It is as the adage says, you can never go home again.
It’s not that you can never go home, and as I used to repeat to the children when at the end of the day, we eased the car into our our driveway,
Home is the place / that when you go there/ they have to take you in. That section of a poem by Robert Frost laboriously examined for our provincial exams eons ago -when language and literature were two separate papers and worth 100% of your full year’s grade- somehow stuck in my head, was repeated over and over again, and was met with rolled eyes and guffaws along with “ MOM, we know!” In other words, shut up.
It’s that parents and children change, and reminiscent also of the Heraclites’ line “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man, “suggests that walls, doors, people are not static and change and rot and deteriorate whether animate or non; and we exist in a perpetual state of flux.
Yet within the rooms of your childhood house, there are the whispers and dreams and longings cherished -and scorned like cast off toys: some we wish we could forget and others we hold close as torches towards what might be in the future.
Returning to the comfort, security and hugs of being loved as a treasured child goes hand in hand with the resentment of living beneath another’s rules, conforming to the outdated mores that no longer appear to apply. Pause, remember, and you can feel the hotness of a slap, observe the grimace of haughty look, the sound of slam of a door and re-experience the anger, hatred and despair, the solitude of pain returning to sear you and you are that individual again, that abandoned child, furious at your stupid parents.
Always it is the push-pull, avoidance and approach, the paradox of life: that backwards-forwards caught in the whirl of opposing forces. And for all of us, it is the same: for once we were all children, albeit growing up in different times where the rules continued to change as society did, and our parents expected, demanded at the very least a resemblance of tolerance and respect.
Over time in many families the distance between children and Boomers, hoping not to perpetuate the stern coldness of their own parents, altered so that gap almost leveled to “ buddies” or friends. I remember my father’s response when I , silly girl in elementary school called my sister “ a prick”. And my grandmother’s crushing behavior towards my mother that was not to be challenged. My Boomer generation tried to create an ease of communication by reducing the distances, by hanging out, acting like friends, but yet it did achieve the intended goal of easy relationships. How could it?
Although the Boomers might want to share a light hearted social exchange, when disagreements occur it is the parent who change hats and endeavour to enforce his/her view on the child who now might just scoff at taking direction from their peer. Think of Hugo in Australian bestseller The Slap and his behavior by lovingly indulgent parents, hoping to raise him as an equal.
There are differences between generations and in trying to bring them together, both groups have paid a price, I think.
I do not know what the perfect model would be. Certainly one does not want to grow up in a family of fear and forbidding rules; however, how devastating is it for parents to be dismissed when their views are contrary to their child’s who will not tolerate any opposition. On both sides there is pain, hurt and confusion.
I recall admonishing our youngest daughter not to skydive, not to tattoo herself, not to… all in vain. Now with children herself , she worries they too will repeat her youthful jaunts. Yet, I, too, hitchhiked in Europe with unsavory characters, threw caution to the wind, hung out in Dam Square, travelled on trains aimlessly and far from my parents’ scrupulous eyes, did exactly what I wanted. Rather than youth being wasted on the young, it is a time to experiment, be a wild ( well a little), find yourself, and enjoy life, before conformity to job, partner, society takes you on roads not paths,.
As parents, we love and invest, I truly believe, unconditionally in our offspring, offering ways for them to bloom into whatever flower or weed their shape might take, nurturing, giving supplements and what we think helpful advice. Otherwise, we fear they might become Rousseau’s wild child.
How much, how little, obviously is determined by one’s own values, our own beliefs that are felt necessary to the nurture. In university we were introduced to the conflict between heredity and environment and believed ourselves FREE to cast aside the impact of our genes, free to recreate ourselves. Today I understand the complexity of the interaction and with discussion of epigenetics, even more so.
I will admit that for some years before my mother’s passing, I was so furious at her that I detested spending even a Saturday lunch with her time. Yet like the fox and the little prince, we did persist and eventually that resentment I harboured towards her eased. Or maybe she moved onto a new space where we could communicate. Or maybe I did. And once again I was blessed to recapture the love I had experienced as an adoring child. We shortened the distance between generations, so we could be friends, laugh and chatter together. Still I needed her wisdom: on knitting, on life, on many things. The rough and jagged space was bridged and I was relieved to feel my mother’s warm arms around me.
Sadly, when she died, I wish she had said something special, gentle and loving to me, rather than angry resentment of being in her hospital bed. Yet the years before and certainly her brightness to me as a child continue to illuminate my life and warm me. I know I was loved and I loved her. Each day there is something that reminds me of her and I am grateful to still be in her sphere.
I’m not sure how we will be remembered by our children, if occasionally something obscure will cause them to ruefully smile and laugh at one of our foibles . Who can say what a person packs in their memory bag to carry with them into their future?
I recall the good and the bad of my parents. I was, am their child, subject to their rules and their ways of knowing. I acknowledge that my good life was a product of their hard work, their concern and love for me. I am not just grateful, deep in my aching heart, I harbor real love for them and I miss them