Family Vacation…& Everyone is On Edge
By Sasha Smith
Late one summer night, we pull into the lake cottage. It’s around 10:30pm and we’ve been traveling all day. I’m feeling a combination of resentment, trepidation and hope. As we get out of the car, my parents come to greet us. Dad is first as always, waving his hands and directing us where to park. Mom follows and is her typical reserved self.
“You found it!” Dad says, as though there was ever a doubt after the five emails my mum sent, the four phone calls she made after our plane landed and the multiple texts back and forth on the way.
As my husband and kids all help unpack the car, my dad offers to help while my mom tells me to watch my step as we walk up onto the deck. No hug from her. This is typical. She is never the first to reach out, either physically or emotionally. I think to myself angrily — “what, the five hour flight across the continent and two hour drive isn’t enough to prove that I haven’t abandoned you and that I am committed to you and our family?!”
The kids start scouting out which bedroom they want and I immediately want a glass of wine. There is no specific tension yet, but being in the presence of my parents always triggers me. As we slowly start the process of settling into the lake house, I give my husband a look of concern. He knowingly gives me a half smile and hugs me then kisses the top of my head. “Don’t worry,” he says, “we’ll make it work.” I don’t know if he’s referring to the cottage which has turned out to be much more run down and basic then we expected, or to the stress I feel around my family. It doesn’t really matter though. After decades of this dance with my parents, I am thankfully finally at a place where, despite the need for wine, I do actually know I will be ok.
The next day, both my sisters arrive with their families. My older sister Samantha comes first with her boyfriend Marc. Petite, stylish but looking tired and like she’s been through the wringer, which she has. None of her kids come with her and I only find out after the entire week that it’s not because they couldn’t be bothered, which is what I assumed since it’s how it’s always been, but because they all have jobs and are working in the city. Sam hugs me tentatively, having learned from my mother that connections can’t be trusted. Rebecca, my younger sister, shows up a half hour later with her husband and brood of three young kids who within seconds raise the volume and the chaos level of the house to a dizzying level. My sister is beautiful. Bizarrely tall for our short, Eastern European Jewish genes, beautiful smooth browned skin, blond and statuesque. None of which are at all reflective of anyone in our immediate family. And yet she is exactly like my mother in her behavior and temperament. Like my mother, Becca does not hug me. She arrives injured, annoyed, waiting for you to offend or disappoint her, rigid, demanding and entitled.
As the week begins, it’s clear everyone is on edge. We are all tiptoeing around each other, carrying our grudges from decades past like an old backpack. Inevitably the snarky comments begin and sparks fly.
Sam goes off on me for something that happened over three years ago which she is still furious with me about. I feel ambushed and confused since I’ve been there for her for the past three years, throughout her divorce and the subsequent battles she faced with our mother who was openly disapproving of it. However this fact seems to matter little up against her rage which she uses like a weapon to attack me over and over. I spend the next day shell shocked, while Sam seems lighter, happy, presumably relieved to have gotten these feelings off her chest, and with no sense — or maybe no concern — for how it has affected me.
This same day, there is an incident with Becca and my daughter Ava who didn’t share some food with her cousins. Since I am out when it happens, Ava sends me a barrage of texts about how Becca has berated her. Somehow Becca finds out about the texts and when I get back, she angrily complains about how she’s annoyed that my 13 year old daughter “told on her” instead of talking to her directly. When I defend Ava and explain that she doesn’t feel comfortable talking to Becca, she storms out of the room in a huff.
In the background, Dad pours himself a gin and tonic. It’s 3pm. I hear Mum snapping at someone: “Close the screen door!!!!” “Don’t put the wet towel there!!” “Kids, calm down!”
I look around for my husband but he’s nowhere to be found. He always manages to find a way of escaping in this insanity, of protecting himself. He’s probably napping or out doing an errand. I want to run away. A feeling I know well and one which I remember feeling dozens of times growing up.
But somehow by the end of the week, things settle down. There are even a few enjoyable, relaxed moments. Becca, Sam, her boyfriend Marc and I all do yoga on the lawn led by a video on Becca’s laptop. The cousins all make tie-dye t-shirts with Becca supervising and we all laugh watching them, as they get more dye on themselves then the t-shirts. And most importantly, there is some honest conversation between my mom, Sam and I about some of the unhealthy dynamics in our family. Not groundbreaking, but at least an attempt at honesty and connection.
By the end of the week, I am able to experience the dysfunction of my family of origin and survive, just as I knew I would. I no longer take it in and let it destroy me. They are who they are and despite their shortcomings, I still love them. And while it wasn’t the most relaxing week, I think, maybe these people are not so bad after all.
