Balance...
Finding normalcy is difficult in an abnormal world. This is especially true if your mother is about as abnormal as they come. In my never-ending quest for adulthood, I have to question if the belief structures I was raised with as a child still hold true for me now.
When we are teenagers, most of us want only one thing in our core structures and beliefs: To be as different from our parents as possible. This especially holds true for parents of the same sex for some odd reason. It’s easier for a daughter to rebel against a mother and a son against a father. Being a teen, I couldn’t stand my mother. Everything she wore, everything she said, the way she moved, the way she talked, everything she believed was either annoying, embarrassing or downright wrong and usually all three at once. My father, on the other hand, walked on air. Nothing could touch the pedestal I had put him on. He was my stalwart, my knight in shining armor and, occasionally, my co-conspirator.
Over time, I’ve learned that both my parents are human. What did I really expect, Perfection? I’ve learned my father was less a god and more a man. I am comfortable with this. Not like I can be much else now that he’s gone.
My mother…my mother my mother my mother. My. Mother.
I love her. I do. I hate when she’s angry over small things. I hate I cannot confide in her without being judged. I hate even the smallest disagreements are huge three-hour blowouts. I hate that I feel inadequate. Inferior. Disappointing. Oddly enough, the one woman I spend more time thinking about how IRRITATING she is, is the one woman I would die for her to just say, “I’m proud of you.” With no reservations, no judgements, no ‘but’s.
Perhaps we will never be that winning, super special team that I see sometimes between mother and daughter. Perhaps we will never manage a quiet evening, a discussion where both our ideas and opinions can come to light without the other taking offense.
But I love her.
And I’m tired. I’m tired of fighting, I’m tired of begging, I’m tired of all of it. I cannot worry about what my mother thinks of me anymore. Don’t misunderstand; I value her opinion in many ways. There will always be that part of me that longs for her approval. But I cannot, and will not base my worth off another approving glance, or disapproving frown. She taught me well. My values are not without worth. I know what is right, and what is wrong. I know where my ethical boundaries are and where I am willing to give or grow or change.
Is that such a bad thing?
Epic Mother Quotes
1. “Just because someone’s short, doesn’t mean they’re mad.”
2. “Just shut up and put the broom in the washer and sweep the laundry!”
3. “What’s wrong with a goat rancher?!”
4. (regarding her phone not working) “I think Satan is trying to keep us from going to church.”
5. (regarding my gay friend) “Waylon and you look so cute together!”
6. (regarding my gay friend) “I think Patrick has a crush on you!”
7. (regarding my gay friend) “Bill is cute; you’re at his house an awful lot…”
8. (regarding my straight ex-boyfriend) “I think Scott is gay…”
9. “I’m just done with you; I don’t want to talk to you anymore. GET BACK HERE!”
10. “God wants you happy, that’s why you’re so miserable right now.”
11. “You need to lose weight; no man will ever
want you while you’re fat. Here, have a cookie.”
12. “I hate men. Help me get on Eharmony?”
13. “Where is that thing I had in my thing at that thing I was at that one time?”
14. “Someday, you will wake up and someone will like you for who you are. I won’t understand it, but they will!”
Daily Irritating Fact:
My mother has this habit of starting, literally, 15 projects around the house in the same hour. She won’t ever finish them, mind you, but she’ll start them. I’ll walk you through it.
For example:
She decides to start washing the three plates that are in the sink. She stops, seeing that her favorite dishrag is not in the drawer and begins an epic search for it in the laundry room. Upon discovering it is en queue to be washed, she roams the house searching for more laundry to stuff into the already overflowing washing machine.
Upon wandering into the bathroom, she sees that there are spots on the mirror over the sink from people brushing their teeth last night. Finding this a much more worthwhile effort on her part, she decides to call to have someone finish washing the dishes and then find more laundry for the washer while she runs back to the kitchen for windex and paper towels.
Finding the paper towels in their usual spot above the sink, she spots that her favorite teas are out of order and shouts at the top of her lungs to find out who has been through her tea. My sister and I immediately drop what we are doing, and run to the kitchen to inform her that one of us went through the teas to find her tea for her teacup this morning. She then has a 15 minute lecture about how her teas are supposed to be which requires abject apology at the end.
20 minutes later, I am still attempting to wash dishes, my sister is attempting to gather laundry and my mother is looking through the tea tins and whereupon finding they are little over halfway empty, begins to rifle through her enormous stores in the pantry to find more tea to refill the tea tins. Meanwhile the paper towels and windex are sitting on the kitchen floor. Dishes done, I go and clean the mirror, as well as the faucets and sink while I’m at it, hoping mom won’t find anything else.
My mother has by this time efficiently torn apart the pantry, whereupon finding the teas has also found several jars of ancient applesauce I think my grandmother canned back during the Great Depression. She is immensely pleased about this, and decides to pull them out and wash the jars, teas and pantry goods completely forgotten. She informs my sister to fix the teas and put the pantry back to rights and DON’T FORGET to put labels out so she can see what is in what when next she decides to rummage.
Meanwhile, she decides the ancient jars of applesauce require much better treatment than a sink that has just been freshly cleaned, so she grabs the ajax and begins to scrub down the faucets and counters, moving briskly along to the stove, the fridge and other appliances. She pulls the fridge and stove away from the wall, and decides that the baseboards and tile beneath are absolutely filthy, and decides to take a scrubber and old toothbrush to said problem areas. Meanwhile, Deborah and I are running behind her, fetching and carrying, giving apologies about not having moved out the appliances once per week to scrub the baseboards.
My mother cleans for about 5 minutes, decides her knees hurt and she wants a cup of tea and to sit and rest watching a movie -for a minute-. My sister and I gather what she wants, along with lunch and whatever else, get her settled, and begin a three hour marathon of complete kitchen cleaning. My mother sits down to rest, never having FINISHED A GODDAMN JOB.
In retrospect, we have decided that it is easier just to stay one step ahead of her, keep her happy and placated and just wash the fucking dishes.
Go ahead. YOU do that for three days straight and see if you can deal without ranting on a blog.
When we are teenagers, most of us want only one thing in our core structures and beliefs: To be as different from our parents as possible. This especially holds true for parents of the same sex for some odd reason. It’s easier for a daughter to rebel against a mother and a son against a father. Being a teen, I couldn’t stand my mother. Everything she wore, everything she said, the way she moved, the way she talked, everything she believed was either annoying, embarrassing or downright wrong and usually all three at once. My father, on the other hand, walked on air. Nothing could touch the pedestal I had put him on. He was my stalwart, my knight in shining armor and, occasionally, my co-conspirator.
Over time, I’ve learned that both my parents are human. What did I really expect, Perfection? I’ve learned my father was less a god and more a man. I am comfortable with this. Not like I can be much else now that he’s gone.
My mother…my mother my mother my mother. My. Mother.
I love her. I do. I hate when she’s angry over small things. I hate I cannot confide in her without being judged. I hate even the smallest disagreements are huge three-hour blowouts. I hate that I feel inadequate. Inferior. Disappointing. Oddly enough, the one woman I spend more time thinking about how IRRITATING she is, is the one woman I would die for her to just say, “I’m proud of you.” With no reservations, no judgements, no ‘but’s.
Perhaps we will never be that winning, super special team that I see sometimes between mother and daughter. Perhaps we will never manage a quiet evening, a discussion where both our ideas and opinions can come to light without the other taking offense.
But I love her.
And I’m tired. I’m tired of fighting, I’m tired of begging, I’m tired of all of it. I cannot worry about what my mother thinks of me anymore. Don’t misunderstand; I value her opinion in many ways. There will always be that part of me that longs for her approval. But I cannot, and will not base my worth off another approving glance, or disapproving frown. She taught me well. My values are not without worth. I know what is right, and what is wrong. I know where my ethical boundaries are and where I am willing to give or grow or change.
Is that such a bad thing?
Epic Mother Quotes
1. “Just because someone’s short, doesn’t mean they’re mad.”
2. “Just shut up and put the broom in the washer and sweep the laundry!”
3. “What’s wrong with a goat rancher?!”
4. (regarding her phone not working) “I think Satan is trying to keep us from going to church.”
5. (regarding my gay friend) “Waylon and you look so cute together!”
6. (regarding my gay friend) “I think Patrick has a crush on you!”
7. (regarding my gay friend) “Bill is cute; you’re at his house an awful lot…”
8. (regarding my straight ex-boyfriend) “I think Scott is gay…”
9. “I’m just done with you; I don’t want to talk to you anymore. GET BACK HERE!”
10. “God wants you happy, that’s why you’re so miserable right now.”
11. “You need to lose weight; no man will ever
want you while you’re fat. Here, have a cookie.”
12. “I hate men. Help me get on Eharmony?”
13. “Where is that thing I had in my thing at that thing I was at that one time?”
14. “Someday, you will wake up and someone will like you for who you are. I won’t understand it, but they will!”
Daily Irritating Fact:
My mother has this habit of starting, literally, 15 projects around the house in the same hour. She won’t ever finish them, mind you, but she’ll start them. I’ll walk you through it.
For example:
She decides to start washing the three plates that are in the sink. She stops, seeing that her favorite dishrag is not in the drawer and begins an epic search for it in the laundry room. Upon discovering it is en queue to be washed, she roams the house searching for more laundry to stuff into the already overflowing washing machine.
Upon wandering into the bathroom, she sees that there are spots on the mirror over the sink from people brushing their teeth last night. Finding this a much more worthwhile effort on her part, she decides to call to have someone finish washing the dishes and then find more laundry for the washer while she runs back to the kitchen for windex and paper towels.
Finding the paper towels in their usual spot above the sink, she spots that her favorite teas are out of order and shouts at the top of her lungs to find out who has been through her tea. My sister and I immediately drop what we are doing, and run to the kitchen to inform her that one of us went through the teas to find her tea for her teacup this morning. She then has a 15 minute lecture about how her teas are supposed to be which requires abject apology at the end.
20 minutes later, I am still attempting to wash dishes, my sister is attempting to gather laundry and my mother is looking through the tea tins and whereupon finding they are little over halfway empty, begins to rifle through her enormous stores in the pantry to find more tea to refill the tea tins. Meanwhile the paper towels and windex are sitting on the kitchen floor. Dishes done, I go and clean the mirror, as well as the faucets and sink while I’m at it, hoping mom won’t find anything else.
My mother has by this time efficiently torn apart the pantry, whereupon finding the teas has also found several jars of ancient applesauce I think my grandmother canned back during the Great Depression. She is immensely pleased about this, and decides to pull them out and wash the jars, teas and pantry goods completely forgotten. She informs my sister to fix the teas and put the pantry back to rights and DON’T FORGET to put labels out so she can see what is in what when next she decides to rummage.
Meanwhile, she decides the ancient jars of applesauce require much better treatment than a sink that has just been freshly cleaned, so she grabs the ajax and begins to scrub down the faucets and counters, moving briskly along to the stove, the fridge and other appliances. She pulls the fridge and stove away from the wall, and decides that the baseboards and tile beneath are absolutely filthy, and decides to take a scrubber and old toothbrush to said problem areas. Meanwhile, Deborah and I are running behind her, fetching and carrying, giving apologies about not having moved out the appliances once per week to scrub the baseboards.
My mother cleans for about 5 minutes, decides her knees hurt and she wants a cup of tea and to sit and rest watching a movie -for a minute-. My sister and I gather what she wants, along with lunch and whatever else, get her settled, and begin a three hour marathon of complete kitchen cleaning. My mother sits down to rest, never having FINISHED A GODDAMN JOB.
In retrospect, we have decided that it is easier just to stay one step ahead of her, keep her happy and placated and just wash the fucking dishes.
Go ahead. YOU do that for three days straight and see if you can deal without ranting on a blog.