I was called a tween this week: the in-between years of parenting your own kids while taking care of your own parents. It sucks every bit as much as middle school.
The night before, we received a phone call at 2am. It was not the first time.
My mother-in-law woke disoriented, fearful of the man in bed next to her. She could only be calmed by my husband, who roused from a deep slumber to drive across town and coax her to swallow a sleeping pill. Instead of tucking sick kids back in bed, now we’re roused by sick parents.
The following day, my husband cancelled two of his clients so he could grab shut-eye, while I drove the school carpool, a brief pause in the busy stage of building a career and family. We’re in the thick of life and unprepared for additional demands on our time.
The wave of guilt and selfishness is unbearable. We alternate between petulant tantrums and silent grief. Mostly, we just want to be parented ourselves a bit longer.
I miss the days my mother-in-law stashed twenty dollar bills and secreted them to us like a spy in an elaborate hand-off. I miss the days she took our youngest to the zoo and McDonald’s and brought sticker books. There were signs even then, as each week produced the same sticker book and our 5-year old had to navigate to the zoo. I miss her visits overseas, her confidence and adventuresome spirit carrying her across oceans to see us. I miss walking into the kitchen to see her and my husband sharing a cup of coffee and a good conversation, him being mothered.
For all the ways one misses a good parent and grandparent, I miss her. How cruel that she is here, but not. How maddening that we can’t say goodbye, that we missed the moment the curtains closed on clarity as days oozed into weeks, as function and memory trickled away. How heartbreaking to see my husband grieve her loss every time he sees her; that our kids barely remember the grandmother she was.
If I’m honest though, the grief too often gets buried beneath the frustration. Deep. These days, it seems we are more likely complaining. How can we manage their needs and our own?
These middle years are unfamiliar, unchartered territory. We’ve been careened into this stage with fits and starts, rebelling against reality, resistant. Solidly, we do not want to be here. We would rather be anywhere but here. In the same way that my 12-year old struggles to embrace her changing body and grieves her passing age of innocence, I also struggle to transition into a new phase of life.
As any angsty and insecure tween would do, I am debating a signature statement. Last week it was a nose ring. The week before, tattoos. Something to anchor me in a youth that reigns in spirit, if not body. If I’m going to be pulled into the second half of life, I’ll do it on my terms. It is also probably just as much an attention-getting, shock-value move as any skilled adolescent would know. Look here, in-laws! I’m still young and shouldn’t be at this stage and don’t forget it!
Good Lord.
These are the messy days that no one told me about.
The mess of conflicted emotion. The mess of putting my sweet husband in the middle, again*. The mess of creating healthy boundaries that are continuously crossed or renegotiated or shifted. Did I mention I don’t want to be here?
Lord, take my mess and make me Yours. Take my shortcomings and meanness and impatience. Take my lack of love and replace it with grace still wafting your scent. For all the days I am here, may I be with You.
*This entire post is with his permission.
Beth Bruno is passionate about issues of injustice and a global sisterhood. Often, this looks like curating the stories and work of incredible women and calling her two teen daughters at least once a day to “come watch this.” Married for 23 years, she and her husband share a love for dark chocolate, dark coffee, and bold wine, among other passions. Their son is headed to college so Beth is not thinking about it by nursing an obsession with Turkish hot air balloons and European villages on her Instagram feed.
“The wave of guilt and selfishness is unbearable. We alternate between petulant tantrums and silent grief. Mostly, we just want to be parented ourselves a bit longer.” I feel this tension right now. I have three teenagers and my father is dying. How do I parent both my parents and my children, let alone myself? I feel less alone and very understood reading your post. Thank you.
I am grieved for you, yet relieved to remove some aloneness.
Beth, There is no guide telling us how to do this with grace. It is one of those slog through it things we must do the best we can try to learn it as we go – sometimes kicking and screaming as we do so. First, may I say, I’m so sorry you are in this place. My heart goes out to your entire family as you deal with losing this dear woman before she’s physically gone. “Tween years” are not easy years. We are living them as well. The previous comment ended with, “I feel less alone and very understood reading your post.” Thank you for writing so honestly and bravely. There are others like you out here. We’re leaning in, listening, watching, hoping for a sliver of understanding and a spot of hope as we navigate our uncharted waters as well. “We read to know we are not alone.” I truly believe this. Please keep writing, Beth!
Oh how we wish for a guide through unchartered waters though!
Thank you, again, for speaking to the depths of my own heart and experience. I am grateful for your willingness to share your truths.
Thank you dear one!
This piece touches me deeply – you are so articulate about the conflicting emotions, and the paradox of grieving for a living parent. I share your prayer, and am in solidarity with all my sisters who have to go through this. Thank you!
Thank you Claudia. Such a paradox!
Beth – thank you for your honesty and transparency. How hard this is. The statement below speaks volumes!
“The mess of conflicted emotion. The mess of putting my sweet husband in the middle, again*. The mess of creating healthy boundaries that are continuously crossed or renegotiated or shifted. Did I mention I don’t want to be here?”
Thank you for sharing – that it is OK to feel this way. To acknowledge that you don’t want to be there but you are and you show up – both you and your husband.
Thank you also for your session at Brave On – it was special and I enjoyed it and the whole conference.
Becky, I’m so glad you enjoyed Brave On!
Beth, it was so lovely to meet you and spend time with you in the flesh at Brave On! My heart feels every sentence, and although I am not in the exact same stage of life, I know the way unexpected demands and duties fee like they will break you. May God refresh you every day in the ways only He can. Sending love to you in this messy season!
Kelsi, yes! SO good to meet you in the flesh.
I too feel your pain every day as I care for my mother who lives with me and has dementia. It’s so sad to watch and so easy to become bitter. I fight it daily and ask the Lord to forgive me when I am impatient and unloving! It’s so hard to care for your children and marriage while taking care of a parent. Thanks for sharing your heart, I hope to do this one day on my blog! I’m praying for you and your family today as you find your way through this season of life! Blessings!
You get it. Praying for humor and grace for you today.
Wow. Just wow. Through your vulnerable words I feel the bigness of “anywhere but here” mixed with the desire to engage well while trying to find the map for uncharted territory. Thank you for sharing your hard reality. I often become myopic thinking I have some sort of especially difficult call. Truth is we all shoulder our own brand of broken and no one escapes unscathed. The grief of a missed goodbye with one who still lives is heartbreaking. The exhaustion of being pulled on both ends is bone wearying. The brilliant naming of this shift as tween offers such kindness to that messy place inside and brings the reminder that our hearts need to be parented through every season. Thank you for mothering us here through your honest words even as you ache. Big hugs to you.
Beth, I hear so much loss and frustration and heartache in your words…messy indeed. May you access the kindness and patience you desire when it feels impossible, and grace for yourself when it all is just too much.