Climbing Back into the Womb
Visiting your parents as an adult is like trying to climb back into the womb. It is uncomfortable, you don’t quite fit, and there is usually a lot of yelling. I’m sure this is the same for many families, but it is certainly true for mine.
I’m an only child to two very loving, doting, conservative, semi-helicopter parents. Whether they choose to support my adult decisions or serve as my venting partners is a 50/50 gamble on any given issue. Sometimes I am met with unwavering support. Other times I’m met with a terse argument about how I am wrong.
Since I am an only child, I choose to visit my parents several times a year. I pack up my rambunctious and sometimes too emotional pitbull and drive the 4.5 hours to my parent’s quaint and quiet home. It is a trip I usually look forward to taking but sometimes question once I am there. The reason? Well, within a few hours after I try to inch my way back up into the womb, I’m met with resistance in all forms.
We fight. About everything. Despite being a relatively successful and fully self-sufficient 34-year-old, my life choice to remain in my home city despite juggling a remote career often comes under fire. “You could live anywhere. You are going to regret spending the best years of your life paying someone else’s mortgage.”
Believe me, I want to buy a house. But I am a millennial with a lot of financial debt and baggage. It is not my time, Boomers. Also, I love my home city. I’ve cultivated a collection of fantastic friends who I consider family. When I use my “friend argument,” I’m met with “you can make new friends.” That is such a silly rebuttal.
Why on earth would I want to make new friends in a place where no one knows my name when I have amazing friends in a city I love?
The next fight is usually over something asinine, like dishes. I am to wash my dishes the moment they are done being used. If I put a snack bowl in the sink for later, it is the ultimate sign of disrespect. Now, I’m not talking about hoarding 50 glass cups and stockpiling the sink with greasy and dirty dishware. I’m talking about a single bowl that I hoarded in another room so I would be the one to wash it before the night was over. Sadly my father stumbled upon said bowl and it became an argument.
My life choices. My weight. My taste in men. My friendships. My career. My daily routine. My best friend. My finances. It all comes under fire. Now, I understand it is under the pretense of “love” and “care” for their only child, but at some point will I ever get the benefit of the adult doubt?
My guess is no. Also, don’t get me started on our political differences. That is a whole other animal.
If you find yourself in the same boat as me, my advice is this: don’t climb back in the womb. Nod your head a lot but not enough to be considered patronizing. Try to convince yourself that even when it hurts, they’re trying to come from a place of love.
And set some reasonable boundaries for your own sanity.
