Recycle

In last night's post describing my efforts to get mom to find and provide to me my TIAA-CREF contract number, I got lazy after a while and skipped to the end of the story. I've decided it's worth sharing a bit more detail. Some people have asked whether I worry that mom might discover the blog; what follows demonstrates why I'm not too concerned:

Mom found the statement, and clicked on the link I'd sent (which gives detailed, illustrated instructions for finding the contract number on the statement).

Mom: That's for the enrollment confirmation, not the statement.
A.: The second half of the webpage is for finding it on the statement.
Mom: [Sigh.] Why don't I just read you everything on this statement?
A.: If you find that to be easier, sure.

And that is how I eventually got my contract number (with which I promptly logged into my account and changed the mailing address to my own).

It may also be worth noting that at some point yesterday, my mother said, "well, with your father undergoing surgery on Friday..." and I asked, "WHAT???" And she couldn't recall the exact name of the condition but offered some pronunciations; when none registered, she said, "well, you're just not familiar with the condition, then." My dad later told me it was for a hernia. I tried to get more details about the surgery, but mom would only talk about the logistics of getting dad around the house afterward. I'll keep you posted.

***
I was reading something... a New Yorker article about the French president... that brought back memories of my sojourn in France many years ago, the friend mom called at some obscene hour to ask where I was, even though I'd left her a message days before letting her know that I'd be traveling by rail to Denmark, stopping in Bruges and Hamburg along the way, and would not buy phone cards with which to call her until I reached Copenhagen. Imagine my surprise when I called from Copenhagen, only to be screamed at and told that she'd called my friend and almost had the Belgian police looking for me. Because I hadn't called.

It had been three days.

Anyway, that episode continues to rile me to this day, and I'm sure I've described in these pages the time that I left mom a message asking her not to call, as I was going to bed early and wanted to get a good night's sleep to fight off a cold, only to have her call me at 11pm my time and tell me she got my message.

So, what's my point, why am I recycling well-worn mom stories?

I had an epiphany as I recalled the Copenhagen episode. I've been guilty of a cognitive blunder, for which I'm sure there is a name (but I do not know it). I've long thought that my mother hears the opposite of what I say, but it now occurs to me that she doesn't listen, period, and just often happens to do the opposite of whatever I've asked her to do (or not do). She. just. does. not. listen. Words, sentences, go in one ear and out the other, perhaps because she is entirely focused on something else, like a Verizon letter. How else do you explain the accusation that I changed and sent the letter without consulting her, when I distinctly told her to read it after each edit, and also articulated to her the nature of the changes I'd made? It explains why she not only didn't contact the MA Comms Board until a half-year after I first suggested it, but also responded to each successive mention of the Board with, "what phone number on the bill?" as if she'd never heard of it before (even once after I pointed it out to her in person). It would also explain her habit of asking the same question multiple times, or perhaps why she thinks she needs to say things multiple times to get through to me. After all, it's understandable that she can project not listening onto her daughter, given the way she's somehow managed to project lecturing people at work about how to live their lives. It all makes sense.