It's June 2018. Last weekend, the weather was absurd -- which is to say that it rained for days and, when the rain abated, low temperatures and fog took its place. That's the weather we had during my mom's visit to Chicago. The visit went well until it did not. Visits from mom fit that general description: they go well until they do not. I'm tempted to give my side of the experiences, to lay out an argument that absolves me of any blame, to make a tortured explanation of why the maximum duration of an uneventful visit seems fixed at three days. But I won't do any of that. I will, however, say how terrible it felt to walk away from her without saying "I love you." We made it to Union Station a good amount of time before the train departed. I found the lobby, confirmed the departure situation with an attendant, then sat mom down in a seat close to the door through which she and the other exiles would board the machine back to Michigan. After explaining the two-step process (listen for the boarding announcement, then follow that attendant's instructions), I wished her a pleasant ride home and turned around. I knew right away that I didn't say "I love you," and that I should have gone back to fix the mistake. But I didn't.
The day before, she told me while we stood at the Wells Street bridge under the Brown Line tracks about her coming to terms with having three sons with whom she has had to learn how to communicate. We are so different from each other, she said, that it has forced her over time to figure out each of us. This was an emotional bridge that I had known her to cross previously. She knew intellectually that my brothers and I carry around our own personalities; but, she had not expressed the understanding of the responsibility that truth placed on her. Knowing that we are different people is one thing. Knowing that we are *adults* having evolved (and continue doing so) outside of the influence of our parents is another thing entirely. She talked about learning how to communicate with us as individuals. She talked about her disappointment at the relationship we had -- that she believed we would be much closer than what we were (and are). Despite that, she described her pride in the three of us for the lives that we have now. We three are independent and successful according to our own terms. For a mother, according to her, there wasn't much else necessary to feel a sense of pride.
That night, we had one hell of an argument. I saw it coming and couldn't/didn't avoid it. Her behavior drives me to distraction. In the midst of the argument, she asked me about the saying my dad has about guests.
"Guests, and fish, stink after three days," I said.
"Yep, that's it. I guess that's what's happening," she replied.
Right. I said that now was probably time to admit that three days was the maximum time that we could be around each other.
"That's sad," she said.
"But it sure seems like the truth," I responded.
That was the highest point of cordiality in our argument. My mom's behavior mystifies. She tries what little patience I have, the lack of which comes out as at best irritation and at worst hostility. She calls it coldness. Years ago, she told me that she wondered whether or not I even loved her. I was so angry... insulted in my own kitchen.
After leaving Union Station, I walked through the streets of the Loop listening to whatever the phone wanted to play. I climbed up the stairs of the Brown Line platform at Quincy Street, passed through the turnstile, and found a spot a bit further away from the lunchtime crowd though closer to a cluster of Ironworkers examining something in the distance. A song from my favorite band started to play and these lines caught my attention:
The day before, she told me while we stood at the Wells Street bridge under the Brown Line tracks about her coming to terms with having three sons with whom she has had to learn how to communicate. We are so different from each other, she said, that it has forced her over time to figure out each of us. This was an emotional bridge that I had known her to cross previously. She knew intellectually that my brothers and I carry around our own personalities; but, she had not expressed the understanding of the responsibility that truth placed on her. Knowing that we are different people is one thing. Knowing that we are *adults* having evolved (and continue doing so) outside of the influence of our parents is another thing entirely. She talked about learning how to communicate with us as individuals. She talked about her disappointment at the relationship we had -- that she believed we would be much closer than what we were (and are). Despite that, she described her pride in the three of us for the lives that we have now. We three are independent and successful according to our own terms. For a mother, according to her, there wasn't much else necessary to feel a sense of pride.
That night, we had one hell of an argument. I saw it coming and couldn't/didn't avoid it. Her behavior drives me to distraction. In the midst of the argument, she asked me about the saying my dad has about guests.
"Guests, and fish, stink after three days," I said.
"Yep, that's it. I guess that's what's happening," she replied.
Right. I said that now was probably time to admit that three days was the maximum time that we could be around each other.
"That's sad," she said.
"But it sure seems like the truth," I responded.
That was the highest point of cordiality in our argument. My mom's behavior mystifies. She tries what little patience I have, the lack of which comes out as at best irritation and at worst hostility. She calls it coldness. Years ago, she told me that she wondered whether or not I even loved her. I was so angry... insulted in my own kitchen.
After leaving Union Station, I walked through the streets of the Loop listening to whatever the phone wanted to play. I climbed up the stairs of the Brown Line platform at Quincy Street, passed through the turnstile, and found a spot a bit further away from the lunchtime crowd though closer to a cluster of Ironworkers examining something in the distance. A song from my favorite band started to play and these lines caught my attention:
"We all get replaced, retconned and upstaged.
Life turns a page.
When we turn away, the kids aren't the same."
Life is nothing except change. We pass away and others are born. We have our best times then fade out for others to take the stage. The kids are indeed not ever the same. My mom told me as much under the Brown Line. And this is what has frustrated me since college: that while she comprehends - if more slowly that I'd like - the truth as it applies to the those around her, she clings to a definition of herself that existed when GWB was running for re-election. The kids are not the same. But she is. And our relationships suffer for it.