Echoes

A recurring theme I seem to have noted in the phenom of family estrangement is that the deeper the estrangement, the more shocking the contact, whether expected, or knot. Data available, but I currently do not know how many years it has been since my last civil conversation with my eldest son. ES would want me to be impressed with the few times he has grunted at me instead of launching a character assination as conversation, but? ? ? Call me what you will, beloved son. I can't find it in my heart to call grunts and "Aye No" as conversation. I mark the beginning of our current estrangement as the bestowing of my Toxic Mom Honors. That was somewhere in the 20teens. Long time. Has he even noticed that I have shipped myself off to The Toxic People Landfill? The residents there tell me there is no room left on The Toxic Mom Pedestal.

By the ES standards, the current email exchange is "Civil." So far, he hasn't called me too many mean names or launched too many attacks on my intelligence in his attempts to bully me into doing him favors. So far. The feeling of being bullied has me hyper-vigilant in my expectations that the attacks are on their way. So far, it still makes more sense to take the punishment for failure to comply with his demands.  No good deed will go unpunished. Since his punishment is inevitable, I might as well save my good deeds for someone who will appreciate the effort.

With this 41 year old blast from the past to remind me of just how miserably I failed in my first parenting career, my doubts and anxieties over my ability to raise 3 orphans here in my geriatric years are whelming. I am still finding my hope in the evolution that Hubby and I have been able to talk more calmly about ES's drama in this go-round and the many ways that drama is playing into our second parenting career.

Processing. . . Sorting. . . Still haunted by the wandering wonder of which of my sons died first.