I Owe My Parents Everything! Thanks, Mom and Dad.

I was recently reading Roberta Wasserman's article titled "I Don't Owe My Parents Anything." She's a therapist who is estranged from two of her four children. She works with many estranged parents cut off by one or more of their offspring. Interestingly some of those most critical of her work are fellow counselors. She has mentioned several times how shocking it was to be attacked by her colleagues for listening to suffering parents and advising them:

As a professional working with the increasing population of estranged parents, I had created a training to illuminate this popular movement and its emotional impact. The reality that many of the current estrangements were seeded and rooted in therapy rooms compelled me to create space for deeper understanding. Instead, I was met with vitriol and hostility on a professional platform—an intensity that stunned me. Only later did I realize that many of the keyboard screamers were themselves estranged. My words had tapped into their stories and threatened their perceived peace.

Obviously these were therapists who had cut off their own parents. Misery loves company as the saying goes. Imagine an adult child on the couch in the offices of these fellow adult children talking about their respective parents' failures. How many triggered therapists offer the immediate advice to just cut them off without knowing a thing about the parents' story or their perspectives or the likely damage caused by breaking ties with their children's grandparents. 

Wasserman makes it clear she isn't talking about true abuse:

I want to clarify that when I speak about estrangement in the Land of Odd, I am not talking about abuse. Abuse warrants distance, safety, and sometimes permanent estrangement. But most parents experiencing estrangement today—including myself—did not abuse their children. We are imperfect, human, loving parents who showed up, tried, and sacrificed. Yet even ordinary imperfection is increasingly treated as grounds for total erasure. That distinction matters—for truth, for healing, for the next generation watching how family behaves.

So what's the definition of abuse? My mom called me "Scissors sharp and twice as snippy." Fact is, I was. Should she have said it? No, I can see the damage labeling did to some of my other siblings. But would I describe that as abuse? No. Did my parents intend to hurt us? I'm sure not. Mom slapped me once in my entire life when I was screaming at her. Why was I screaming? I can't remember. I deserved the slap, but I sat there writing in my diary how much I hated her. I was thirteen which I've personally found one of the most difficult ages with kids, especially girls -- raging hormones and all that. But I dare anyone to call my parents negligent or abusive. They were flawed human beings doing the best they could at a time when the traditional support structures were collapsing.

Poor Mom. Now in my daily prayer time I pray for her and ask for forgiveness. She raised ten children with a husband in the Navy who was often gone. And when he was home, he often wasn't emotionally present to her much of time. I idolized him, but can't say I ever knew him. Mom wanted to travel after Daddy retired but he was tired of traveling and just wanted to stay home. So she went on several trips with my sister. After one, she got back and Daddy had adopted a huge black dog. Mom said that was his revenge for her leaving him home alone.

What were their lives like? They lived through the depression, the attack on Pearl Harbor and the years of World War II. They moved over thirty times in their 44 year marriage. When I think of the stress and challenges they faced, I hyperventilate. They were not complainers and I rarely heard them say an unkind word about anyone, except perhaps the churchmen after Vatican II who were undermining the faith.

Was our family life a garden of paradise? No, but we almost always had family dinners together until I left home after college.  We celebrated countless birthdays, First Communions, and other special events. They suffered from children making terrible choices and facing the consequences those choices created.

I owe my parents so much, everything in fact since without them I wouldn't be here. That's me in my mom's arms. She loved us all, often imperfectly, but love us she did. What does my list of debts include? My life, my ten brothers and sisters including the infant who died right before birth, the close friendships I have with several of my siblings, my education, my faith. If I live to be 100 and have 100 Masses said for them, I can never repay them for putting up with a bright but sanctimonious smart aleck who rarely offered them the respect they deserved.

I snapped the picture of my parents above on their 25th wedding anniversary. It's faded and gradually disappearing. Memories of them is already being lost. Only my oldest children knew my parents. The youngest doesn't remember my dad at all. She was only two when he died. None of our grandchildren remember their great grandparents. It is the path we will all be on as we exit this valley of tears. We will not be long remembered except by God.

Mea culpa, Mom and Dad. How I wish you were here so I could kneel down and beg for your forgiveness. Whether you're in Purgatory or Heaven, I'm sure you can still see this miserable sinner and pray for her. Please do. I love you.