Something which I think made Littlebro fugging nuts…
He and three other boys were born in the same apartments building in the same year; they always went to the same schools; even when they weren’t in the same “social groups” officially (which didn’t happen until high school) they were and remain closer than many blood relations. Eventually, F moved across the street (oh the horror), later we moved up the street… 50 yards or so. Whenever one of them was on the phone with another one, any adult or sibling who noticed would say “are you talking with X? Dude, go to his house!”, grab the receiver, verify it was indeed X, say “he’s going over” and finish the conversation.
The horrible, horrible stress of having to go up one (1) flight of stairs… ok, or go down one, (cross the light/walk 50 yards), take the lift up. Sheesh, they weren’t going to get a hernia from the effort!
When I was a pre-teen, just getting interested in clothes and styles, and very aware of what my friends were wearing to school each day, my mom would take me shopping on Saturday to nearby big city. Exciting, right? Except the drill in each dress shop and department store was for Mom to step up to the rack and start picking things for me to try on. If I tried to pick things out for myself and ask if I could try them on, this was shot down immediately. Her reasoning was that she and my father earned the money, so she got to pick my clothes.
The embarrassment of having to wear some of her butt-ugly ensembles in junior high sent me into entrepreneurship at an early age. I baby-sat, helped a friend deliver newspapers, and raked leaves to earn money to buy my own clothes. Mom was happy I was earning my own money, but not happy that I wasn’t wearing what she liked. Yes, we had control issues.
She had another annoying habit, which persists to this day. If she sees someone (OK, me) pick up a newspaper or book and start to read, she will do the same, only she reads aloud. Usually it’s a cookbook and she’ll read recipes until you put your reading material down and stare at her.
Dad used to pick up the comforter and spray cold Right Guard deoderant on my bare feet if I didn’t bounce out of bed when the alarm went off.
My mom used to buy chips and cookies and candy and encourage me to eat heaping servings of her food. If I didn’t load up, she’d be upset. But when I would actually be done eating, she’d call me fat. She even took me to the doctor a couple of times for my weight “problem.” The doctor advised her that I was at a healthy weight, but she kept arguing with him that I was fat. In front of me.
Also, my mom is a food hoarder. She has three refrigerators, all full of food. She also has a pantry that’s about the size of a large walk-in closet, also full of food, plus a corner in her sun room and the garage, which are also full of food. When my sister and I visit, we typically help her clean out, and she’s receptive, but it always comes back. She’s terrified that she’ll run out of something. Always has been.
Oh, yeah - my mom would always refuse to stop at unscheduled stops on long car rides. I have always had a small bladder, so I have to pee a lot. My mom would insist on stopping at scheduled stops only, no matter how many hours I would have to hold it. I still remember crying in the back seat while my sister tickled me until I wet myself, then getting screamed at and berated by my mom for doing it. I would beg to stop on the side of the road, a rest stop, anywhere, but mom was convinced that only trashy people peed on the side of the road and that we’d all get raped at a rest stop, so she’d flatly say no. It was so humiliating.
Did you ever drive a two-lane highway with a speed limit of 55, and get behind that old codger in a beat up pickup going 40? And there’s oncoming traffic so you can’t pass? And eventually you’re part of a parade of people behind the oblivious old guy?
That was my grandfather. Sorry, but it was excruciating for me, too. That’s why I slid down in my seat so you all couldn’t see me. (I was raised by my grandparents).
I got “because I said so” so damn much as a kid that it’s warped that portion of my personality a bit. I canNOT accept that things are such-and-such way without knowing the WHY behind it. It made me a pretty good student, I suppose, especially at the sciences, but I suspect it’s annoyed my manager once or twice.
I’ve made a point of explaining to each of my kids, when they were old enough to understand, that, while I will give them an explanation whenever I can, sometimes I just can’t; it may be that I simply don’t have enough time right then; it could be that I just don’t feel good about something, and don’t know why, but I feel I have to go with my instincts. They’ve been good about this. Of course, one of the reasons they’ve been so good about it, I suspect, is that I don’t use it very often.
My parents belonged to a fanatically narrow fundamentalist sect; the list of forbidden (worldly) activities was longer than my arm. To break any of the taboos was, of course, a cardinal sin. It wasn’t just fear of parental rebuke that hung over us, it was the gates of hell. Consequently, I was forced to be the “odd man out” of most school and neighborhood groups. Movies, television and popular music were forbidden - I never set foot in a theater until I was 18. Sports and most recreational activities were taboo - the circus, rodeo, bowling alley, pool hall and just about everywhere else were off-limits. Of course all contact with alcohol & tobacco was a sin (I really showed 'em there, though…started smoking at 16)
The biggest bone of contention though was hair. Mind you, this was the 60’s and 70’s when EVERYONE grew their hair out. Except me, Mr. Butch. Heck, even the Mormon kids got to grow their hair longer than I did.
Funny thing though…with television, movies and most other forms of entertainment forbidden, I became a bookworm at a very early age. The parents approved of that, and made very little effort to govern what I read. The whole family were readers, I grew up in a house filled with books. I still have a house full of books. Never did catch the TV bug, I own one but seldom watch it. Even today my chief pleasure is reading. That at least is one gift from my parents that has lasted a lifetime.
SS
On the whole, my parents were great when I was growing up but one thing that absolutely drove me nuts was when my older brother would pick a fight with me and my mom would say, “I don’t care who started it, you’re both grounded!” To this day, that still gets my hackles up.
For some friggin’ reason that was never explained to me, my mother didn’t like being asked what she was making for dinner, so if I asked, the answer was “fish heads and rice” or “baked Brynda.” Hilarious. It drove me nuts. Just answer the damn question! It wasn’t like I would have complained, she just didn’t like me asking.
We cleaned the house every day. Yes, every day. Christmas, your birthday, first day of school, whatever. Didn’t matter. Bathrooms, the kitchen, vacuum the whole house, and dust.
My mother couldn’t tell the truth to save her life. Everything was shaded or outright changed to get her way or look better. A chore that would clearly take an hour or more was described as “it will only take you 15 minutes.” She would say “I told your sister that she needs to lose weight” and if I said that she shouldn’t have said that, her response would be “Oh, I didn’t say that, I just said she should walk more” Uh, no, you just said that you said…nevermind. You could never win.
My mum and nan are like that, sometimes. If they couldn’t be bothered, they’d say shit on toast or duck underdatable (under the table) if we where having a rare night when there is nothing organised, dinner is what ever is in the fridge (usually when we’ve had big lunches) they’d say catchers catch can. (you get whatever you can find/think of)
my mum is addict, and i hate hate hate, how she begs people for painkillers.
My mom installed some serious buttons on me that she loves to push. As a kid, I had to deal with the fact that she was very generous to others with my time and effort. And it was/is not because she want to be helpful. If I’m not around, she will gladly stand around and watch her friend struggle to carry heavy groceries without offering to help. She would volunteer me to do things like help a friend of hers clean their garage. And then not tell me until a few minutes before I had to leave to get there on time. And she always makes it an order to do whatever. My dad asks, she orders. And dad never asks for a chore to be done unless it’s a chore that needs to be done and he would do himself if he had the time.
It wasn’t until I was grown that I realized that moms behavior was about exercising control rather than getting things done. And that she’s lazy. E.g., a garage door opener was not worth getting until I went to college and she had to open the door herself.
In our house “catch as catch can” or “grab and growl” were code phrases for "Mom’s not going to be late and Dad’s supposed to make dinner.’
My dad’s make-ya-bugshit habit was his early morning start the car routine. My father did a more thorough “systems check” than any commercial airline has ever done with a plane with hundreds of passengers on board. He’d walk around the car, inspect all the tires, check under the hood. Then get in the car and start the engine. He would then check every control to make sure everything was working properly. Windshield wipers? Check (even on a bright, sunny, cloudless day). Lights? Check. Highbeams? Check. (it is 8:30 am we will be late for school and there really is no need for highbeams on a bright sunny cloudless day! Fuck!) Left blinker? Check. Right blinker? Check. Four ways? Check…
He would then depress the clutch and make sure each gear felt right: first… second… third… fourth… fifth… reverse… But he wouldn’t actually reverse yet and back out of the parking space, oh no, he’d put it back into neutral to continue on with his systems check. Next up, testing the radio…
As a mother of three, I can now defend “because I said so,” even though it drove me nuts as a kid. Some days, it seems like “Why?” is every second word out of my kids’ mouths, and I just reach a point of enough is e-friggin’-NOUGH!
And my mother was also of the school of “no random stops during car trips,” so we learned very early to never miss an opportunity to use the bathroom and get food or something to drink (especially after my mother bought a new truck with dual fuel tanks! Rest stops happened only when it was time to gas up - ack!)
The thing that made me craziest, though, was my mother’s insistence on ordering the same meal for everyone on the rare occasions we had fast food. Fine, order everyone a burger, fries, and soda, but don’t get mad at me then when I insist on removing the onions from mine, or not drinking a chocolate milk shake - I told you that I wanted strawberry and don’t like chocolate! You can’t have it both ways, woman! (And even now that I’m over 40, I can still make my mother crazy by picking certain ingredients out of my food/off my pizza/whatever. You’d think that she’d be accustomed to it by now, but… not so much.) On a related note, she still has these moments of “but you’ve always liked potato salad (or olives, or pimiento cheese, or whatever.”) I’ve pretty much given up on reminding her that it’s BigBrother who likes potato salad, or LittleSis who liked pimiento cheese, and that I have never willingly eaten any of the above - not gonna change at this point, and not worth the argument.
As to the “What’s for dinner?” non-answers, maybe your parents were like I am: I can be halfway through cooking a meal, and when someone asks “what’s for dinner?” I may legitimately not know what it’s gonna be when it’s finished. Sometimes, meals need time to “develop”!
When my kids ask “What’s for dinner?” it’s more a matter of “It’s something you’re probably going to complain about, especially if I give you 45 minutes to realize it’s not one of your 3 favorite meals, so I’m not going to tell you what it is, since I have no intention of listening to you moan for the next hour.” So my standard answer is “sardines & hot sauce” when asked what’s for dinner.
In defense of parents, my children do sometimes get “Because I said so” because any other answer in that moment would continue or start an argument I didn’t want to deal with. My oldest son sees reasons for my decisions as something he can work his way around if he just finds the right argument. There is no way around “because I said so.”
Also, with seven people in the house, it’s late, I’m in the middle of cooking and I don’t like to be interrupted, I don’t want to hear “what’s for dinner?” seven freaking times. Yes, it only takes a second to answer, but they’ve already interrupted my flow and I’m having to read the recipe again, or whatever because they asked. It doesn’t matter what’s for dinner. You either eat it or you don’t. Be surprised when it hits the table.
My children are going to have sooooo much fodder for discussions like these when they are adults.
As for my parents, my dad thought he shouldn’t have to ask you to do something he wanted done. You should just be able to see it and then promptly volunteer. After all, we should be able to read his mind, right? He would also not stop on long road trips. That drove me nuts. My husband’s father was the same way about road trips. We have excessive stops on our vacations now.
My mother assigned chores and then never rotated the assignments unless something absolutely had to be changed. Once dishes were your job you were stuck for at least six months if not longer. I finally got out of doing dishes by having her assign me dinner.
I’m not discussing the eight years of forced paper delivery. It was awful.
I hated it when my mom was too lazy or shy to perform errands and so I would always be the one to get out of the car to do them. Not only was she asking me to do something she could do herself, but it was more of a bother to get the right instructions from her than it would have been for her to do them herself.
This ended when I forgot to affix a stamp to a get-well/sympathy card for one of her terminally ill clients before I mailed it. I think my subconscious was rebelling.
My kids know that my answer to “What’s for dinner?” is always going to be “Poop.” I started it when they were little because it would piss me off to give them the real answer, only to be met with moans and groans.
