Introducing my parents to my boyfriends has never been an easy thing to do. Something about being forty-one years old makes it even more awkward. Add in that even after three years, my divorce is still a relatively taboo subject, my father still takes my ex-husband to Seahawks games, my mother knows more about my ex’s personal life than she knows about mine, and when I finally braved mentioning a man I was not only dating, but in love with, my father refused to remember his name and instead referred to him as “dude.” Needless to say, I put off the meeting of the dude for as long as possible.
Although the dude, I mean Nik, was receptive to the idea of having dinner with my parents, I viewed it as a lose lose situation. If things didn’t go well, Nik would learn how insane my family was allowing him a glimpse of his future if he stayed with me. In between our entrees and dessert, I imagined him excusing himself for the bathroom, but I’d know better and wouldn’t be surprised when I’d hear the squeal of his tires a few moments later. That is, if he even made it through his entre.
The other scenario was even more plausible and that was one where he would actually like my parents and then wonder what the hell happened to me. As long as my parents were an unknown, I could blame all of my problems and insecurities on them. I wasn’t ready to give up that safety net.
Every time the meeting of the dude or parents was mentioned, I’d say, “Yeah, we should do that sometime.” Everyone would agree and I’d go on my “do absolutely nothing to encourage that to actually happen” way.
Once my father learned that I was going to meet Nik’s parents, who live three thousand miles away, compared to my parents, who live an hour away, the insistence on meeting dude increased. “Ok Dad, “I conceded. “I’ll email you some available nights after I return from the east coast.”
“Great!” he boomed. “That gives me time to set up my lie detector.”
A Saturday night was chosen and the plan for the evening was to have dinner at the Brooklyn and then attend the symphony at Benaroya Hall. “This is great, because you can’t talk during the symphony,” I told Nik.
“Yeah, but it also means we’ll be out with them for more than five hours.”
I hadn’t thought of that.
The week progressed and I found myself strangely calm, almost excited, about the big date, but that all crumbled on the day of. My ex called to inform me of some plans he and my mother made causing me to be pissed off at him, her, and then everyone else in the world. I had both sides of several conversations in my head, spiraled myself into a frenzy, and tried to call the whole thing off an hour before our dinner reservation. “I need to hash some things out with my mom and don’t think you should be there in case it gets ugly,” I told Nik.
“Do you want me there?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
“Do you think you’re trying to sabotage it because you’re scared?”
“Of course.”
‘Then I’m picking you up in a half an hour.”
Luck was on my side that day and my mom called to say their ferry was running late. I was able to clear up the two issues I had with her, without it getting ugly and without my dad and Nik having to watch. I was dressed and sort of emotionally ready when Nik pulled up in my driveway. On our way downtown, I confessed my fear, “I think you may actually like them and then you’re going to wonder what I’m always complaining about.”
He looked surprised, telling me he was braced for a meeting with Charles Manson and Cruella de Vil. I didn’t try to convince him otherwise, because in my opinion, it’s always better to be pleasantly surprised than horrified.
The first half an hour of dinner was spent listening to my father talk about my sister and the amazing blueberry farm he bought her. I felt my heart sink and tried to change the subject by telling my mom I liked her shirt. “Thanks,” she replied, “Your bra is showing.” Nik squeezed my hand under the table, which reassured me he was taking it all in, but he wasn’t going to leave.
We got over our rocky start and on to more neutral topics such as the government, drug use, and smoking. My mother stayed engaged for the entire dinner, rather than tuning out and letting my dad pontificate about topics she has heard ad nauseam. She was energetic and offered her opinions and insights, which is unusual. On the contrary, my dad didn’t dominate the conversation, nor did he lecture us on what’s fucked up in the world and how he can fix it, which again is unusual. The conversation was light and flowed relatively smoothly. I can’t say I ever felt completely relaxed during dinner, but I stopped clenching my jaw and never burst into tears, which I take as a success.
We all shared a chocolate torte for dessert, which I felt was akin to signing a UN treaty agreement. I accompanied my father to Benaroya while Nik and my mom followed a block behind. Our united front dispersed further as my mom raced off to her seat, my father went in search of the bathroom, and both parents ignored my plea of, “Wait guys, we don’t know where the seats are.” My father was talking to Nik, therefore assuming he would accompany him to the bathroom, but Nik stopped and said, “I’m going to wait for Corbin.”
The scattering caused Nik’s composure to falter for the first time all evening. “That was weird,” he said. “Everyone just took off and didn’t wait for one another.”
“I know, that’s my family.” I shrugged.
Their actions didn’t surprise me, but Nik waiting for me did. When I shared this with him, he said, “Of course I waited.” He could have easily added, “That’s what normal people do.” But being Nik, he didn’t feel the need to say this and instead, accompanied me to my seat.
The symphony began with a Frank Zappa song, which delighted and unnerved us in just the right combination. The middle piece was so excruciating I was forced to defy all symphony protocol by making fun of it and giggling to Nik throughout the painfully long second half. My father was less demure and characteristically unPC when in a barely hushed voice he said, “Damn frogs always stick together otherwise I don’t know why he’d choose this composer. Maybe he’s queer for him, ha!” The third and final piece, Beethoven’s “Eroica” soothed everyone’s nerves.
My parents hightailed it down to their car immediately after the symphony due to their need to catch the next ferry. But my father paused long enough to invite me and Nik, and yes he said “Nik,” not “dude,” out to their house. We smiled graciously at the offer, while exchanging quizzical looks with one another, and hugged them good-bye.
“So, what did you think?” I asked while walking to the car.
“It was better than I imagined. Your parents are very likable people, but I also get why you’re torn up about them.”
His statement recognized and validated my issues without criticizing my parents. Because we all know we can let it rip about our own parents, but it’s taboo for anyone else (except siblings) to do so.
“Thank you,” I said while beaming at him.
“For what?” he laughed.
“For being there.”

Corbin Lewars is the author of Creating a Life: The memoir of a writer and mom in the making, which was nominated for the 2011 Pacific Northwest and Washington State book awards. Her essays have been featured in over twenty-five publications including Mothering and Hip Mama. She has been a writing coach and instructor for fifteen years and sees clients in the old Carnegie Library Building in Ballard. She is currently offering a 20 for $20 special, twenty minute coaching/editing sessions for $20. Contact her for details.