Saturday, January 28, 2006

enough with the violins

let's get to the thrilling news of me being a bit calmer now, after being all kinds of furious last night.

Why is it that, when it comes to our mothers, we're afraid to tell them how we feel? Or is it just me? No shit, it's almost as if I was to be honest with her - not honest honest like " you're being here is killing me", because that would be rude, but honest dishonest like "I'm having difficulty with the idea of you deciding to return to my life without consulting me first", because that would be, I dunno, assertive? Would fluffy bunnies and kittens really die if I took that route? If not, what is it that prevents me from being assertive with my mum?

I felt like slapping her yesterday when I overheard her brightly dropping this golden snippet into a conversation: "I'll be back on the twelfth, so I'll be here for aibee's birthday*!". Everyone clasped their hands under their chins, warmed by my mum's selfless self. I nearly choked on the hangnail I'd been nervously chewing all afternoon. Then she said something about her having been here for so long as she's been looking after me....I shut down resources then for fear of imploding all over our friend's nice carpet.

But seriously, "looking after me"? Fuck off.

Mum has been here since I was 35 weeks pregnant. She announced her arrival via e-mail two days after I did assert myself when she asked when she should come down to "support" ("support"? HA!!) me. I told her to wait, please, as I wasn't ready yet, maybe in a week or two. She showed up anyway, thereby proving yet again, that she doesn't give two shits about what anyone else wants, thinks or feels anyway. But, as this is her first and quite probably only grandchild, I smiled sweetly and dealt.

We've had a zillion moments in the three weeks between then and when I was in hospital with Daniel, and a kabillion more between then and now, and each time, I sucked it up. I've stated before that it's US that's at fault here, that we're dysfunctional, and I mean that: I'm not wholly blaming her for our special brand of nice - but I can't fix our damaged relationship myself, especially as doesn't want it fixed. She's been playing the "We're Perfect Together!" game, which is really a poorly camoflagued "It's aibee's Fault" manouevre, alternatively titled, "Fix her!".

According to her, I'm ungrateful and no wonder I'm alone as I treat people terribly and I always will be alone if I don't change bla bla bla. Even though I know it's how I appear only to her, I believe her anyway, which is why I've spent an hour every Friday afternoon for the last four years in therapy, never mind the fifteen or so years before that when I starved as a (totally ridiculous) way of not hearing her words. God, what a waste of a life, and all because I'm a fucking moron who won't roll my eyes in amusement at her antics.

But I digress.

Continuing on my theme, when I was in hospital with Daniel, mum told me she wanted to get a Christmas tree for my mouse. Err, that'd be "house". That was a typo. I left it in because a Christmas tree for my mouse? Is amusing me. Anyway, imaginary rodents aside, I thanked her and declined as, where in hell would I keep the damn thing (tree, not mouse) during the rest of the year? Only I didn't say damn, or hell. I was codeine-ed out of my fucking mind, but I'm pretty sure I was lucid enough to mention the shoebox nature of said house, and I know I mentioned the lack of storage facilty for containing a Christmas tree and its decorations for the rest of the yar.

Guess what greeted me when I walked in my front door on my return home?

It's still up, by the way, because where in hell and I going to keep the damn thing?

(aside: am I going to Hell for referring to a representative of a major Christian holiday as a "damn thing"? Twice? Discuss.)

Mum's been doing this for years: grandstanding herself before and after walking all over my preferences.

The list includes, but is not limited to, the VCR I told her several hundred times I didn't want, but thanks anyway. She was all hurt that I wasn't thrilled with my Christmas gift that year, and my brother went over all judgemental of his ingrate bitch sister. I'm sure I've mentioned the Mr T style gold rope necklace before. Not surprisingly, she has it now. She bought it for me after I told her I didn't wear necklaces, but yes, thankyou, if you want to buy jewellery, I really like this *points to specific piece* bracelet. When I opened the necklace - again in front of an audience who, on cue and in awe inspired at its Mr T-ishness tones, went " ooooooh" - I paled instead of effusively thanking her. Mum told me later than she didn't like the bracelet I'd pointed out, but she'd liked this. Meanwhile, my brother reprised his judgmental role.

Is it odd that the sentiment of this type of gift hurts my delicate potato peelings? I mean, each one has represented an occasion where mum has totally ignored me so she can feel good about what she wants. Waah, poor me and etc, receiving gifts I don't want. Gack. I am an ingrate.

Anyway, the point is that she's returning on the twelfth, and that she never bothered to tell me this, much less ask if it suited me. I overheard it after counting down the days in eager anticipation of her departure this Sunday. Don't get me wrong, I'd have been sad to see her go because I'm a moron and she's my mum. I'm sad (and guilty) that our relationship is the same as ever, despite our new roles. It pisses me off too, this return, this unannounced return as it's to see Daniel, and as the caretaker of this glorious boy, it's to be in my life too - and her actions say that in her opinion, it doesn't matter if it's okay with me, as long as it's what she wants.

I hate that I'm such a frikkin doormat.

2005-2007© aibee