Plus there is something extremely irritating about being called “fatsie” by someone who’s your height, weighs 15 kilo more than you do, and is in the process of eating the third slice of watermelon after an apple in compote and two oranges.
My mother will not pass comment on my appearance. I am not some delicate blossoming of fourteen-year old insecurity, Mother, I am twenty-seven years old, you could bounce coins off my sense of physical self-assurance, and you are not going to give me an eating disorder if you tell me which shirt looks best.
“Which looks better, Mum, the green or the black?”
“You’d look beautiful in anything!”
“Yes, but specifically thinking about these shirts - which is more flattering?”
“You’d look beautiful in anything!”
“In a bin liner? On fire? Focus on the shirt, Mother!”
It’s well-meaning and I certainly appreciate it compared to some of the relentlessly critical mothers in here, but when we have some terrible knife-fight in John Lewis nobody will be the least bit surprised.
Yeah, parents and grandparents don’t seem to understand that tastes change. When I was a kid, I sometimes read my grandparents’ Readers Digest Condensed Books (mostly 'cause everything else in their house was boring crap). So of course my grandmother gets the idea that I can’t get enough of them, and in addition to getting me (every year for the rest of her life) a subscription to Readers Digest, she keeps boxing up and mailing to me all these Condensed Books she gets from God-knows-where, right up through the time when I am in grad school. Hey, Nana, I have a college degree, I think I can handle full-length novels now. Thanks anyhow.
She meant well, though.
So put a lock on your bedroom door.
You’re an adult; stop telling silly lies to your mommy. Grow up!
I’m getting this now too. In my case it means “go back to chemically processing your hair every six weeks” rather than wearing it in its natural state. No thank you, straight, short-haired mom.
I also have, for about the last five years, gotten a monthly inquiry as to whether I’m a lesbian. And woe unto me if I have an upset stomach, because then I’m clearly pregnant. The dichotomy between these two conditions (generally speaking) is glossed over. Oh mom, never change.
Too funny. Mom telling you to put a hat on to go outside and Dad telling you to turn the heat down… I think I had the same parents!
“When are you going to cut your hair and shave?”
When my parents were teaching me to drive - my mom always told me to slow down, my dad always told me to speed up. One may never win.
My mom insists on storing stuff for me. When I left my husband, I left only with what fit in my toyota corolla. I asked my mom to store my piano and some pewter dishes I had. Everything else I was content to leave behind.
In spite of my repeated assurances that none of the “stuff” I had collected while married meant anything to me - she evidently kept going to my ex’s yard sales (man couldn’t get a job - so he sold off everything) and buying stuff back.
So after 2 years of purging myself emotionally and physically from a bad marriage, I moved back homeside to find out that a lot of my baggage was still there . . . in my mom’s attic.
And now I have had to spend the last 2 years quietly purging out all this stuff.
Nope. I miss my mom. I don’t miss the crazy nagging.
Mom had this thing about people needing to be home before dark. When I moved three hundred miles away she’d call my apartment after sunset and get upset, to the point of tears sometimes, if I wasn’t home and it was dark out. Winter was especially bad.
Mom: “I called earlier and you weren’t home. Why weren’t you home? It was after dark! You need to be home before it’s dark!”
Me: “Mom, this is Chicago. It gets dark at 4:30 pm this time of year. I don’t get off work until 5 pm. It’s impossible for me to hold a job AND be home before dark.”
Mom: "Can you ask them to change your hours?
The worst offense in that regard was one time my husband and I were visiting my parents for a week. I went out to have dinner with an old friend in the area. My husband wasn’t feeling well, so he stayed with my parents. Well, I get this frantic call from mom that the husband needs me to come back right now. I dash back in a half-panic, only to find my husband knows nothing about this “emergency”. Mom’s excuse? “It’s after dark, it’s late, you should be home.” My reply? “Mom, it’s 6:30, you interrupted dinner for three people, and my home is 250 miles that way - do you want me to get in the car and start driving now, or are you going to stop this nonsense and, more important, never lie to me again like this?”
Another thing was her obsession with time. During college years I’d work crazy long hours and when I got a break I really needed to catch up on my sleep. But mom was obsessed with the getting up thing.
Mom: “What time do you want to get up?”
Me: “Just let me sleep until I wake up.”
Mom: “What time do you want me to get you up?”
Me: “Just let me sleep.”
Mom: “If you don’t want to be disturbed I’ve got a spare alarm clock. What time do you want it set for?”
Me: “Mom, don’t worry about it. Just let me sleep.”
Mom: “Do you need me to show you how to set the alarm on your clock radio in your room?”
It was like she thought I couldn’t wake up without her assistance, left to myself I’d simply keep snoozing.
Mom was always offering to surround me with clocks and watches. She always had to know exactly what time it was. She would wear a watch on one arm and another on a chain around her neck. No matter where in the room she was there had to be at least one time piece visible. It drove me nuts. Mind you, I’m prompt, I’m on time for things, but if I don’t need to do something by the clock time doesn’t matter to me. It drove her nuts that on a weekend or a vacation I would have no clue when I woke up in the morning or when I went to bed at night.
We knew she was dying when she stopped asking two things: she stopped asking for cigarettes, and she stopped asking “what time is it?”
Do you know what this was from? It sounds, well, completely mad. Did she not get the memo that the Vampire empire has been overthrown?
Broomstick, my mom would **NOT **let anyone sleep in. And if you don’t get up you are personally stressing her out. On Saturdays my mom used to let us sleep in until 7:30, 8:00 if we were lucky. We’d do our chores, homework and be kicked outside to “play” by 10 AM.
She would demand to know why I wasn’t playing with any kids in the neighborhood - she didn’t understand that none of them were up yet!
Ha! Well could you?
I know it might seem impossible, but was your mom my dad? I usually got up at the same time for school everyday, but some days I wanted to sleep a little later, and would shave off the extra time I spent snoozing by spending less time in the shower, or putting my hair in a ponytail instead of styling it, or whatever. The was not acceptable to him. If I was still in bed even three seconds after my usual waking time, he’d come into my bedroom and wake me up (Grr!), asking if I needed him to do so. Well it’s too late now. The answer is no, but you’ve already waken me up! No matter how many times I’d say, “I’ve set my alarm for the time I want to get up. PLEASE STOP WAKING ME UP,” he’d come in my bedroom and wake me up every single time I was still in bed later than he liked. Never mind that I went to the same high school from the same house for all four years, so I had the whole time-it-takes-to-get-to-school thing pretty much down. In his mind, the time I had to be up was the time I had to be up. Yeesh!
My mother had mental health issues, and she had been assaulted twice when she was young. Fact is, she just didn’t feel safe a lot of the time and I’m sure that those two things were huge factors.
The last decade or so, when the vascular dementia started, it got worse. Oddly enough, her stroke loosened her up for a time before her deteriorating condition make it all get worse again.
He doesn’t hassle me, really, but my dad has decided I should get my hair cut really short. Like, to my ears short. Every time I see him, he tells me so.
The thing is, I did actually get my hair cut quite short a few years ago. (Not as short as he wanted it, but much shorter than usual.) It was fun to have a change, but in the end I decided I thought longer hair was more flattering on me, and grew it out. My own personal experience of having short hair is irrelevant, of course. I should have short hair.
No, my father was like that too. He was utterly paranoid about my driving after dark. And – oh, my god – on an INTERSTATE!
ETA: Sorry, this was in response to Broomstick.
My dad is the same way with the interstate. To visit most of our extended family, it’s a 500 miles trip. I take the 8 hour drive and he takes the 12 hour drive.
Well mine, whenever it comes up, are always insistent that it’d be great if I hennaed my beard, and/or squared it off on the sides more while keeping the length, and that I should try it.
Yeah…as parental battles go, I think I lucked out.
When I was 21, my parents came to visit me in college and to go to a football game. They took me out to breakfast. They were off to the game, I was going back to my room to study. I kissed my mother good-by. She said “Good-bye, dear. Look both ways when you cross the street.” I didn’t even notice until a mutual friend sitting in back started laughing. Now I’m 54, and she still grabs my arm when we are walking together to stop me from flinging myself under the wheels of the nearest truck.
They come by it honestly - I was almost 30 and my grandfather couldn’t understand that I preferred bourbon to grape soda.
Regards,
Shodan
Two weekends ago, I bought a new snowboard and went to Mountain High to break it in. My mom happened to call while we were having lunch and I told her.
“Well, be very careful. If you’re not used to it, you could hurt yourself on new equipment. Promise me that you’ll start with easy runs until you get used to it.”
“Uhm, Mom, it’s lunch. We’ve already been skiing for four hours. My easy runs are long over.”
“Well, just take care of yourselves. Are you wearing a helmet? You should wear a helmet.”
“Yes, I’m wearing a helmet. I always wear a helmet.”
Somehow, although Mom and I can discuss literature, finance, politics, wine, and many other adult interests, when it comes to physical activities, I’m still the toddler she had to keep on a leash lest he wander out into traffic.
When my mom sees me in full mountain bike gear, she’ll tell me to wear my helmet and take water.
“No mom, I’m just wearing the helmet and Camelbak until I get to the bike, then I’m taking it off.”