Ragrets

Looking backward isn't the problem—living there is.

When a random thought enters my mind, I’ll take a cursory look at it. When the same thought appears in a different context, I might find it interesting. When yet again it comes up, the universe is knocking me upside the head, saying, “Pay attention, dude.”

Last week, I was watching my older daughter, Emily, interacting with her three kids (my grandchildren—ages 14, 16, and 20). Looking at and thinking about the third generation of my own family and their child-rearing techniques, I’m a bit amazed, if not in awe of Emily. I watch my eldest “only child,” whose father came from a family of three, with her own family of three.

I began to think about Emily’s style and approach as a mom and how I’ve been as her Dad, and I casually wondered if I could have done things differently. Better about this, more connected about that.

Did I have regrets?

Later that day, as I was going through my Curmudg journal notes, casually perusing subjects I wanted to write about, I found two pages labeled “regret.” A few of the notes were connected. A few were illegible. (Note to self: your handwriting is slipping off the rails.)

And then a few days ago, while mindlessly toying with the TV remote, I noticed the movie, We’re the Millers. And of course, that scene with Scottie P came to mind.

The would-be date, showing off his “no ragrets” tattoo, and waxing inelegantly to Jason Sudeikis and Jennifer Aniston about his motto. Jason wonders aloud if Scottie P has possibly just “one letter of regret.” Nah. Scottie P loves all the letters.

Go on for yourself, Scottie.

Maybe……..

Regret. Curmudg has spent time musing on the topic, yet has gotten nowhere with it, until now. Maybe it’s age, maybe it’s watching the kids and grandkids, maybe lacking any other thing to obsess about these days, who knows? But it stuck, so here goes…...

Unlike most of what I write, where I’m absolutely sure, and my theories can’t be pierced by mere reality, I’m just pretty sure here. Hang in there with me.

Regret is that space between what actually happened and what might have happened. What did one need to have in that moment to change what did happen from what might have happened? More information, clearly.

But it goes deeper.

Regret is woven into the fabric that makes us human and sets us apart from animals. Well, most humans. Those with a sense of self, and those who occasionally are present in their lives.

Humans can only move forward by occasionally looking backward. My dog Peasley only looks backward to see if she missed food. The same can be said for some humans, I suppose.

Regret wears many masks, depending on the person:

Regret-Me-Nots. That would be Scottie P. Live life to the fullest. Everything happens for a reason. Refusing regret is akin to refusing to admit that you could, or even might have done better. So much social media bluster centers around this notion, painting it as “resilience” in the face of adversity. It’s a false flag, a get-out-of-jail-free card for the incurious and philosophically lazy.

Wronggrettors. Those with a modicum of rear-view monitoring, but the objects in the mirror are way larger than they need to be. Wronggrettors spend an eternity agonizing over the silly, while failing to recognize the bigger picture. One doesn’t regret it rained—one regrets it rained and they didn’t bring an umbrella.

Re-ingrettors. Those who rewrite history—usually their own—in such a way that they’ve remade their own life into the most convenient lie, and usually to benefit themselves. The ones “not cursed with self-awareness.”* The phrase “alternative facts” comes to mind, as well. Think narcissists, or even worse, sociopaths.

Rightgrettors. Those for whom the concept of moral seriousness and accountability rings true. Regret is the stickiness that holds these folks to account for their actions. It’s also the type of regrettor I’m trying to be. It has given me the ability to re-evaluate my actions and appreciate a previous mis take. (As opposed to a mistake. I find that word too judgy.)

Two interesting experiences, one involving each of my daughters, came to mind while I’ve been musing on regret:

Jensen had a wonderful 2nd-grade teacher, Mr. Prado. She absolutely adored him. He was an interesting man. Interesting, because he was a male lower-grade school teacher. But it was more than that. He was kind, thoughtful, and engaging—the type of teacher any kid and any kid’s parents would love to have.

Mr. Prado must have been sitting quietly at home one night, maybe reading a book or watching TV, when he suffered a massive coronary and passed away. When we broke the news to Jensen, her first words were, “But I never got to say goodbye.” Of course not—his death came as a shock to all of us. This had to have been the first time in her young life Jensen experienced regret. Yet because of her age, and because she was able to remember the good without attaching herself to the bad, her memories of Mr. Prado—to this day—are wonderful and sweet.

Who knows? Maybe the best archetypes for regret are children, whose lives haven’t yet been sullied by experience. Whose approach to life comes from a place of purity.

When Emily and I were together last week, she acknowledged that raising three kids can be very difficult. In her case, “raise” becomes quite the challenge, as her husband is a firefighter. When he’s home, he’s incredibly engaged, present, and a wonderful father. And when he’s at work, he’s gone, leaving Emily as a single mom for a few days at a time.

Emily asked me what I thought it must have been like with my own mother, a person she adored and held with high regard. In the context of the conversation with Emily, I had never thought of it.

Thus this Curmudg piece.

I have come to appreciate and hold with more compassion the role my mother had in raising the three of us. She must often have felt overwhelmed, especially at a time when fathers were more breadwinners and less nurturers. I might regret not realizing this sooner—maybe while she was still alive—but recognizing it now has given me more room to breathe, and even a bit of forgiveness, for my mother. And for me.

So how does one hold regret? I’d suggest holding it lightly to allow not only change but also forward motion in your life. And I’ve realized it’s never too late to do something about a past regret.

Regret. Feel it, learn from it, move ahead. Look back, but don’t get stuck.

*Annie Savoy (Susan Sarandon) from the movie Bull Durham.

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