There's more mom blogging, too

Mom left me a message while I was at work about a bill I'd left near her computer. I called her back on my way to the metro to let her know she could toss it.

Mom: Where are you?
A.: Walking to the metro; just left work.
Mom: I did send you that website about Messing...
A.: Yes. I promptly deleted it.
Mom: You deleted it? [To dad:] She deleted it!
A.: I don't have time, mom. I told you not to bother sending it.
Mom: You could have kept it until you do have time!
A.: I would have forgotten about it and it would have clogged my inbox.
Mom: Big deal! This is important! These are things you have to know! And it's real!
A.: Mom, my hand is getting cold. Bye.
Mom: Bye.

Some background information: It was around 6:30pm, and I'd told her that I'd just left work. I get to work early. I am, as I've mentioned, leaving the country on two days. I was cleaning up after a plumber at 10pm last night. Do you think it's a good time to send me a forwarded e-mail and demand that I read/keep it?

Now, there are a few things that mom hasn't caught onto, such as the fact that when you have no mechanism for compulsion over another person, your only recourse is persuasion, which requires an entirely different skill set. She doesn't quite get that even though I'm the same daughter who had no choice but to obey her when I was five, I am under no such obligations now. That means she has to couch things in terms that appeal to another person... but that is not a skill she has bothered to cultivate.

There was actually another instance last night of mom's disregard for others' receptiveness to her message. During the earlier conversation-- just before the plumber got here-- mom asked me about the weather and about whether I'd gone into work (it snowed a lot, and yes). I asked whether dad was already home from work (yes, and he's already taking a nap on the other sofa).

Later that night, when I'd called back after the plumber left, dad had the same set of questions for me.

Dad: How was the weather today?
A.: It snowed a lot.
Mom: We've been over this!
Dad: Did you go to work?
A.: Yeah, I had to go in to the office.
Mom: We've already discussed this! I already told you that it snowed and that she went into work.
Dad: You did?
Mom: Yeah. You were asleep.
Dad, laughing: I guess that's why I don't remember.

***
Do you want to hear the moving-to-DC story? That was a rhetorical question-- I'm going to tell you anyway.

You know how mom doesn't quite acknowledge my ability to take care of the basic logistics in my life? A very basic example: remember in China last year, in Guilin, when the tour guide was taking orders for the sit-down dinner the next day? She first asked those that wanted chicken to raise their hands, jotted down their names. Next was fish; I raised my hand. Mom raised her hand, too, because apparently she was worried that I was not capable of raising my own hand or perhaps realizing that I would have to raise my hand to ensure that there would be a pescatarian option for me at dinner the following night. I pointed out to mom that she just ordered the fish for herself, which was not what she wanted (she changed her order later). The point, if I may belabor it, is that mom does not find me capable of voting for my own dinner, among other things.

The best example of this-and one I've recounted on these pages- was over ten years ago when I had found for myself a ticket to Paris for my study abroad. Mom did not trust me to do this and launched a shadow search for the same ticket. The ones we found came out to around the same price, but mine would have been through a student agency, thus flexible/refundable, etc. She insisted that we go with hers because she wanted her travel agent to get the credit. Long story short, flight was delayed by many hours and moved to a different gate so that when we returned to the airport-- at 2am-- we didn't find the right terminal or gate until after the flight took off, and I had to pay for another ticket.

But I digress. The point, if you'll indulge me in case this isn't entirely clear, is that mom doesn't consider me capable of managing my life. She's not quite comfortable with the idea that I have things under control.

This discomfort was in full force the summer I moved from Boston to DC. I'm not sure where to even start (really. It started a while before the actual move).

Mom: You're going to a wedding? But you're moving!
A.: I have it under control, mom.
Mom: How could you have it under control?? Have you packed everything??
A.: I've started packing, it's under control, and I'm going to my friends' wedding [the wedding in question was actually yours, Hans].
Mom: You're so irresponsible! You won't be packed in time! I can't believe you!
A.: Okay, mom.

Mom: YOU'RE SPENDING TIME WITH NINA? HOW COULD YOU? When are you going to get to packing??

My social activity of the summer was, "great, I'd love to hang out! come over and talk to me while I pack!" Under this system, I got to spend time with many friends before I left. This turned out to be especially productive when Nina came over, since years of working with horses and shoveling their manure endowed her with superhuman strength. She helped me get some of my heaviest furniture into the car (to take to my parents' house, from which we would drive down to DC on the big day).

Which brings us to another thing: Mom had insisted that I not rent a moving van, that she and dad would help me move. The minivan and my car would suffice. Which they did, in terms of space. What I hadn't counted on, out of sheer stupidity--since she pulls this kind of thing all the time-- was mom's getting me into a situation where I depended on her and threatening to pull the rug out from under me. And sure enough, the night before the move and several days before grad school orientation, when it would have been too late to make other arrangements, mom threw a fit and threatened not to help me move.

I don't remember the details; I do remember that they came into the house and mom said, snidely, "you didn't pack your dishes yet??" There were four dishes that I'd kept out in order to eat from them. That led to "I can't believe you haven't packed! What have you been doing with yourself!" and so on. I was tired, told her to back off, she threw a fit. She was about to leave, go home, and in the process, backed into my car with hers. The irony was, she knocked out a headlight we'd just gotten fixed months after it had been knocked out by an accident.

Okay, I'm sidetracking, because at the time the accident freaked me out but in retrospect, it was a fascinating conversation. I was driving down a main road and was hit by a car that turned into my lane from a side street.

Other driver: You didn't see me coming??
A.: I saw you. I had no reason to think you were going to turn.
Other driver: I had my turn signal on.

Isn't that great? I'm going down a main thoroughfare (no stop signs) and someone's waiting at the stop sign, on a tiny side street, with their turn signal... and expects the drivers on the main drag to anticipate that they're going to turn at any time.

The police arrived, handed me the wrong color form because they assumed that I, the younger one, was at fault, but soon realized from the damage on both cars that that couldn't have been the case. The other driver told the policeman that he did everything right, stopped at the stop sign.

That, again, is great. You stop at a stop sign to see whether there are cars that have the right of way. You only go when there aren't any. And it wasn't a four-way intersection or other situation where he could have reasonably been under the impression that the other cars, too, had stop signs.

But I digress. He damaged the front of my car, his insurance paid for it, I didn't do much about it for months, but dad decided to get it fixed before the big move. Shortly thereafter, mom damaged it again, within a parking space, because she was too angry to move her car carefully.

Anyway, we seethed at one another all night but packed the remainder of my stuff and drove down to DC the next day. I remember it was really hot and I don't think my car had AC. Mom drove her minivan and dad was a passenger in my car. Mom left her turn signal on almost every time she changed lanes; dad kept calling her and telling her to turn it off. We got to DC, met my roommate, unloaded my boxes. Mom and dad drove up to Baltimore to visit a friend. I continued to unpack and move in.

***
Funny how things have changed, kind of. Mom still doesn't quite register that I can manage my life, but when we were traveling together, she was more than happy to step back and know that I would take care of the details in true Type A fashion.

Speaking of getting things under control... I really should go pack.