Why Must They Fight?
Shane wrote a paper for school. The assignment was to write in the style of a specific author – I don’t remember which one – and describe a day in Shane’s own life using that author’s style.
I thought it would be interesting to see what he wrote, so I asked if I could read it.
“Sure,” he said. “Some of it’s fiction, but it’s about the day I got stung by all the jellyfish.”
Poor Shane. Those jellyfish seemed to go straight for him.
Shane wrote about a day at the beach – a vacation I’d planned for months, something we’d done for the first time in years just this past summer. We used to go annually with my entire extended family, and the kids loved it. This year, it was just the four of us. So I was excited to see what he remembered, after all the fun he’d had – except, of course, for the jellyfish.
This is what I read:
“We all decided to go to the beach. We enjoyed it quite a lot at first. True, it didn’t provide us, at least me, with the splendid and magical feeling of vacationing with the whole family, staying up late, doing whatever I wanted to do. What it did provide, however, was a fine example of how life has changed since my younger years. My family had trouble going one minute without fighting with each other. Why must they fight? What happened to the good old days? It doesn’t matter.”
My heart sank. We had argued a lot for about two days of our eight-day vacation. Shane didn’t argue; mostly he just watched, as always. While Dylan and I bickered, and Bill and I tussled back and forth, Shane sat quietly, absorbing everything, just like he does at home.
Only this time, it happened in a condo next to the ocean on a gorgeous, sunny, summer day. It happened during our last-ever beach vacation as a full family of four. With Dylan leaving home soon, vacations will never be the same, so I’d planned as many wonderful trips as I could.
And then I ruined them.
Shane will be the first to say that the story he wrote, the description of his day, was just fiction. He wouldn’t want to hurt my feelings, because he doesn’t like to complain. And he never mentions the yelling. Ever.
Sadly, it’s probably because he’s so accustomed to it.
I can’t fix the problem now. My frustration spilling over into the beauty will forever be etched into his mind as “the way it was.”
And it’s my fault.
Recently, I found a doctor. I changed my diet. In fact, what I eat – which was previously garbage – added so much angst, exhaustion and sickness to my life. I’m on a road to a healthy life that has changed my entire outlook. The yelling has, as a direct result, subsided a great deal. I’m not perfect, but I’ve become more accepting and easygoing. I just don’t yell as much now.
But I found that doctor in September, after summer vacations were all over and etched in my children’s minds forever. I found that doctor when my kids were teenagers and couldn’t wait to get out of the house. I found that doctor after their childhoods were scarred with screaming.
I changed my life too late to save my own children.