Summer

 I always wonder what I did wrong or what I could have done differently to change the outcome or the direction of my son’s life.

If I could go back in time, I think I would be a more intentional parent than I was.  But, not just for my youngest child—for all of my children.  In today’s world, there is so much information readily available about parenting that it makes me think I could have done better.  Mostly, I just wanted my children to be happy.  My husband and I worked to provide opportunities for learning, growth, joy, and fun.   We did as much as we could to have great times together.    

I hoped that my children would grow up thinking that I was a good mom.

Throughout the summer that my son turned 18, I was told hundreds of times what a bad mom I was.   

The tirades and episodes of degrading blame and recrimination were endless.  No matter how hard I tried or what I did to make our home life feel calm and peaceful, nothing worked.  It felt like we were in a sad, vicious cycle of caring for our son and wanting the best for him while feeling hurt, angry, and upset at him for the things that he did and said. 

One of the things that created a big problem between us was his job—mostly the part about getting to work.  We had provided him with a nice bike for transportation and we only lived a few miles away from Popeye’s.  But, I drove him to work more often, than not.  The problem was that he demanded, expected, and wasn’t thankful for those rides.  He took me for granted and abused my time as if it wasn’t important.  If I wasn’t feeling well, had an appointment, or wasn’t even home when he needed to be driven somewhere, it didn’t matter.  In his world, his needs surmounted any other priority and if I didn’t meet those needs, he was sure to tell me how awful I was.

It happened over and over again.  Sometimes, I just did what he wanted so that he would leave me alone.  Other times, I tried to make him take responsibility for his own life and schedule and then felt like I paid a huge price for it.  

One morning, he apparently overslept, came upstairs, and started yelling at me because—obviously--was my fault.  Then, instead of getting ready for work, he spent all of his time telling me everything that was wrong with me as a mother and as a person.  He went on and on blaming me for everything and anything that he could think of that made his life so miserable.  He was stuck in one of his relentless and irrational cycles.  

I knew that he would never have been able to make it to work on time without my giving him a ride, but the last thing I wanted to do was help him or do something nice for him.  Foolishly, I did it anyway--with hopes that if I did, he would stop his tirade. 

It didn’t work.  He yelled at me during the entire 5 minute drive.  For some reason, when we got there, he refused to get out of the truck.  I had no idea what he thought he was going to gain at that point, and felt very frustrated.  I don’t know how many times I said, “Get out and go to work”, but of course he knew I couldn’t do anything to make him, so he defiantly just sat there.  Every time I tried to use my phone to call my husband for some assistance, my son tried to grab it away from me.

I needed to get away from him, so I took my keys out of the ignition, got out of the truck, and walked to Wal-Mart.  I was in my pajamas with morning hair walking through a parking lot.  I am not the kind of person who goes anywhere in public without being dressed and ready for the day, but that morning, I knew that I would rather go to a store looking like I just woke up, than sit in my truck enduring a never-ending battle.  I called my husband and told him that I needed him to come and get me because our son wouldn’t get out of the truck.    

Then, I just stood near the Wal-Mart entrance, wishing that I was invisible.  When my husband picked me up, he said that he saw our son smoking behind the Popeye’s dumpster.  I got in the driver’s seat and drove us back toward Popeye’s.  My husband jumped out, quickly slipped inside my truck, and drove away without any drama from behind the dumpster.   As soon as my son realized that my husband was driving my truck, he started texting me. 

“I am coming to your house later today after I have to WALK back home.”
“I am GETTING my belongings.  If your husband won’t let me, I am getting them anyway.”
“Tell your f-ing husband that after I get off work, I am coming with a ___ ___police escort to get my stuff.  So tell him to be there.  Or if I have to get it without the police escort on my own time, I don’t think you will enjoy it as much.”

My husband was also receiving the same kind of mean and threatening text messages, so we decided to pack all of our son’s clothes and necessities into big trash bags.  We put them into the Jeep parked in our driveway and left him a message that he could pick up his things whenever he wanted to—without needing to contact us in any way.  

Then, since it was a Saturday, we left and drove up to the mountains.

We needed to try to escape the madness of our lives.

It was hard to enjoy being in one of our favorite places.

But we tried.