Boundaries

Boundaries.  Have you heard of these?  Being someone who grew up in the ‘60’s/’70’s in an Italian-American family, I can tell you that they are new to me.  We were 5 kids plus our parents living in a three bedroom, one and a half bath house in an era way before there was any awareness, understanding or appreciation of anything remotely resembling boundaries.  There were none.  Except for the imaginary one my older sister made in the double bed we shared.  Using her hand to demarcate a line down what she thought was the middle of the bed but was more like three quarters of the bed (her side) and commanding me not to cross that line, not even so much as a pinky toe.

 And being Italian-American we were all up in each other’s business.  I mean, that’s one of the definitions of family, isn’t it?  We all know what’s going on with everybody all the time.  How’s Aunt Connie’s sciatica? Is it any better?  Did you hear cousin Tony lost his job?  Have you met the cute girl that cousin Dom is dating?  Uncle Joe finally had a bowel movement.   There was always a constant flow of private information, easily facilitated by the weekly Sunday family dinner gatherings at Nanny’s house and the various “ just dropping by for a cup of coffee” visits.  What’s that you said about Mary? She doesn’t want to go to the new school in your new neighborhood? Hold on, Uncle Frank and Aunt Estelle will be right over to talk to her.

And as a child, growing up in that era, you had no rights.  Certainly, no right to privacy.  If you decided to close your door, one of your parents, with some kind of internal sensing alert, would come by, open it and say, “Why you got the door closed?”.  You knew better than to answer that very rhetorical question.  And so, the door stood open.  When you would go out, you got cross-examined as if you were a suspect in a murder spree. Where you going? Who’s going with you? How are you getting there? How are you getting home?  Do their parents know? What time are you getting picked up? What time are you coming home?  Will there be boys there?  How much money is it going to cost? You got money? Where did you get money?

So yeah, boundaries. Twenty plus years of therapy, numerous self-help books, and two adult children later, I have since become aware of this thing called a boundary. I am slowly learning my way with it. 

It’s hard at first to grasp the concept.  Wait. You mean I can’t ask my married daughter when she plans to give me grandchildren?  I can’t ask my son who he is dating? I have to wait for them to share that information with me when they are ready?  I can’t offer them unsolicited advice? Even though I’ve lived through a crap load of crap and can maybe spare them some of that crap? No? Those are boundary lines, you say? Ah…ok.  Got it.  B-O-U-N-D-A-R-Y = R-E-S-P-E-C-T.  Boundary needs someone to write a catchy anthem song for it, the way Aretha did for Respect. Maybe Beyonce can do something with it on her next album.

As a recovering Boundary Deficient, it can take some work.  Old habits die hard. So, when your son, home for Christmas, says he can’t watch The Glass Onion with you because he promised to watch it with someone when he returned to LA, you take a deep breath, and repeat the mantra ‘Boundaries’, a few times in your head.  The goal is that instead of “Oh! And who might that be?” coming out of your mouth, you say, “Oh, ok, what would you like to watch instead?” Theoretically your son should feel respected and your relationship will benefit.

I’m still working on it though.  I’ll let you know how it goes. In fact, in that situation, my Automatic Response Reflex (aka ARR) kicked in, overriding the boundaries mantra. An “Oh, who might that be?” did slip out.  My son, the Boundary Proficient, responded with a smile and a simple, “No one you need to know about”. 

That’s the cool thing I learned about boundaries.  Even if you are not good at identifying them, some people are really good at setting them. And I got a whole lot of R-E-S-P-E-C-T for that.