mother may i?

"Oh mother dear
don't let them shoot my kite down..."
-Nick Heyward, Kite

It's taken me a while to write this post, partially because I couldn't think of too many examples to support my small rant, which we will jump into in a second.  Secondly, I could sense the backlash I'd probably unleash by being so trivial.  I wanted to continue to breakdown my family situation, which started with my last post, siblinguistics.  That one covered my sister, and I wanted to swing through the other branches of my family tree eventually covering my mom and dad.  But, as I started writing, I realized I really had no right to be complaining about these people.  My sister was a different story, as she never took care of me or tried to be involved in my life in any capacity.  My parents, however, took great care of me and any complaints I'd express would seem petty in comparison to the comfortable lifestyle I have.  Then, I realized that I am petty.  I complain.  It's what I do.  It's what I'm good at.  And just because I complain doesn't mean I don't realize how fortunate I am.  I can disagree with something without rejecting it, can appreciate something without accepting it.  I've spent too long feeling too guilty for the things I've felt and I can't do that anymore, something I've summed up as my paper cut philosophy, which I have covered extensively in this blog.  Yes, I'm privileged.  But privilege does not denote perfection.

Out of everyone in my family, I am probably closest with my mom.  But it doesn't mean that our relationship is that great.  While we are usually good overall, it's also often strained.  My mother is an extremely controlling, demanding woman.  She controls mine and my dad's money, food, and many times, our emotions.  When I was younger, I was never allowed to be too emotional.  If I ever laughed too much or was too hyper, like any kid is prone to do, I was reprimanded for acting childish.  If I was ever sad or upset about something, I was chastised for being weak.  There was never sympathy for any of the tough situations I found myself in.  Instead of a soothing word, my mother always countered my complaints with, "Why didn't you stand up for yourself?  Why did you take that from them?  Why didn't you do X, Y and Z to remedy the situation?"  Maybe because I was never reassured of my worth.  I was always picked apart rather than built up to be a confident.  And God forbid I ever got angry with my mother because it only made things worse.  I could never express any kind of hurt or sadness toward her because she made it seem like I was accusing her of being the worst mother in the world.  I never said that, nor thought that, but she tended to blow things out of proportion.  So, I learned to keep my feelings to myself.  It wasn't worth adding any more strife to the swirl of negative emotions that spun in my head.  And while it might not seem like that big of a deal, it definitely didn't help my emotional development, especially in the area of expression.  I learned to channel a lot of that negative energy through art, and eventually, writing.  But when it comes to people, I tend to either keep too much to myself or spill too much.

My mother is old school.  She's also small-minded and set in her ways.  It's hard being a progressive young man in such a repressive household.  She never liked the way I dressed.  She didn't like that I owned hair gel or had more than one pair of shoes.  She didn't like that I was more of an indoors person than outdoors.  She wanted me to ride a bike outside while I wanted to draw inside.  She didn't approve of my taste in clothing, music, friends, television and especially not my choice for college or career.

I needed to express myself, to get out of my redneck town.  I needed to be artistic, to create beauty and inspire and entertain.  My mother wanted me to draw blueprints for houses and company buildings.  I was not feeling that and never even considered it, much to my mother's disappointment.  No, I needed to break away, to do something bigger than I had ever done before, something more grand than myself, contribute art and culture and perhaps a message to the world.

But even a state away, my mother's reach managed to choke me.  She constantly asked if I had done my laundry, if I had finished my homework and went to bed at a decent hour.  She queried about the last time I vacuumed my room or took out the trash and if I had once washed a dish.  She didn't have to ask if I had purchased groceries because she had access to my bank account and made sure to tell me I was spending too much money.

I always had the impression that she thought I was immature and irresponsible.  Maybe I am to some degree but I am also responsible when I need to be.  I managed to make it through three years of college without starving or having the Center for Disease Control inspect my dorm room.  Oh, and I graduated Cum Laude.  I created a short film.  I was published in the college's literary journal.  And when I went back to work, I was put in charge of an entire department before being promoted to supervisor.  I don't have any illegitimate children running around, never been in trouble with the law and floss daily.  All in all, I think I'm a pretty damn good kid.  But my mother doesn't acknowledge those things.  She only chooses to criticize, nitpick and whittle away my accomplishments by pointing out inconsequential things I don't do to her satisfaction, such as the cleanliness of my room or the fact that I don't work enough hours at my job, which is out of my control anyway.

It seems silly for me to get upset over her acidic appraisal of my everyday life, but it all adds up, every judgment, every shake of her head or squint of her eyes.  It's the paper cut again.  It's that subtle chipping away at my self-esteem, an almost unconscious act of antagonizing me until I feel wrecked and unworthy.  It's the fact that she questions everything I do, wear, purchase.  It's the fact that she can't simple praise me for anything without throwing her own assessments into the mix.  It's the fact that she only sees my art as a money making business and not something I just enjoy.  It's the fact that she has never asked to read anything I've ever written.  It's because there's never been support of my decisions or my lifestyle, only reluctant acceptance.  And it feels like I've been living my life up against a wall, constantly pushing forward and feeling nothing but resistance.

But my mother is not a bad woman.  She is a hard worker, a good friend and a generous provider.  She has always paid for just about anything I've ever wanted, and will probably continue to do so as long as I have a need.  But being a monetary mama doesn't always ease the pain.  She took care of me how she knew to, in her own way, no matter how misguided she might have been.  But, isn't that all parents?  She did what she could with what she had and maybe by the time I came around, she was just tired.  She had already had eight hard years with my troublesome sister before I came along and since I wasn't necessarily planned, my parents probably just went with the wind when it came to raising me.  My mother soothed me with food instead of hugs, but she probably didn't know any better.  It worked and she stuck with it, never foreseeing the future damage she'd inflict.  She bought me coloring books and crayons and video games.  But she missed out on actually nurturing me and my talent, never went out of her way to make me feel special.  She often dismissed my drawings with an insincere "very good" before returning to her cooking.  But this was never intentional.  She was distracted, exhausted.  Once, when I was older, I confronted her with her incessant criticisms and she responded by saying she only said those things to help me, not to hurt me.  Obviously, she thought she was teaching me to be a better person but it backfired.  She was was unknowingly making me feel I was weak and unfit for independence.

It's always been a bit of a struggle to please my mother.  I often avoided situations that might have been fun or beneficial just so I wouldn't have to endure another disapproving look or icy silence.  I often asked her permission to do things in lieu of independent decision making.  It was always just easier to pacify her.  But I felt I was never able to grow up because I was confined by my mother's cold critiques.  How could I feel ready to step out into the world when she didn't think I could make up my own bed?  How could I grow up when my mom coddled me and then complained about it?  Hm, complaining.  I guess I got that from her, too.  I guess I have a lot in common with her.  Not only do we have the same hair, skin, teeth and eyes but the same mentality as well.  And it's slightly disconcerting as there are so many things about her I don't agree with.  And I realize the things I don't care about her are some of the same things I don't care about myself.  The impatience.  The quick temper.  The feeling of restless dissatisfaction.  What is it they say, you can't love anyone until you love yourself?  I suppose the same goes for acceptance.  My mother is not just a mom, but a person.  A human.  Fallible.  Loving.  Tired.  She is just another person, not a miracle mother, but no one's mother is.  And I have to accept that.

I'm sure parenting is harder than I could ever imagine and children, and people in general, no matter the age, are so susceptible to insecurity that the slightest word or action or inaction could create chaos within one's self, could screw someone up for life.  My mom wasn't highly educated, isn't incredibly worldly and doesn't have a great grasp of sensitivity.  And it's not really her fault.  Like I said, she's not a bad woman.  We do have our good times.  We laugh and when something excites me, I still want to tell her about it.  As much as I feel I missed out on integral part of growing up, becoming an adult, becoming well adjusted, I can't put all the blame on my mother and even if she was partly responsible, I should be old enough now to be able to change things, to at least make an effort to undo some of the damage.  And realize that she will never stop reviewing my life, lining up my accomplishments and blasting them away with her own input.  That's just something I have to not take so seriously, not have to internalize the way I do.  And as much as she might point out my shortcomings, as you can see, I point out hers as well.  I'm no better, really.  I am my mother's son.