The older my parents get, the more I feel like I’m talking to little kids.
She’s 8. He’s 10.
And I’m the all-knowing, gray-haired, wise old son.
I’m scolding them, frustrated with the tantrums they throw.
Breathing becomes a challenge the moment I step into the house. A house filled with faded memories, echoes of laughter, and arguments that never really ended.
“Stop fighting.”
I say it often.
“You’re acting like little kids.”
My mother refuses to let my father finish a story without interrupting.
“Shut up,” she snaps at him.
“Mom, let him finish. Please.”
Breathe.
My poor father—his frustration rises, his voice cracks beneath it. I hate seeing them like this. I hate feeling like I have to parent them.
I just want to be their little boy.
I want to ask about their childhood. About my childhood. About the old neighborhood. About my siblings.
But instead, I play child-parent, pleading with them to hold back their insults while I’m there.
A foolish request.
They’ve been at each other’s throats since the beginning.
One day, I asked my mother directly.
“When did you first meet? When did you become a couple?”
“Oh, I was 19. Your father must have been 21.”
Sixty years. Wow.
“So you’ve spoken to each other like this for over sixty years? My math right?”
“Yes. That sounds right.”
Breathe, Teevee.
You are not changing anyone today.
This is who they are.
Love them as they are. Let them be.
Hug them. Love them. Be thankful.
Exhale.
