Weekend Onesie: Mother's Day
Tomorrow, another holiday is upon us. This one? To honor those who bring us into the world. Sometimes, for various reasons, their responsibilities end there, but, more often than not, they also nurture and care for us until such a time as we begin to resent or rebel against them.
Yes, defining ourselves, separate from our mothers.... quite the task. More difficult for some than others.
I wish I knew the secret.
Mothers are a bit like the mob... just when you think you're out, they pull you back in.
Of course, these comments reflect only my own, very personal experience. I'm sure there are a lot of boys out there who treasure their mums, and I do treasure mine... though I do long for a bit more distance between us.
I will admit it. I suffer from caregivers burnout. I want the best for my mother, but I've been providing almost daily care for her since she and my father moved into the house across the street. My father's been gone now for sometime, but she has soldiered on in that oversized house. During the days of COVID, I watched her diminish a bit, lose some of her vitality and strength. She dithers a bit, now. Her balance, observably questionable. I fear for her safety and I fear I can no longer keep her safe.
I discourage her from driving. She has a tendency to not pay appropriate attention to the road and the other drivers. I dislike her dependence on the local Catholic church, but it is her only source, other than family, for social interaction, which I recognize is incredibly important as one ages - not for me, but for others, like my mother.
I continue to see her on an almost daily basis, helping maintain her yard and sidewalks, grocery shopping, cleaning, whatever is needed. There's a social aspect to it, too. Judge Judy plays in the background as we share bits of news, oohing and awwing over the progress she's made on her latest jigsaw puzzle. Inevitably, I have to do my welfare check: What did you have for lunch, today? What's for dinner tonight? Etc.
We've made everything as easily accessible as possible. Her bathroom was recently completely redesigned, with a stackable washer and dryer installed on the main floor in a closet.
During the past two years I've made it no secret that I am tired and need someone else to carry the ball. Both my younger sisters have pledged to step up to the plate and relocate my mother, but nothing concrete, no action plan has been put into place, so there seems to be no timeline involved.
I know it might strike some as selfish, but I want to be selfish. I want to experience that without guilt. I want the sort of freedom so many others enjoy...
Part of me knows that if and when she moves, the time and energy I've supplied will simply be absorbed by one of my other obligations. And there will be a part of me haunted when I no longer have to drop whatever I am doing at 4:00 pm, Monday thru Thursday and hightail it over to her house.
It's not the time that I want back.
It's the emotional energy. My mother and I have a long and twisted history. There are so many landmines which I have become very adapt at steering clear of all these years. They can't be detonated, for what purpose would it serve? There are a few I know we would not survive.
So, it's the biting of the tongue. Ignoring the occasional comment, dodging a pointed question, and allowing certain notions to go unchallenged.
But, over time? This denial. It takes its toll.
In my head, I picture Julie Harris in The Haunting. Having taken care of her mother for years, once out of the house, in the real world, she's a fragile pile of nerves and neurosis, the product of unnurtured, unrealized dreams. Never allowed to fully separate herself from her mother, she's unable to adapt to this new found freedom. And, of course, it is much too late for her to grab any of the brass rings which served as hope-filled life preservers all those years stuck taking care of her aging parent.
That's not me.
But I am keenly empathetic.
Now, how did a post about celebrating our mothers become all about me?
Well, it's my party, too...
And I'll cry if I want to.
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You know, I never know where a post is going until I get there.
And I'll be the first to admit...
I have an incredible propensity to be utterly insufferable.
- uptonking from Wonderland Burlesque
Pity Party - Melanie Martinez
