When does co-parenting end?

The truth is, it never really does.

I was reminded of that recently at a family event with my son’s father. Our “child” is now in his 30s, which deserves an eye roll all by itself. But the interaction I had with his father could have sent me spiraling if not for the years of work I have done on myself.

I have replayed the conversation in my head more than once, not to torture myself, but to get curious about it. Why did I stay in an uncomfortable interaction? Why did I refrain, for the most part, from reacting? Why did I sit there and absorb something I absolutely did not have to absorb?

At first, I chalked it up to my training as a mediator and more than two decades of experience sitting in the uncomfortable space we call conflict. I know how to stay calm. I know how to listen. I know how to hold steady when someone else is not.

But the question I could not shake was this: did I do that for me, or did I do that for him?

After some reflection, I know the answer.

Damn it.

I did it for him.

I did not honor my own boundaries because I was managing his comfort. I can appreciate that I recognize that now, but I would be lying if I said it did not bother me.

It amazes me, and honestly sometimes annoys me, how often I use my mediation skills in my personal life. There is value in that, of course. But boundaries deserve acknowledgment too. Especially for women.

Women are often taught early to make other people comfortable at the expense of our own comfort. Make your brother comfortable. Make your cousin comfortable. Make your male friend comfortable. Be nice. Be polite. Keep the peace. Do not cause a scene.

But it is not our job to make people exhibiting poor behavior comfortable for the sake of peace.

The trick, I suspect, is figuring out how to honor that truth as an adult without blowing up a family event. That is where I got stuck.

Other family members were nearby. My son was nearby. By staying silent, no one else knew what was being said because I did not react to it. My silence kept everyone else comfortable.

But I have to be honest.

It hurt.

The silver lining, if there is one, is that the interaction gave me insight. I could see that my son’s father is still stuck on a loop, replaying his version of the past. I could choose to meet him there. I could argue with it, correct it, defend my own version, and get stuck in the past right alongside him.

But I do not live there anymore.

This little reflection is the most time I have for the past. I demand to live in the present. I demand to be grateful for every day I have to learn new lessons. I demand to keep helping other people get out of their own way, even as I continue learning how to get out of mine.

Parenting is a constant work in progress. It does not end when our children turn 18. It does not end when they become adults. In some ways, the job just changes shape.

None of us get it exactly right. We do the best we can. We hope we do not mess our kids up too much in the process. And, if we are lucky, we keep growing up right alongside them.