My mother is a cleaner. She is a straightener, a tidier, and a mess remover. I call it more than slightly neurotic. My mother is a dull woman. I know this because she keeps an immaculate house. Our bookshelves are always dusted, the magazines on the coffee table are current and artfully arranged, and there are fresh lines on the carpet from the vacumn cleaner.
In fact, if it wasn’t for the fact that I live here, there would be virtually no sign of life in my house.
Ever.
I am the exact opposite of my mother. I am chaotic. I am the mess maker. I take my shoes off at the door and I ::gasp:: leave them there. I look at it as saving the white carpet from mud and coffee.
My mother says it is actually laziness.
And after having had the battle of laziness versus efficiency (I’m just going to put the shoes on again when I leave), I realize neither of us are going to win. Besides, my mother also says my version of efficiency is actually chaos. She isn’t wrong but I don’t want to tell her that.
It amazes me that two people who are so fundamentally different can live under the same roof for so long without actually killing each other. Although we have tried.
I tell my mother that she has become dull in her old age, that reading a bit more wouldn’t hurt her, and that the Oprah magazine does not count as a book. I tell her that she does diservices to her clients by fighting for herion addicts to keep their babies. I tell her that she’s lost her personality outside of my father in the last ten years and that if she keeps alienating her friends, she’ll have no one left. I tell her that she enables my grandmother to manipulate and control our family and that at this point, everyone in our household needs a psych exam.
I don’t think I’m wrong in any of it.
This is not one sided. My mother tells me that I will be a horrible mother because I can’t keep a clean house. My mother tells me that she doesn’t think I’ll find a man that loves me until much later in life. My mother tells me that I am wasting my mind by working at Starbucks. My mother tells me that my artistic endeavors are a waste of money. My mother tells me that because I don’t remember to leave my work schedule on the fridge, I am inconsiderate.
We’re both going for blood, but in such different ways.
The funny part of all of this is that I don’t leave. I stay put. She doesn’t kick me out. And I know she won’t. She tells her friends how much she loves having me home. I think I keep her real and honest. She thinks I give her more gray. I told her it was the “it” color for the season. She still reached for the box of Preference.
At times it seems like the only thing we have in common are genetics. But I think maybe, just maybe, my mother sees pieces of what she wanted to be in me. Despite her conservative exterior, she tells me to dress however I want now before gravity kicks in.
I have also recently realized that my mother and I both love deeply. We love honestly but on our own terms. We are not afraid of commitment. We are liberated by it. We both hide our dumb decisions from each other. And when we inevitably discover said dumb decision, we are both harshly critical of each other. We both think my Gampy loves us more than the other one.
Mostly importantly, I loudly fear turning into my mother and she quietly fears that she is actually me. Funny how that works out.
We have these periodic moments of honesty and trust. They are few and far between but they have appear a bit more frequently during the last few months. I don’t know how to keep them coming but I’m not too worried about them stopping.
Originally post on Diaryland on April 24, 2006.
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