(Slow news day today, so I think I’ll tackle one of the “
On my list” topics.)My mom called me up the other day and asked me, “What are you doing?”
I replied: “Getting ready to take the kids to the museum.”
“Why aren’t you cooking and getting ready for your company?”
(I wanted to say: “When was the last time you had a 1 year old and a three year old?”)
I did say: “I’m trying to take it easy this holiday — not planning on making a big fuss of things.”
She said: “You ARE planning on cleaning, right?”
I said: “Well, yes…to some extent. To the extent that its not pointless with Zoe and Evan and their things.”
She said: “Sometimes I worry. Sometimes I worry that Tim will get upset at you not doing all of these things.”
Deep breath. Press “contain anger” button. Count to 10.
“Well,” I said, “that’s just not how our family operates.” End of discussion.
Holy shit. How cooked is that?! Amazing.
Even more amazing, though, is the fact that I’ve (essentially) avoided a guilt trip over it. Perhaps several years ago, those words would have sent waves of guilt over me so strong that I’d be nursing the nausea and grabbing some Xanax. Or, I would have lashed out with a painful verbal barb. But I didn’t. I’m over it. And I still love her.
An entry that fully describes the relationship I have with my mother would take up all of Google’s server space. Its that complicated. But, in the interest of — well — my sanity, your sanity, and the well-being of Google, I’ll keep it short. Suffice it to say that an intense, possibly unhealthy, adoration of each other, coupled with differing opinions and strong wills makes our relationship a rocky one. Its taken me a long time to be able to really believe she’s fundamentally wrong regarding a lot of things, know that my actions often hurt her to her core, and still be able to say, “That’s OK. I still love her. She still loves me.” (Just don’t think I’m breaking out with the “Barney” theme)
Which brings me back to the chauvanist enabler in her…
My mother was not a homemaker of the 5o’s. But she was the child of a homemaker of the 40’s and 50’s and was a homemaker, herself, of a military household. An officer’s household. An engineering officer’s household. The vaccuum was out three to four times weekly, baseboards were scrubbed regularly, and dinner guests were greeted with a full bar, appetizers, and a three course meal including dessert — all with a moment’s notice from my dad.
When I was old enough, I can remember being given the task of serving my father his dinner and picking up his plate and bringing it to the kitchen sink when he was done. It was only when I was much older that I realized my father himself would pass the kitchen sink — empty handed — on his way from the dinner table to the den upon the completion of his meal. I was trained to notice the level of his water glass and act accordingly. I knew I was especially good when I filled it up before he thought to ask.
And yet, when I look back on this eerie part of my upbringing, I’m quick to recognize that this environment was much more the product of my mother’s training of me than that of my father’s. Sure, my father enjoys being waited on, and probably wouldn’t say “no” to my picking up his dish even today. But he doesn’t expect that of me, or of my mother. And I’m pretty sure he never did expect it. Yes, my mother was, and is, a homemaker — and my father did have expectations of her in terms of things that needed to get done around the house. But my mother was fully responsible for the level of the standards of “good homemaking” against which she measured herself. And, against which she measures me today.
It wouldn’t be so bad if it were only about keeping a clean house and impressing guests. But, for her, a good homemaker makes a good wife. And that’s where it gets too much for me to stomach.
“I worry that Tim will get upset at you not doing all of these things.”
I WORRY THAT TIM WILL GET UPSET AT YOU NOT DOING ALL OF THESE THINGS??!!
After the initial “Its-none-of-your-fucking-business” reaction, it sunk in. She really thinks that way. And then it sunk in even futher. I don’t think that way. Not at all. Thank God. And, thank God I have a husband who doesn’t think that way at all, either. Whether it be the beauty of having a relationship with its origins in the 1990’s, or the product of starting out as a two-income family, or some other stroke of dumb-luck, ours is a relationship in which he sorts laundry, bakes sticky buns, and bathes the kids as much as (or in some cases, more than) I do. And, despite the best efforts of my mother, I don’t and won’t feel guilty about that.
My mother will soon be here for the holidays. She’ll raise an eyebrow at the house decked out in — not Christmas decorations, but brightly colored plastic things belonging to my kids. She’ll wince a little when I run out of cream for coffee. She’ll secretly take a cloth and dust the chair-rail while I’m not looking. And when I ask Tim to change Evan’s diaper, she’ll even say out loud, “Don’t tell Tim to do that!”
When she does, I’ll secretly blow a kiss to my husband to thank him for not expecting the same things that my mother expects. I’ll tell myself that its perfectly ok to ask my husband to change a diaper. And I’ll imagine myself hugging my mother, for being who she is, and for raising me in a way such that I can know everything is alright — with me and her — even if Tim does fill his own water glass.
