Thanksgiving approacheth

Ah, it's that most wonderful time of year. That over the river time of year. It's time for Thanksgiving.

It's my favorite holiday, ya know.

I could skip Christmas (and have, the year we went to Mexico).

I've got a free-range, never-frozen turkey sitting in my fridge (slaughtered, of course)

I've got print-outs of wheat- and dairy-free recipes in the kitchen.

The parents are on their way.

Uh oh. Screech. Halt. My parents.

Oh joy. Oh anxiety. Oh my utter lack of patience with all things parental.

I have been stressing all week about the coming criticisms.

Last time they were here, my dad sat and watched the baby cry right in front of him. For goodness sake, just pick her up.

He is always telling me what things I *have* to do with Beatriz (or to her).

"She needs to be in her own bed. She has to learn independence"
"If you want her to sleep, just give her a bottle, then you don't need to be there"
"She has to learn to cry"

To most of which I think "What the fuck? That doesn't make any sense" Then I think "Wow, I must have been a miserable baby" Then I realize I ought to say something, without being reactionary.  Without it disintegrating.

I am afraid it is going to be a long week.  When Bea was first born and my parents were here, it was ugly. The trip in July was marginally better. This is after 10 years of me really working on trying to understand and feel, not sympathy, but compassion?, for my parents. To understand where they come from and not to let where they are in life negatively affect me.  And I just feel bullied by them.  Well, mostly my dad, I suppose. My mom just doesn't listen or hear. And she is also going deaf (physically).

And Bea is just so darn cute. I am not sure they appreciate this. And I think she is happy. I think that counts as a positive for what Triple S and I are doing with her.

So much has changed in parenting since I was a kid. My mom didn't breastfeed my sister or me, and I don't think either of my parents were breastfed either.  We were let to cry ourselves to sleep those first few nights, until we just gave up.  We were to be seen and not heard. I don't remember my mom ever getting down on the floor and playing with us. In fact, she loves to proudly tell me that I loved being alone in my playpen and fought to get back in when my sister kicked me out (no wonder I am such a home-body).

I am consciously doing many things differently than the way I think my parents did it. And I hope to continue to do so. I am sure that I am making mistakes, and will make many more. I just don't aprreciate being criticized about it, almost as second-nature, without them even really thinking about what they are saying.

The big problem is, I don't want to fight with them about it. I don't want to be short with them, or to throw it in their faces that I think they did things wrong. I am sure they tried. Did the best they could with their resources.

I have been trying to come up with ready retorts.

I checked in with Triple S and he is happy with the way we are doing things.

I want Bea to feel safe, and secure, and to know that she can alwas come to us.

Because I never felt that way with my parents.  I still don't.  I can't trust them with my emotions. I muddled my way through my teen years because they weren't there for me. 

And it's not just because they left me to cry in my crib. It was a childhood of thoughtless comments and strict, ever-changing rules, and lack of respect for me as an individual. Even as a kid, you are still an individual.

I want Bea to see me handle stress with grace.

And the parents definitely cause me stress.

****

If I don't make it back here in time:

To all you Americanos:

Have a peaceful, happy, and stress-less Thanksgiving. 

To the rest of you:

Have a nice Thursday! ;)