A woman comes in and my dad points her out and says, “That’s the Black Hat Lady.” He tells us that is what he and my mom call her. She comes in every Sunday and she’s always wearing a black hat.
I want to say, “Yeah, I know. We come every Sunday. You point her out to us every Sunday. We have this same conversation about her every Sunday.”
I want to go back to having a real conversation with my parents. I want to be able to have a positive conversation about how we can get my mom to every bridge game she wants to play and to my dad a game plan on how to organize a racquetball game to play every day.
After dinner my husband asks me what’s wrong. I don’t think anything is wrong; it’s just been a busy day. He shakes his head and nicely tells me I kinda have a scowl on my face today.
As I lay in bed it dawns on me that I’m mad. All I want to do is solve this problem. It seems easy enough to quickly give my parents more activities they love. However, my parents don’t know, or won’t admit to me that anything is broken that needs fixing. Constricted.