My mother is insane.
One probably shouldn’t go about making statements of this magnitude without some follow-up. So this is me, following up. YOU ARE WELCOME.
Example #1:
My sister and I both recall with avid detail our mother’s detestation of Dachshunds. Yippy little wiener dogs, she used to call them. Dumber than a box of rocks. Clumsy, idiotic creatures.
Just trust me on this:
Our mother HATED Dachshunds.
And there was no chance in hellz she would ever own one.
Enter Gretchen.
Long after my sister and I had both flown the coop, our father made a strange announcement. “Your mom is thinking about getting a dog,” he said. This was news enough, as the last family dog was a well-loved Toy Red Poodle named Mickey who was, simply put, THE BEST. We had him for years and were all devastated when he died at the ripe old age of five-krillion-and-three, or however old he really was which isn’t relevant here. The point is, we grew up with that dog, and when he passed on to greater fields, Mom was emphatic that there would never, ever again be a dog in her home. Fair enough.
New dog – Wait — WHAT?
Well, shocking as this might be, it’s nothing to get worked up about. People change. Time heals. I get that. But when Dad indicated that the dog in question was a Dachshund? HELL-TO-THE-NO. “You must have misunderstood, Daddy,” we offered in placating tones. “Mommy hates Dachshunds.” You can imagine how well this was received by the spouse of la-koo-koo, which is to say, not well in any way whatsoever.
“I think I know your mom better than you do, Girls. And she has always loved Dachshunds. I don’t know where you’re getting this nonsense.”
We let Daddy have his silly belief.
Who cares? It didn’t hurt us. If he wanted to go on thinking she loved a breed of dog she clearly hated, what harm in that?
Mom got a Dachshund.
I’m sure you saw that coming. I’m not very good with the suspense-building here. Which is fine, since that’s not the point I’m trying to make. And honestly, I don’t care if she changed her mind and got a damn dog, much less WTF kind of dog she got. This is the part I care about, right here:
“Don’t be silly. I’ve always loved Dachshunds.”
Nothing could sway her – or our dad.
We could not say anything to get her to admit she had ever hated that kind of animal. I don’t know if she was lying, or if she had really convinced herself that this was now true – what my sister and I refer to as “rewriting history”. Regardless, it is now on the record that Mom has never NOT loved Dachshunds. My dad held the royal pen which made the record so.
Example #2:
Actually, I’m skipping Examples #2 through #4,999,999 because that would make this post entirely too long. Just take my word for it. THERE ARE THAT MANY EXAMPLES.
Example #5,000,000:
Fast forward a hundred years and we are all old grown-ups. And one thing of which we can be certain, because it’s a fact: My mother can in no way tolerate torture scenes in movies or books. It’s a big deal. She has turned off the VCR mid-scene, walked out of theaters 20 minutes in, tossed new, hardly-read books in the trash… When I tell you that Mom has a problem with torture, I mean it. This is no joking matter.
So we try to shelter her.
We guide Mom toward stories that don’t involve pain or heartache {because she hates emotionally heavy movies, too}. We pick movies to watch together which promise to contain zero violence. We are careful with her, respect her limits, and make suggestions for or against appropriate material.
Enter *Girl with the Dragon Tattoo*.
I never got around to reading the book series, for whatever reason, although I was aware of their broad appeal to international audiences. The books have been on my “To Read Someday” book list since their first appearance in the U.S. Unfortunately {for the books, anyway}, my “Priority Reads” book list is much too long, and grows much too quickly, for me to take the “Someday” items seriously. It exists, but mostly as a reminder that I will never, ever, ever run out of reading material, unless and until the robots and/or zombies take over. Or, you know, I die.
But I saw the movie.
The foreign one.
Not the remake done in the U.S. a year later, which I still don’t comprehend. The original movie was done well enough that U.S. audiences should have liked it. So I don’t really understand what happened with all that. But when the American version of the movies started rolling into theaters, my mom announced that she was going to start reading the books and see the movies.
“Nooooooooo!”
I told her,
“Mommy, these books are not for you. They will hurt you. They are gruesome and horrendous in the amount of pain caused to human bodies. You hear me? BODIES. Plural. More than once. Rape and sodomy and beatings and all kinds of bloodshed. You will NOT like this series, Mommy! I promise! Don’t do it!”
Because it’s me, however, my words fell on deaf ears.
My mother has this thing where I am the “bad” child and my sister is the “good” child. Neither of us has done drugs or gone through any partying stage in life. We both did extremely well in school and were generally polite and well-behaved. The main difference in our actions, and what labeled us for life, is that my sister married right out of high school and is still wed to her dear beloved, whereas I, the family slut, engaged in premarital sex, ended up pregnant right out of high school, and never married the father. I then proceeded to flip through guys like a person changes socks, one after the other. Of course, I also enlisted in the military, received an honorable discharge, obtained my college degree, and held a long-term job during those years, proof that I’m not a complete failure, but that didn’t stop Mom from proclaiming at one family holiday gathering, in front of everyone, that my sister is her Right Hand, very steady and reliable, while I am her Left Hand, awkward and somewhat untrustworthy.
Yes.
That stung a bit, in case you were wondering. Guess who is NOT caring for parents during their Golden Years? Black sheep have a tendency to make bad choices and take the wrong path. So I wouldn’t want to be responsible for that kind of important undertaking. I’ll leave that to steadier, more capable hands. Sorry, sister!
So anyway.
My mother has a habit of disregarding my advice. She and Daddy went and saw all the movies. The entire series. And told me how much they loved them, despite the gruesome nature of the tale. Un-fucking-believable. Have you *SEEN* those movies? TORTURE. Big time.
I finally called Mom out.
I asked her why she didn’t listen to me. I asked her why she often does the opposite of what I suggest. I asked her why she doesn’t take my opinions into consideration. Her response?
“Stop trying to pigeonhole me!“
In case you have never come across the term pigeonhole, allow me to explain. To pigeonhole someone is to classify them into a category – to sort them into preassigned boxes – to label them. And my mom thinks I pigeonhole her by wanting to be able to rely on her to be a stable fucking person from one day to the next.
Are you fucking kidding me?
Let’s overlook the irony that the same person who has pigeonholed me into the role of the Left Hand is saying I pigeonhole her into the position of “person who hates Dachshunds and can’t abide torture“. Or don’t overlook that irony. Whichever.
I could not fathom a decent argument then.
I was too flabbergasted at the ridiculousness of the statement. My mind halted in its tracks and could not possibly think of anything to say. But I can now, weeks later, in this here bloggy-blog, which she will never read because it’s too liberal and I have a potty mouth and also I had a child out of wedlock almost 20 years ago.
TWENTY YEARS. Still paying.
Here it is.
I have no problem with personal growth, with throwing labels aside in favor of new ideas and methods. I have done this myself several times over the course of my life. I don’t demand my mother remain unhappy with Dachshunds or stories containing torture. Truly, I don’t “demand” anything. So what is it I want from her?
I guess I want validation.
When you pretend you always loved Dachshunds, Mommy, you make me feel crazy. Only the fact that my sister remembers, too, that you once hated them allows me to rest easy. Otherwise I’d have to consider the suggestion that my mind isn’t right. It is fine if you love Dachshunds NOW… but it’s the word “now” which adds validity to my claim that this was not always the case. Can’t you maybe say something along the lines of, “I used to hate them, but this one stole my heart, so I had a change of heart and NOW I love them.” Fair enough.
And Dragon Tattoo?
Can’t you say, “I took into consideration your suggestion to avoid those movies, but friends ensured me I’d like it, and while you are correct that the torture scenes were way beyond my normal scope of what’s acceptable, I forced myself to sit through them in order to enjoy the larger story.”?
Or… I’d even accept something along the lines of, “Yeah, I heard you, but I resent my own daughter telling me what I should and should NOT watch, so I did it anyway.” Again, fair enough.
Just… you know… OWN it.
Go ahead. Change your mind, or make a decision out of spite. I have no beef with either. But at least be honest about it. You don’t have to make me feel crazy in the process. Asking you to stop lying or forgetting or whatever it is you’re doing isn’t pigeonholing you. It’s recognizing you. It’s remembering accurately. It’s giving credence to memories I share with my sister. Change, don’t change – whatever. But have a clue what you’re doing, and be upfront about it.
Do you have crazy relatives?
Tell me about them. Especially if they like to rewrite history. Or if they pigeonhole you into a category you resent. Or if they like Dachshunds or the Dragon Tattoo series. Or if they are liars. Or if they make you pay for shit that happened twenty years ago.
TELL ME.