Fragments of my Family
We were in SF this past week, a trip that was supposed to take place two weeks before, to Ensenada, Mexico to see my terminally ill aunt. Due to the new passport laws and the fact that we couldn't get emergency passports in time (we would have had to flown to Cincinnati to do so), we postponed our trip.
So we went to SF after my aunt’s funeral. Our point was to support my mom, the youngest of 9, now one of two. I wrote about this a few weeks back on Chicago Moms Blog, well, this was the outcome of our actual trip.
Our travel was easy, the kids were angels, people on the flight thought they were adorable and we got into SFO without a hitch. Going home was another matter. I wish I could say that my mom’s behavior was based on the fact that she was mourning a sibling but the truth was, she was just being her—the same her I have fought for the last 39 years of my life. It was the first time we stayed at the house since before baby #1, before dad died, and I realized just then and there how much I really missed him, and how much he played a part in my life.
My kids were enthralled with the 20+ year old cats who were semi-curious about them, curious about the woman called “Grandma” or “Aubelita—“lita” that they had been talking to the phone for the last 2 years. There were some toys—each brought a Cabbage Patch Kid home (yes, they were mine) but more than anything, stuff around the house to be done. I tried to draw a bath for the kids but the tub evidentially leaked. I threw them in the shower and it backed up. So immediately, hubby and I went looking thru one of dad’s 10 tool boxes and a trip to home depot later, fixed it, after dealing with years of shmutz coming up cast iron pipes that would have grossed anyone out. We fixed it and two of the windows in the greenhouse—without even a thank you—just a “oh, you could have done it better.”
My kids tried to get close to grandma but they needed to run, to have the “free reign” that they do in our kid friendly house—which is sadly, 100x cleaner and in better order than my mom’s. They acted as they always do, grandma flabbergasted that they wouldn’t quite budge to her whims immediately. She hasn’t seen them in 2 years and as I tried to explain to her, they didn’t really “know” her and they were in a new place. Her response “That’s no excuse. You’re not parenting them enough. You spoil them.”
I made her mad. I found the stash of “mini’s” from long ago and taste tested them—yes, the now 20 year old Vodka and I even brought a bottle of wine into her house. She is Catholic but sees those who drink as losers—well, her daughter is one of those losers--and it was enough to make her mad enough to give me the silent treatment for the last part of our visit.
In addition to bringing the alcohol in, and drinking what had been there (not much, seriously). I’d somehow manage to scratch dad’s toolbox (which is now incidentally mine as soon as I can retrieve it) and Luka locked himself out of the bedroom and we couldn’t find the key (mom lost it) so we pulled the trim off the doorframe to get in. 2 minutes. No damage to said trim, but mom threw a fit—she would have rather spent $250 on a locksmith on the 4th of July.
Later that morning, we went to visit my paternal grandmother who is 97 and in assisted living. I ran an errand before we left--I got home 5 minutes late. My mom was fuming and didn't speak the entire car ride. We weren't late in meeting my aunt or grandmother and both of them were delighted to see us and the kids. My younger son supposedly is the splitting image of my dad as a child, more in personality than anything else. Great grandma was enthalled. We went to lunch and wound up at Bennigans because as my mom had told my aunt on the phone, "her kids don't eat Chinese--they just eat corn dogs." (And organic food and and sushi and any food I put in front of them--when on the correct time zone). I ordered an ice tea to make up for my for my "drinking sins." My mom's silence was deafening. My toddler got restless--he was still on Chicago time--so we went in and out of the restaurant. There was no assist from my mom and my aunt kept telling me, "Serena, he's behaving just fine, he's probably just tired."
My husband was frustrated--but wisely said nothing. We went to the park after lunch--I didn't eat lunch btw, I was too busy watching the toddler. While my mom sat on a bench with her inlaws, hubby and I chased the kids around, treating them to their first treat from an ice cream truck. They had a blast and stayed clear of grandma. Our visit with my aunt and great grandma ended--still not a word from my mother to me.
Getting home was no better. I wanted to show my kids the "foggy fireworks" I grew up with--finding a hill and then ducking to see the action under the fog cover. I made dinner to see if that would help picking up crab legs and making Spanish rice to prove to my mom my kids ate more than she thought they did. It didn't matter. She didn't even join us at the table. I left her the dishes anyway. The kids tried to say goodnight to grandma after they were bathed and in their PJs-she growled at them. That was it. The last straw. Forget how mad at me she was, she didn't need to take it out on the kids--the kids she didn't think behaved well enough.
The next morning my husband woke me at 3:30 am saying "Let's get out of here before your mom wakes up." Covert operations---he had seen how she had treated the kids the night before when I was packing us up.
"We're never coming back," my husband said as we pulled out of the driveway in our rental car. "No way." Sadly, I think he's right. I joked we could stay at a hotel next time and not tell my mom we were in town, his response, "How about we just never go back."
There are things that were left for me at the house, in time, I will send a moving company for them. I took a last glance at the looked at the family portrait that mine and hangs in the playroom. My dad is holding my shoulders, reassuring. Not that he and I didn’t have our issues, we did—plenty of them, but I suddenly noticed my mom’s stance—pulled away, off to the side, as if she didn’t want to be in the picture—she didn’t. I was three in that picture—it was taken 36 years ago. Pretty telling I’d say.
My mom had children out of obligation, hopeful that they would be her mirror image. She has my younger sister to fill that for her. I am the opposite of what she wanted. I love to shop, indulge in my wine and yes, I have a cleaning lady because I am a slob and my family deserves to live in a dust free home. Love was always conditional in that household--I knew that all my life and and thankful that my husband was finally able to see that. There is no relationship with my mother--not one that is healthy for me at least and after spending the last few days "hiding" and tearfully re-writing this post, I can honestly say I can accept that--a huge relief--and move on without her in my life.
I joked that I brought in the wine, knowing my mom would disapprove, just to prove that I wasn't her. And looking back now, I didn't need it because I've already achieved that. No matter what my issues, one thing will always stand out—my children were wanted and are loved, no matter how nutty they make me, and they will always know it, no matter what.
