I wasn’t in too good a mood to start with.
My mother called by yesterday to check in on me and my (ill) children. It all looked it’d go for the better. She held my baby for me so I could go to the bathroom (for two days my girl was clinging to me any given second, even during sleep). She was playing with my son, we talked a little and then she declared she must go. Okay … my face fell. I was a bit clingy myself.
I fear to be alone with my children. I feel I’m not enough to keep them occupied, not caring enough to discern their needs, not motherly enough to enjoy spending time with them. I like someone to be around so they can step in if I screw up. So …
My mother looked around her to see what else she could do. She saw the pile we’ve been stacking on the kitchen counter and an adjoining cupboard for the last few months. Uh-oh.
My childhood repeated.
I couldn’t do much because I needed to hold my baby, who’s quite heavy by the way, but she switched on her steely mode: “What’s this for? … You don’t need this. Why would you keep plastic? … Easter-egg paint? You’ll buy another. … Birdhouse to finish? IMO you need to throw it away. Okay, I’ll leave it. … What are these boxes? Your baby’s toys? They need to be elsewhere. … Why do you keep wine on your counter? It needs to go to the pantry– Oh, my, your husband should make you some shelves so you could have the floor free! …”
Thus it went. The counter was soon free (“now you can breathe”), two bags full of things destined to garbage stood ready by the door (I’m still searching for some of my stuff today), two residue boxes lay ominously on a chair (waiting “for me to sort them out when my husband came home”) and my mother was ready to leave. This time I was ready for her to leave, as well. It had been stressful.
I bid her goodbye and went crying.
I left those piles as they were because I didn’t want to sort them, and she sorted them sort-of. I was still left with two boxes worth of questions what to do with the stuff. And I was thrown off balance into a depression fit.
I recovered by the evening, but I should probably tap into my childhood memories, tagged ‘mother’ and ‘cleaning up’. There I’ll find some insight to why I hoard the way I do.
Should be continued …
P.s. I love my mother. It’s just that lecture, words, are like hail to me. They hurt. So stupid, right? But I’m not yet tough enough.
My Own Shrink 