What's the Difference?

Now that our family gathering is over, I've been reflecting on the differences between a week with in-laws and a week with my parent(s). I'm having trouble putting my finger on it, but there *is* something there.

Maybe it's the lack of corporate anxiety and the notion that at any moment something may be said or done to cause spontaneous combustion. That would certainly be the case with get-togethers with my mother. If my father were there, the whole thing, of course, would be about him.

That brings me to an entirely different topic that I started with, but I feel like going with the flow, so whatever.

My final year at university I lived alone in a small house within walking distance of the campus. One night, I woke-up to what sounded like a mouse scratching or gnawing. I lifted my head in an attempt to get a fix on it, but it had stopped. It was a hot July night and I was buck naked, lying on top of all the covers. I had fallen asleep reading and all the lights were still on. I laid my head back down and started to fall back asleep, when I heard the noise again, only this time I could hear it wasn't a mouse, it was a human voice whispering just on the other side of the window over my bed. It said, "She's lying right in there." Enter Fear.

To make a long story short, I called the police who confirmed that there were men's footprints at and leading up to my bedroom window. I didn't sleep much that night. The next morning, I called my boyfriend, how husband, who came to stay with me.

I never considered calling my parents. It wasn't until recently that I had any idea why and that bothered me. You see, I believe it was wrong to have my boyfriend come and live with me; yet, I couldn't imagine doing anything differently. It seemed like my only possibility. I think I've finally figured out the reason I didn't call my parents. Had I done so, my father would have sprang into action, taking charge and running the show. While that's not necessarily bad by itself, I would have become a minor player without any say in the matter. My needs and feelings would be immaterial. It would be all about Him and all the wonderful things He did to help His daughter. Whether I felt safe(r) after it was all over wouldn't even enter the equation.

So, what does this have to do with my in-laws visit?

I have a medical problem right now, and many days I need to nap. One day during the visit, while my spouse was at work, I needed a nap. One of my sisters-in-law volunteered to watch my kids so I could rest. She cared for them, fed them, but didn't make A Big Deal about it. She didn't draw everyone's attention to it or bring it up in conversation multiple times afterwards. She didn't announce all the troubles she'd had with them, or how she'd had to sacrifice to look after them. In fact, I don't remember her mentioning it at all except to tell me that she'd fed them pizza. It was all so......low key. It was all so foreign.

I'm not sure how to put it into words, but that's the difference.

Guilt

Guilt and I are Siamese twins, joined at the hip since birth. I feel normal taking the blame for nearly anything. My spouse trips over the coffee table? It's my fault because I could have put it somewhere else. Can't find the television remote? Even though I wasn't the last one to use it, I should make sure it's in plain sight. Child drops a cup of milk? I should have reminded him to be careful. There's always a reason why it's my fault. The worst part of it all is that I do it to myself. I apologize for everything. I feel guilty for everything. It always seems that I could have, and should have, done something to make the situation better. I should have anticipated better.

Anticipation. What a word. It was the best thing to be good at when I was a kid.

Perhaps that's why I fight not to feel guilty when my mother calls and tells me all about getting in a car accident in sparsely populated west Texas. She tells me about being all alone and having no one to help her. She had to walk everywhere she needed to go, even to find the bus station to get a ticket home. I had to struggle to apologize for all her troubles, for saying how I should have been there for her. But the truth is, I do feel guilty that I wasn't there for her. Of course, she didn't call, so I had no way of knowing. I didn't even know she was traveling. And truthfully, as badly as I feel admitting it, I don't want her to call. She travels around and gets herself in strange situations, wandering with odd people. I don't want to be the cavalry, riding in to rescue her from her latest bad decision. I don't want to be responsible for her. That sounds terrible.

Since I was a kid, there has always been some reason that my mother was fragile. Physical problems, stress, there was always something. We had to take care of mother. It was a standard refrain. When I had a bad day at school, she didn't want to hear about it because she'd had a bad day at work. So, I'd listen about her bad day at work and bring home the straight A report cards and all was fine.

When my father knew he was dying, he moved nearer to me. More specifically, he moved my mother nearer to me. It was always clear that I was to take care of her. She had been mine to take care of as a child and now she was still mine to care for. It was something I'd dreaded for years. Once my father was gone, I was it. It was like a sentence to return to childhood all over again.