I’ve been putting off writing and posting what follows for awhile now. In fact, this has been the longest stretch of time I’ve spent on an entry since I began this folly. It’s not writer’s block, which I won’t mock because only a fool challenges an ill wind. No, I’ve been putting this off because I know exactly what I have to write about.
I just don’t want to write about it.
Not just because it’s so trite that it even makes me want to retch. Not just because in so doing I risk offending the subject. I just don’t want to talk about the longest relationship I’ve ever had. I think most people would agree the last thing they want to do is talk about their mother.
Really. The last thing. Especially in public with a vow of honesty backing it up.
But I must. There’s no getting around it. Events dictate it. Mom came to visit for Christmas, you see.
It’s axiomatic that I’m too close to the topic to be objective; evidence, analysis, and cool detachment must be my watch words.
See how much I don’t want to do this? 193 words and no closer.
So here we go:
My mother and I have always had a difficult relationship. In this, we are no different than, well, probably you as well. It can only get one step more Freudian than this, but after much thought I’ve concluded that the primary reason for this is because my mother has always had terrible taste in men.
Mom has had three main romantic relationships that I’ve known of since I was born – my father, who I grew up not knowing for good reasons, my adoptive father, who is at least an entire entry on his own, and my mother’s current partner, who she’s been with for almost 30 years now.
Each one of those men were a disaster for her. I realize that if not for my biological father I wouldn’t be sitting here calling any of them a disaster. But these men weren’t good for her. And she is not the type of person to keep displeasure to herself.
Ask any of the three aforementioned men.
I have my issues with my mother but I don’t see her as the wellspring of all my woes.
A great part of why we have a difficult relationship is beyond any blame I can lay at either of our feet. She is a product of her time, geography, and parents as much as all of us. I tell myself this often. I have to tell myself this often otherwise I’d be tempted to treat her as I was treated growing up.
And that would be the very worst thing I could allow.
You could say my parents were an excellent example of parenting. I simply take most of the things they said and did and do the opposite. This has been an excellent rule of thumb in the raising of my own child.
My mother loves me. I know this. I know it because of the things she sacrificed not only for me, but for my brothers as well. She stayed married to a man who clearly made her and everyone else unhappy for much longer than she ought to have. She worked long hours to personally pay for my private high school education, when my father would not. Whenever I needed to come home, she always had a place for me.
She also kicked me out of the house on my 18th birthday. To be fair, she did warn me it was coming. I just didn’t believe her.
My mother once told me a story of when I was 3 years old and we were living together in an apartment in Massachusetts. I still wasn’t speaking at three and she was getting concerned that I might have a hearing impairment, so she set up an appointment to have my ears tested. She was relating her concerns to a neighbor when said neighbor opined that perhaps I wasn’t deaf but merely retarded (it was the term used at the time).
What my mother said next was enough to make that neighbor avoid her in fear for the rest of the time we lived there.
My mother is a loud, opinionated, strong tempered woman raised in the south by a World War 2 veteran who survived the sinking of two navy destroyers. He taught her how to spit watermelon seeds across the street at six years old and how to box when she was 12 (he was a Navy golden gloves). Believe me, it took me 16 years to learn how to not be a sucker for her left hand feint (she never closed her fist, cold comfort indeed). She wasn’t just quick with her hands either, she was equally sharp with her tongue, as the military found out.
In a previous post I mentioned my time in the infantry. After I had been in for a little over a year, I took my accumulated leave and went home to Arizona from where I was stationed in Germany. I had quite a bit of time accrued, so I used it all, a month.
I employed a method of travel called “space available.” This means that as an active member of the armed services I was able to fly on air force planes going my way if space was available. I do not recommend crossing the Atlantic in a C-130. It’s uncomfortable but it’s also very cheap. It can also take a long time for space to become available.
This wasn’t a concern on my way to Arizona. It became a concern going back to Germany.
After four days of flying starting in Phoenix, I found myself in Dover, Delaware waiting for a seat to take me back to Ramstein, Germany. The nice air force NCO had just informed me that it would be at least two more days before a flight looked likely. I was due back in formation the next morning at 0600.
The army does not like it when you’re not standing at attention in formation at the given time. Especially when they haven’t heard from you before hand. They take this very seriously. They use terms like “absent without leave” and “desertion”. Those are not things you want to hear said.
I panicked and did something I’m not proud of: I weaponized my mother and aimed her at the army.
In retrospect, this was using a flamethrower when a bic lighter was sufficient but again, I panicked.
I called my mother collect and gave her the number to my company in Germany with instructions to tell the soldier answering the phone that I was held up in Dover but would be there soon. Why didn’t I just call myself? Because this was during the days of no cell phones, no computer networks, and pay phones. Did I mention that I was broke?
So, duty done, I waited for my ride and made it back only a couple of days late.
To find my company commander waiting for me at the sign in desk.
Apparently he happened by the phone when my mother called the duty desk. C.O.s rarely answer the duty phone. That’s what privates are for. Dumb luck, call it.
He said, “PFC Hero, I was going to have you scrub toilets for a couple weeks to pay for the extra leave you decided to take. Your mother is one ball busting bitch. If you’ve been spending the last month with her, you’ve been punished enough. Now get back to work.”
Of course, this was all long ago, and time has changed us both.
She’s only 19 years older than me, so as a 50 year old man, I have a mother that is relatively young. Her current long time partner is only 8 years older than me and met when I was in my early 20’s. Normally I’d say, go mom. Except, she has terrible taste in men.
Both she and her partner came for Christmas this year and it was all I could do to maintain a calm steady demeanor. Here’s where my compassion fails me: I blame my mother for her terrible taste in men.
Now before I go any further, I want to make sure I’m not casting that proverbial stone from my glass house. I’ve had enough marital troubles to equal two ex wives and plenty of serious relationships that were horrible mistakes. Almost without exception, these relationships ended not just from things I did but also from things I failed to do. I’m still learning and hope to always care enough to try. Given the behavior of far too many men, I feel compelled to note that I have never been violent with a romantic partner, physically, verbally, or emotionally.
Full disclosure, I did once have to disarm a steak knife from a very drunk girlfriend, pick her up as she was curling furrows of flesh off my back with her nails, and set her outside my door. Gently, I might add. But at no time was I violent, or even angry. If anything, I was a little scared. Yes, she was one of the exceptions I just mentioned.
It can’t be emphasized enough the importance of who you decide to be with. This is an obvious statement that too many people simply grunt and roll their eyes at. We enter into romantic relationships with the best intentions – otherwise you’re either delusional, self-loathing, sadistic, or banally haven’t thought it through. I’ve been all of those things except sadistic and with the best intentions. You can be clear eyed, utterly in love, and completely committed to the prospect of the rest of your lives together and not only can you still fail, you probably will. A stable, mutually loving and fulfilling relationship that lasts decades is just not likely.
Unless you choose wisely and get a little lucky. You can also be a fool and get fantastically lucky. A fool’s luck eventually runs out though. But I digress.
Because I hate talking about my mother.
I try to see these things as clearly as possible. I’m a grown adult with my own life to live and so is my mom. None of us get to make decisions of the heart for anyone else but ourselves and sometimes not even then. Who am I to say so long as she’s happy, right?
The answer to that question is: As her son, I have more of a say than most. I’m the product of and witness to almost every romantic relationship my mother has had and I can say she is remarkably consistent in choosing her partners poorly.
My maternal grandmother had it right, I think. After my grandfather died, she never remarried and never had another romantic relationship that I ever saw. True, she also smoked like a crater and had a highball in her hand by 10 am. I guess we all chase our own happiness in the end. I can’t help but think she was happier with a drink and a smoke than she’d ever be with someone not my grandfather.
Family is a strange thing. You can love a family member but have little in common. You can love a family member and not like them. That’s the hardest love to maintain. It gets very easy to let distance and time erase whatever vestigial ties of affection remain. Harder still when the family member in question is your mother.
They say that if you want to be cared for by your children in your old age, you should have daughters or enough sons that daughters in law are part of the picture. Apparently, sons are notoriously absent when it comes time to take care of elderly parents.
If you read this mom, rest assured that I will care for you in your dotage, as I’m positive that Trucker Cowboy McCrass will not.
I’m not cleaning up after your chihuahua though.
