Coraline opens her door in curlers, a cup of tea in her hand, eyes round with surprise, facing her sister who has turned up with a head torch on, a lit torch and a walkie-talkie in her hand, looking sulky — The Hammock and the Hummingbirds, practical guide Take back your place as an adult

You’re still treated like a child: how do you take back your place?

Take back your place as an adult

Keep the bond, and let go of the guilt. Their worry isn’t your responsibility.

The net closes in

Saturday night, at a friend’s. You’ve just hung up in front of everyone.

“My parents are over-zealous secret agents, on a mission: Watch your daughter 24/7.”

— “But you’re 50!”
— “Thanks, that’s sweet. 54, actually.”
— “Your parents still call you every evening?”
— “Yes, and sometimes several times a day.”
— “You’re not 12 any more, OH THE SHAME!”

Extract from chapter 7 — Ring ring, my parents

Trap

Their calls cost you your credibility.

7 missed calls. Your sister stationed outside your door, ready to identify your body.

— “She’s not picking up? She’s been abducted by aliens!”
— “They call my sister, drafted on the spot into a commando operation, private detective, to track down the international fugitive.”

You pick up in front of your friends, you apologise, you crack a joke to smooth it over. In the end, nobody takes you seriously any more, whatever the subject.

Should you answer them straight away?

No. Their worry belongs to them.

They don’t call you to talk to you, they call you to reassure themselves. Their fear isn’t justified. You can love them without being reachable 24 hours a day.

How do you take back your place?

Prepare your sentences before you need them, in case you can’t find the right one on the spot, the one that comes to you three hours later, in the shower.

  1. Write 3 sentences that answer what happens to you most often.
    — “I’m fine, I was busy.”
    — “Please stop calling my sister to find out where I am.”
    — “We’re all adults. We can trust each other, and love each other without keeping tabs.”
  2. Say it gently, without reproach, naturally. Tone is everything, and so is humour: lightening the mood gets a limit across better than a reproach.
  3. Then stop talking. Your silence sets your limit, not your sentence. Pick up, answer, hang up.

You no longer come off a call thinking “I should have said that”.

What not to do

Don’t apologise in front of other people, and don’t make fun of yourself to smooth over the call: that’s where you lose your place.

Don’t fire off your 3 sentences in one go. Say just one sentence, and leave a silence.

Why does it start again every day?

For them, worrying is a proof of love. Keeping watch is their way of being there: they mix up loving and reassuring themselves, and so checking.

You answer to reassure them, it works, and it starts again the next day, one notch higher. Old habits die hard.

Feeling guilty?

That’s normal, it happens the first few times. It’s not a sign you got it wrong: it’s the noise an old habit makes when it shifts.

Don’t mix up loving them and reassuring them, either. There are degrees to respect: health, survival, you give news. At the cinema, you don’t.

Consistency changes a relationship, not the grand gesture

Hold the same line from one time to the next. Doing it once changes nothing.

Remember

Keep the bond, let go of the guilt.
Say one sentence, then stop talking.
You can love each other without keeping tabs.

Practical guide 06 — Take back your place as an adult
“My pen is my NO.”
The novel The Hammock and the Hummingbirds, by Karine Baridon.

Watch the hummingbirds

Watching the hummingbirds means changing your point of view.
Seeing things from every angle.
Accepting every part of ourselves. And of other people.
And laughing about it.

A hummingbird has every colour. So do we. Our shadows and our light.
You take one step to the side: green turns pink. Then gold.
Nothing has moved, except you.

What a practical guide is for

Trying out a tool.
Changing your point of view.
Laughing at something that weighed on you this morning.

What it isn’t

It isn’t therapy.
It isn’t a diagnosis.
It isn’t a courtroom: nobody’s looking for a culprit.
It isn’t a rulebook for good behaviour. You do what you like.

What it’s for

Accepting that we’re human. And fallible.
Our shadows. Our light.
Taking the drama out, to melt the resistance.
Not judging ourselves. Not judging others.
Laughing about it. It works better, and it’s more fun.

Nobody gets judged here. Least of all you.
We don’t know anything you don’t. We just wrote some tools.

Where these guides come from

Nobody made them up. They came out of a novel, chapter by chapter — in the order I learnt them. Not in logical order: in the order life threw them at me.

What you get, end to end:
Not getting stuck in the middle.
Not having to prove your worth.
Understanding the other person without carrying what’s theirs.
Spotting what keeps repeating.
Setting the limit, and holding it.
Naming the manoeuvre, which is enough to defuse it.
Getting out when the judges are also the accusers.
Listening to the body, which answers before we do.
Sorting out what we keep.
And finally: choosing where we’re heading.

I only saw the logic afterwards, reading it back. That’s why it holds: nobody drew it up in advance.

If something feels too big for you, see a professional. A guide is a tool, not a doctor.