I have this really nasty habit, okay honestly, I have a plethora of nasty habits, but I only have enough time to discuss the ONE. I have a tendency to read implications in conversations that aren’t really implications at all. They are just statements, or just questions. I don’t know if this is a Mars Venus thing, a woman thing, or a me thing. Mister Hombre has taken great pride in the past, telling me that men don’t take hints, they are direct creatures. That might be true, but for a man who doesn’t take hints, I’ve watched him drop them, like an overloaded B-17 bomber.

Most of this week was consumed by extended family. I have a tendency to plan family visits back to back so I can experience all the pain, bloating and eye rolling over an abbreviated period like yanking off a band-aid. Besides you look good when you say, I’m sorry we need to be on our way because we should check on (insert parent or in-law here). Then everyone thinks, “Wow, you hardly have time for yourselves, you are so busy checking on everyone else.” Of course this method can also turn on you like a rabid dog, resulting in, “You never spend time with me, you are always with (insert parent or in-law here).The good thing about this, is by Friday, my head won’t be pounding like the steel drums at a Bob Marley concert, though I may develop a case of the munchies.

Mister Hombre spent Monday afternoon with his parents. (They moved his Mom to a swing bed. When she can better manage, she’ll be moved back to assisted living.) Tuesday was spent with my mother making two trips to the vet (5 cats, 1 dog, 3 band-aids), and hauling away yard debris. Our efforts were rewarded with a most awesome fresh blueberry cobbler. Wednesday, the Mister was to visit his mother again. I took pity on him and went along.

There were three chairs in her room, all occupied, so I stood during the entire visit. Well, there was one other seating option, but I wasn’t willing to sacrifice my dignity for the amusement of the others. Besides, when you stand, you trick your brain into believing, “I’m not going to be here much longer.” Yeah, yeah and “Sanity is a cozy lie” (Susan Sontag). I think the visit drove the Mister batty. Ole One Eye was not at his sharpest, and was having difficulty engaging in coherent conversation, and Mrs One Eye was fidgety and irritable.

Mrs One Eye was fixated on a box of tissues, her pants, and eventually my shoes. We had an interesting conversation. My voice isn’t within her hearing range, so she hears little nothing I say. She doesn’t bother to read my lips, because she is more comfortable pretending I am offering a canned answer. For example, she asked,”How is your mother doing?”. To which I responded, “She is very STUBBORN”. Then she responded in kind, “That’s good”. Excuse me, WTF?

Then she complimented my shoes. I’m not paranoid, but I question the sincerity of any eighty-year old woman complimenting tennis shoes, when she has never owned a pair. I know she’s attempting to be polite and make conversation, but my shoes are casual friday, skid resistant, water sport shoes. Hell, they’re even a masculine color scheme. She is many things, but she isn’t exactly a casual friday, skid resistant, water sport, masculine color scheme, kind of lady. Next, she said she wished someone would help her find shoes like that. She wanted shoes that didn’t have slippery bottoms. Not sure what else to say I offered to get her pair.

True to my word, I picked up the shoes today and saved the receipt. I’m 80% sure she won’t wear the shoes. She won’t like the width, and she won’t like the color. I don’t honestly care about the outcome, I just intend to keep my word, even if she doesn’t remember.

I spoke with Mister Hombre this afternoon and told him I had the shoes. He asked me if I was going to take them to her while he was gone. I replied ,”No, you can take them the next time you go.” I considered, he might be dropping the hint that I should deliver the shoes without him. I thought there might even be this undertone of hope in his voice that I should pursue a relationship with his mother that neither he, nor his brothers had bothered to cultivate. Or perhaps, since I was a woman and she was a woman… I concluded, if I continued to credit him with these implicit feelings I was only going to be pissed off with him the entire time he was gone. For a few moments, I considered the scenario, as if the shoe were on the other foot, and I couldn’t picture him visiting my mother under similar circumstances, in my absence.

Or a brick mason, or a drywall installer, or a landscape designer, or maybe Robert Frost. I am a builder of walls. I’ve spent the past few days considering this. Probably because it’s true, but if there were any doubts, this conversation made it obvious:

My mother: Hi, what are you up to this afternoon.
Self: I’m painting
My mother: Really! What are you working on? (read excitement in voice)
Self: I’m just messing around with a scrap canvas trying to get the feel of painting in with oils again. (Intentionally evasive answer #1. The painting is actually for my brother’s birthday. It is in poor taste and I want it to be a surprise. Picture to follow in a latter post)
My mother: What kind of art have you been working on recently?
Self: Mostly quick sketches, gel pen and ink. (non-cryptic direct answer)
My mother: What are you drawing, exactly? You know I would really to see some of the things you’ve been doing…
Self: (grasping at straws) Well, uh, they aren’t really finished drawings. They are quick sketches (not true) on low quality copy paper (mostly true. Evasive Answer #2). They aren’t accurate, I have to touch them up in PhotoShop (true, and flimsy effort at discouraging her). Some of them are adorned with really bad poetry (also true, but oh shit, I gave something away, now she knows I write bad poetry. Crap!)
My mother: I don’t care about the paper. I would really like to see some of your work. Poetry. I didn’t know…
Self: …..You might find some of the illustrations to be offensive. They have naked people doing dirty things. (true, and she is a child of the conservative south.)
My mother: I don’t care (bullshit). I just want to see some of your work. (true)

After the phone call, I felt like such an ass. So much of an ass, I packed up all my Poetry Friday sketches and took them to her house today….where I conveniently left them in the car and forgot to show them to her because I was too tired from performing manual labor. I told her I brought them, then we both forgot…well maybe only one of us forgot.

I hate seeing my reflection in a mirror or a glassy stream or a bowl of soup…It’s just too damn inconvenient to see myself for who I really am…

Baby Girl is in love. Really in love.

Oh yeah, Baby Girl is Mister Hombre’s youngest. Technically she is my step daughter, but I am not comfortable with labels. Especially when the label is step daughter, and she’s only seven years younger than me. There, I said it.

By unspoken agreement, I remain “Daddy’s wife” upon formal introductions, because step mother is an uncomfortable label for a woman when she’s only seven years older. We both agree, though on further consideration, I’m not sure what her father thinks, since I have never bothered to ask.

Mister Hombre’s son is three years my junior, but engaged to marry a woman six months older than I am. To remain, “Daddy’s wife” for all involved makes things a wee bit less awkward, but only a wee bit. Given the circumstances, my relationship with the kids is peaceable most days, and really enjoyable the rest of the time. So, yeah, against all odds I’m pretty fucking lucky.

Baby Girl called last week to check on her grandparents. After a few minutes of discussing formalities we delved into small talk. I asked her how her life was treating her. She paused for a moment, and then she gushed about the guy. I’ve know about the guy for eight months. In the early days the guy was a little squirrely, and didn’t know what he wanted. I was a little nervous asking about her life, because I didn’t want her to go to “that place” pining over the guy. After months of waiting, things are beginning to fall into place.

It was in her voice, and in the way she uttered his name. Sometimes it’s too easy for me to think of her like she’s only nineteen, her age when I met her. True to form, she had an adolescent’s fortune when it came to love. Emotionally, she was prone to make each potential love be the love, resulting in devastation and disappointment. I’m pretty sure most of us have been there, if you bothered dating at that age.

She’s had two long term relationships since I’ve been with her father, but I think this is her first “grown-up” love. I haven’t met the guy yet, so it isn’t really practical for me to have an opinion about him. But I have spoken to her, and if I had to guess, I would say she was glowing.

In some ways talking to her was like falling in love all over again. It reminded me of the early days, kissing Mister Hombre on the front steps of my crappy little duplex and making out with him in the yellow chair. It makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck just thinking about it. It gives me that same breathless feeling, knowing that she’s finally experiencing it too.

We talked for a while. Mister Hombre arrived home in the middle of our conversation, amidst all my pacing in the living room, on the deck, and in the studio (I can’t stay still on the phone). Apparently my facial expressions and the partial conversation were of interest and he started following me. I felt guilty, so I asked if she would like to talk to her Dad. Then she gushed at him for a while. Beautiful.

I have no way of predicting if this will be the ultimate the guy, but I hope he will be a good guy to be with for a while. I know that doesn’t sound like much. Every experience can’t be the pinnacle. I only want the best for Mister Hombre’s kids, for my step kids, but life doesn’t come with a suggestion box. For now, I’ll settle for a good moment.

Commenting on the last post, De mentioned her own mother’s “God given right” to pass judgement. I’ve been considering it and how it relates to many of us. It’s a vicious pattern passed down from generation to generation. I think the right to pass judgment is closely related to fear that “my children’s behavior will reflect poorly upon my abilities as a parent”; sort of a transfer of responsibility. Mothers are often concerned about how others will judge them or their parenting capability. Their concerns are relevant when you regard society as a stampede of lemmings. Each following the misguided direction of his predecessor until there is a cascade of bodies descending over the cliff into the sea.

This “reverse” judgement affects mothers and fathers alike. My husband has concealed the transgressions of his offspring, both in their youth and adulthood. Initially I thought he was protecting their bad decisions from the public domain. Saving them a little humiliation as it were. Now I wonder what his true intentions were. Was it an effort to protect his children, or an effort to protect his own reputation? Even after the young have flown from the nest, parents are not absolved of the responsibility of parenting. Had I been in his situation, I don’t know which approach I would have taken. I would not advertise their mistakes, but I wouldn’t deny the actions if questioned. As a wise woman once said, “Own your own shit.”

Having considered my own mother these past few days, I fear I may not have allowed her the fairness she deserved in the previous post. I didn’t embellish the “drama”, but I did omit a few points that would have aided in her defense. I strive to be many things, however unfair and over-dramatic aren’t on the list. My mother knows much about the person confined within this skin. We are not strangers and we’ve never been estranged. She mails me articles from newspapers and magazines about art exhibits and animal rescues, she finds looms at antique stores and sends them to me, and she calls to tell me stories about her cats. She knows me and for that I am lucky. So many parents go through life never knowing who their children really are, the shape of their hearts, or the strength of their character. We are connected by blood, and by heart yet incompatible on other emotional levels. (I hope I have explained myself better).

My Big Mama (my mother’s mother) is perhaps the most judgmental woman I have ever known. I adore her, because she is ballsy enough to get away with stuff like this and this, but I don’t think I had the strength to grow up in her household. When I consider her holding the scales of justice, I shudder and wonder how my own mother turned out to be as gentle as she was. As a kid, I remember feeling like I was a pawn for my grandparents. They wanted to know all about achievements, sports awards, honor roll, SAT scores, height and weight. They weren’t interested in growth or accomplishment.They wanted stats to compare the achievements of my mother’s children to my aunt’s children, and the sewing clubs children. It wasn’t an object of pride; it was an object of gloating. “Na Na Na Na Na, my kids are better parents than your kids. I was a better parent than you were. And I am a super awesome grandparent.

The cycle has been building up steam for centuries. Is it excusable? No, not really. It is understandable, but understandable isn’t justifiable. Childless, I am breaking the cycle, but my brother and sister, by the very nature of becoming parents, will see the cycle lives on. Hopefully with my niece’s and nephews’ generation the cycle will lose more power, just as it did in the transition from my grandmother to my mother.

Mother daughter relationships are incomprehensible under the best of circumstances. They are intricate, delicate and fragile like a spider web. There are no hard and fast rules about whether mothers will have a stronger relationship with their sons or daughters. I’ve watched the pendulum swing both ways. WIth the division of genes, there is a chance a child of either sex will have enough of your traits to make a significant relationship impossible.

As a teenager, I thought I came from a dysfunctional family. Dysfunctional families have been around since the dawn parental partnerships, but the phrase “dysfunctional” began to pick up steam during the late eighties. I wore “dysfunctional” with all the pride of a discharged sailor sporting an anchor tattoo on his triceps.

Before I started high school, my mom entered treatment for alcohol and prescription drug abuse. Getting treatment, was still a tabu in southeast. All those lectures my father launched into about saving face and not embarrassing the family, and look who embarrassed the family. By then, my siblings were in college or holding down jobs and I was the last fledgling in the nest.

Mom completed her treatment and came home to a teenager who didn’t respect her anymore. Her six week absence, put her in the position re-earning my trust and re-establishing herself as an authority figure. A daunting task at best, but further complicated by my hormone haze and a forced school change.

While that event changed the balance of power, it never really changed the nature of our relationship. I had an unexplainable distrust of her before she sought treatment and it was tightly maintained once she returned home. She atoned for her mistake, and I’m proud of her for maintaining her sobriety but I doubt that I will ever feel close to her.

Post voting age, I realized my family didn’t embody the designer dysfunctional label. My parents addressed the problems that classified us as broken, thus repairing the cracks in our foundation. It’s interesting that I misinterpreted problem solving as a public humiliation. If had continued such thoughts, I would become the sweet heart of denial. Further proof hormonal haze and excessive masturbating affects you ability to see things clearly.

Today, I have a respectful, though distant relationship with my mother. I admire her strength and character. I recognize we share many of the same characteristics. She IS the crazy old cat woman, and I am destined to become one. I try to be there for her and pitch in when she needs a hand and can’t admit it. I abhor her stubbornness, because it closely resembles my own.

I used to regret we do not share one of THOSE relationships. I am largely to blame because I never felt warm, comforting safety in her arms. I never wanted to confide in her, lest she would pass judgement. There are plenty of times I endure her affection and restrain myself from pulling away. I can’t explain the why only that it just is. I am not interested in forcing our relationship to be one of THOSE relationships, because I don’t believe in forcing relationships. Forcing is not synonymous with nurturing. So like a pair of positively charged magnets we repel each other, because we are too much alike.

Today there is no regret, only acceptance. I accept that we need different things, different influences, and different comforts. As long as her needs are met, I will not waste time worrying if they are met by me or one of my siblings.