You're allowed...

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A few days ago, I was out biking with the kids. Biking is something my dad did with us. These were usually happy times (since he too was enjoying himself). My mind began to question again my path. Was I being too hard on my birth father? Aught I not reconsider no contact?

As I pondered, I casually took a drink of water. My son drifted in front of me, so that when I put down the bottle, I was practically on top of him. 

“Look out!” I yelled, jamming on the brakes. “Don’t ever done that!” I sputtered, “be more careful! I could have hit you!” I had two kids on my bike, making it heavy and awkward. Then just as quickly I added, “but it was my fault for drinking and not paying attention. I’ll be more careful. Just don’t pass so close next time, ok?”

Just like that, the moment was over. He bikes on, a lesson learned. No harm done. His heart was not scarred. He saw his father correct him, then apologize for overreacting, and absorb the shame into himself rather than passing it on. 

“Love covers over a multitude of sins.”

In a flash, I thought of how this and thousands of other situations would have played out for myself. 

We are out in the sun. Dad is happy. All is smiles. I have a good life. I am loved. Then I do something careless. An occasion for learning: a childhood slip. Dad erupts in anger. “You idiot! Why would you do that?! Can’t you see you almost hit me? Why aren’t you watching where you are going? Why?! You never look, do you. Just think for a moment, won’t you? Why don’t you smarten up, bright boy? Wipe that look off your face. If you can’t learn to drive, well just go back right now. How does that sound...”

Familiar words. They played on and on like a skipping CD. Until I turned down the volume in my mind and they faded away. 

And a voice in my head said, “you’re allowed.”

That’s all. You’re allowed. 

Allowed to be hurt. Allowed not to want up be best friends with this person. Allowed to have flashbacks, pain, trauma. Allowed to find healing. Allowed to outgrow him. Allowed to breath. 

You’re just...allowed. 

It’s OK. You have permission. You are allowed. 

***

This makes me think of one incident that happened during my parents last visit, 2 1/2 years ago now. That visit was short, but I was on high alert. It was traumatic. I have spent two years unpacking memories of things that were not right, compressed into those 48 hours.

One memory is this: we were working on a bike with my birth father, and my oldest son. It was a happy memory. Three generations, united by mechanics.

Then, my son did something childish. Totally innocently, he took the can of WD-40, and bent the straw in the wrong direction. My birth father try to stop him, but it was too late. “No no, not like that it’s…” His voice trailed off as he snatched the can,” oh great. Now it is ruined forever!” He said sulkily.

My son, not raised to be hypersensitive to the immature emotions of adults, did not pick up on my birth fathers assault. But my heart sunk like a stone. 

You will not speak to my son like that.

My heart said through gritted teeth. 

And now, I am allowed. I am allowed to protect my son. Protect him from another generation of dysfunction, confusion, hurt and trauma.

I am allowed to protect him. I am allowed.

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