And Yet Again, I Have Disappointed My Mother

I am always disappointing my mother.  Seriously, if there was an award for letting your mom down, I'd have won every time for at least the last 25 years, maybe even the last 28 although I kind of like to think I wasn't capable of disappointing her until I was aware of doing it.  Sometimes it's on purpose.  Sometimes it's because my mom is just wound way too tightly.  Most of the time, I think it's because we're just very different.

Don't get me wrong, I have a great mother.  I had a spectacular childhood with no real complaints, and it's not like the woman is constantly berating me or putting me down, I'm just very aware that I'm not exactly what she had in mind for her daughter.  I think she had visions of my childhood being an ongoing tea party or fairytale or something.  Then I'd grow up and become her shopping buddy or we'd get our nails done together or some other inane activity.  She's sort of vapid sometimes.  She'd be really pissed at me for saying that and rebut it with something about me not having pride in myself.

There are four main categories in which I fail to meet her standards:

1.  I do not care what I look like.  I just don't.  The purpose of clothing isn't to look fashionable, it's to cover my body.  Make up is for fun when I'm bored.  Being fat is not a character flaw.  Sleep is far more important than having time to do my hair.  None of that means I don't have pride in myself, just that my sense of worth doesn't hinge on someone else's idea of what it should.

2.  I'm a bit of a hermit.  My mom is painfully shy and has trouble making friends.  I'm not particularly shy, I just don't have a heap of interest in meeting new people.  I like the people I know, and to be honest, I don't even have time for new ones.  That would seriously cut into my antisocial life.  It kills her that I could excel at what she can not, but choose not to.  It also bugs her that I don't want to hang out all the time.  We do stuff once a week or so, but that's enough for me.  She really needs another friend.

3.  My sense of humor.  My mom is absolutely horrified at the things that amuse me.  I can kind of see her point there.

4.  My lack of direction in, well, everything.  She is extremely organized.  She runs on strict schedules and her house is devoid of any clutter.  She plans and prepares and expects things to happen just so.  I thrive on chaos.  Plans give me anxiety.  How the hell would I know on Tuesday what I'm going to feel like doing on Saturday?  Why would I eat at noon if I'm not hungry or go to sleep at 10 if I'm not tired?  Because the clock told me to?  I love my clutter and I love the spontaneity of my days and more than anything, I love that I have no definitive plans for what to do if and when I grow up.  She calls this lack of motivation.  I call it freedom.

Anyway, I was thinking about this yesterday after one of her many (manymanymany) phone calls.

"Did you go to that playgroup I told you about?"

"Um...no...."

"Why not?"

"I told you when you told me about it, we already tried that one.  I had the wrong stroller and the other moms didn't like me."

"Are you sure it was your stroller?  You didn't try to be funny, did you?"

At this point, I consider hitting my head on something pointy.  "Really mom?  Does it matter?  Why would I want to hang out with people I can't be funny around?  Doesn't that sound like a waste of time?"

Her pause makes me think she's considering this.

"Maybe you need to give other people a chance."  Nevermind.

That conversation continues going nowhere, so we finally give up.  "Uh...  Yeah."

"Did you at least write that essay I told you about?"

She found this essay in the paper a couple weeks ago and cut it out for me because the top prize is $500 and who does want $500?  I actually feel sort of bad about this, because she was really excited, but I've really got nothing as far as this one goes.  It's supposed to be about why poetry is still relevant today.  I have no idea.  I guess it's relevant to me because I like poetry.  It's not really relevant to my husband.  I have no clue if or why it's relevant to anyone else.  The fact that people actually read the crap I spew here has given me some confidence that perhaps my writing does have some merit to it, but I highly doubt I've written anything worthy of $500, plus I don't know, that's just not a topic of interest for me.  My best writing happens when the subject intrigues me.  If the clipping said write a poem, I could do it.  Badly, probably placing last, but I could do it.  An essay on why poetry is relevant?  I wouldn't even know where to start if I wanted to.

"I tried..."  I really did, if only because she was so excited about it.  I spent a good hour thinking about it before coming to the conclusion that it was a dumb question.

It's the heaviest sigh I've ever heard.  "I really wish you would apply yourself."

"What?  Apply myself to what?"  What is she even talking about?

"You could do so much more..."  Oh, this.

"I do a lot, Mom," I'm trying not to get irritated.

My mom was also a stay at home mom, and I know there's no way she can dispute the busyness of a day with a three year old.  We both know that's not what she's talking about, though.

"I mean for you.  You could do so much more for you."

"I do a lot for me."

"Like what?"

"Well, there's my blog.  People even read it and make comments.  And last night I got some new video editing software to start making little music videos.  And I bake things and I PhotoShop pictures to be even more uncomfortable than they were to begin with.  I have several little projects I'm working on."  I know this list will disappoint her because these things couldn't interest her less.

"Why don't you get off the computer and find a real life?  You aren't even trying anymore."

What the hell?  She completely missed the part where I said I bake things.  I don't bake things on the computer...  Now, I desperately want to make this conversation end before I make her cry.  She cries way too easily.  Unfortunately, I choose humor, which is the worst possible way to make that happen.

"Well next week I'm thinking of making a foray into writing softcore porn (don't worry, I'm not) if you think you could find me a contest for that..."

"That's not even funny."

"Oh, lighten up, Mom.  You know I wouldn't already have plans for next week!" 

All of a sudden she needs to walk the dog, so I know I've won.  I must have really won because she hasn't called me today.  It's a hollow victory, though--I know I shouldn't bait her.  She means well.  I know she wouldn't be happy with my life, so it's really hard for her to understand that I am and I know she just doesn't want to see me sad and alone and burnt out.  I also know my mom and she's sitting at home, angrily stewing over the fact that I haven't called her.  I'll regret that later and I know it, but for now I'll just enjoy the freedom.  In a few days I'll get to hear about her disappointment that I haven't called.