Childhood Trauma Revisited With My Parents Visiting Me

I’m in another country to be as far away as possible.

My parents are coming to visit.

My parents are coming to visit for over two weeks.

Now before anyone says “Set boundaries, tell them no, blah blah” let me say this: that’s a white person’s response. Also, they’re the only grandparents my kids have left and it’s probably the last time they’ll ever fly.

The TLDR on my parents is that they’re hardcore Muslim immigrants. My mom is a convert, which means she’s hyper-sensitive to anyone not following the rules. She was raised by her stepfather who, from my guesses, abused her in various forms. She wasn’t raised with siblings, parents, or love.

My dad was a robot to us growing up. He was there to make sure we followed Islam and bring home a paycheck.

Unlike my white friends, there was no “grounding” or “taking away privileges” if I misbehaved. It was a slipper, a cooking spoon, a heavy hand, a brush, or whatever else was within proximity with a makeshift handle. It was ongoing screaming about how horrible of a kid I was or an archaic religious law I broke. I didn’t learn rules. Instead, I learned the art of deception.

I’m now in my forties, still struggling with self-love and all that other hippie-worthiness. My parents never told me they loved me when growing up. I’m an ultra Avoidant Attachment Type as a result but when I miraculously fall in love, I become an Anxious type because I cling to love that goes my way.

It’s why I struggle(d) with my breakup with Jeremy. I fell in love with him and it gutted me when it ended. I knew he was out of my league and desperately tried to have him fill the void that only someone who’d never want to love me could fill. Yeah, it’s complicated.

The last time my parents stayed with me, I put them in a hotel. It didn’t go over well. If I were still married, I’d have a massive house with a guest room for them. But now I’m in a tiny house and I’ll spend my time in my kids’ bunk beds for two weeks so they can have my bed.

There’s so much I have to do in preparation. Before I list them out, I know an automatic response is “You don’t need to hide who you are, your parents need to accept you’re an adult and this is how you live your life.”

That’s adorable. Could I do that? Sure. Will it make my life pure misery until they die? Absolutely. I’ve learned from four decades of experience that hiding my true self is easier and has fewer consequences.

First, I need to hide all signs of alcohol. I’ll need to box up bottles of wine, vodka (given to me by Jeremy, sigh), wine openers, and my wine glasses.

My drawer of sex toys needs to be cleared out. For safe measure, my lingerie as well.

My closet is where I have my biggest concerns. Short skirts? Denim shorts? Short dresses? Strapless dresses? Dresses that aren’t straight out of Handmaid’s Tale? I’ll have to pack them all up. But that’s a significant part of my closet and drawers; my snooping mother will wonder why there’s so much empty room.

I’ll need to go through my medication and make sure they don’t see my antidepressants and birth control (yeah, I don’t need to have my parents think I have sex out of wedlock).

Inevitably, my mother will start prying into my life. I’ll try to get my kids on more days while they visit, but when they’re not around that means I’ll have to fill in the buffer with conversation. She’ll ask about my salary, not understanding inflation or the cost of living in Southern California. My parents are the ultimate boomers who paid off their $145k mortgage in 15 years.

My mother will ask me endlessly why my divorce happened. I’ve stayed sufficiently vague. She immediately villainized Joseph when we separated, putting every Divorce Dad stereotype onto him (unwilling to pay for things or being combative). If the kids mention anything about his girlfriend, my mom will have a field day. She’ll ask about how they’re going to raise the kids as Muslims if they get married or some other catastrophic event.

In the meantime, my dad will get annoyed with my mother’s eventual panic sessions (seriously, Chicken Little ain’t got nothing on her freakouts over things like not having a clean spoon to get tea for her coffee). I’m sure I’ll take him to the mosque a few times, which then will lead him to inquire about my attendance.

I sure as hell am not telling them that I’m borderline Atheist.

My house is too small for an office so I had to knock out the only cabinets I had in the hallway to cram in a tiny desk. Working from home means they’ll be privy to my meetings. Not a big deal but it’s awkward because there’s no privacy. I may have to set up a makeshift office in my daughter’s room.

I messaged my mom (because we never, ever do phone calls) asking how long she’ll be staying. They haven’t booked their return tickets. It’s precariously close to my son’s birthday, which means they’ll be around for my son’s birthday dinner…with my ex-husband.

Unfortunately, my parents aren’t very mobile. I can’t give them my car keys and tell them to explore Southern California while I work all day. My mom is obese and has arthritis in her feet. I can take my dad and the kids places but then she’ll be stuck at home. If I take her along, she’ll complain the whole time. I’m not exaggerating; the moment it’s time to put on shoes to leave the house she’ll complain about the lack of seating by the door to sit down.

I’d love to have a chair by the door, Mom. I don’t have a coat closet in this entire house. Tell me where I can put a fucking chair when the entryway opens straight to the stairs.

Oh shit, I don’t know if my mom can physically squeeze between the couch and the wall leading to the rest of the house.

She’ll want to sit outside. I’ll clean off the outdoor patio table and open the umbrella (Jeremy did the heavy lifting for me, sigh). My mother will complain about the obnoxious squeaking sound the plastic makes when opening the screen patio door.

Staying non-defensive and calm for over two weeks will be the ultimate test of emotional strength. I’m crumbling as I write this, knowing the barrage of nitpicking and passive-aggressive comments will chip away at my self-esteem.

My strategy is the constant reminder that they’re old, they’re going to die, and they’re set in their way of thinking that it’s not even worth debating. I need to channel my brother, who is the Saint of Zen around them.

There will be positives to this visit (Right? RIGHT?). My kids will have rare time with their grandparents and I’ll have them compile a list of questions for them to ask. That’ll be a good time-filler while allowing them to learn their family history.

My kids will get spoiled when taken to Walmart (one of the few places my mother will agree to shop). Hopefully, they’ll agree to Target, which is a tough sell since Target was a disaster in Canada and my mother thinks it’s ghetto. Yes, the woman who loves Walmart thinks Target is ghetto. In her defense, they did a shitty job rolling out in Canada.

When we go places to eat, my parents will pay for all meals. The downside is my mother refuses to tip (is it a European thing or an Old Person thing?) and I’ll need to bring cash to cover that portion. With five people, the tip will cost more than if I took the kids by myself to a cheap fast food place.

I need to stay calm about this. My parents became ultra cool when I went through my divorce and were more supportive than I ever imagined. I’ll come up with a list of activities, knowing my mom will shoot down 75% of my suggestions. It’s only two weeks-ish.

My parents’ visit is the ultimate sledgehammer to my self-worth hanging precariously by a glass thread as I try to build a solid foundation.