- she was connected to him because she had been personally invested in him from the start. We knew these these things to be true, yet never tired of resisting them. We were always asking, “Why?” while the answer was staring back at us this whole time.
No Comments