Once the decision was made that I would move in, meaning that all the rest of my siblings also thought it was a great idea, my mother decided that she wanted to do a few things to the house before I actually made the move.
Sounds simple, but, like most things, it’s better on paper. A “few things” turned out to mean taking up the carpet in three bedrooms and replacing it with tile; enclosing the screen porch; taking down easily two hundred framed paintings, pictures and prints; having all the walls in the three bedrooms, living room, dining room and kitchen painted; and generally getting rid of stuff so that I would have some space to put a few of my things.
Like my table. My custom-made dining table that is 6′ x 6′ without leaves, and with both leaves in is 6′ x 10′.
The re-hanging of art was an exercise in restraint; at least from my mother’s point of view. We ended up hanging only 50 or so items, some of which were mine. Some were obvious choices, like her Abby original, and the three panel oil on canvas of the Organ Mountains. Others were less obvious choices, like the acrylic sunflowers, and the false color prints of the Rio Grand Valley as it runs through Las Cruces, NM, made from images taken by LandSat.
Ah, compromise. Something which we would learn to do a lot of over time.
So, the house project completed, it was time for me to schedule my move. We picked Wednesday, May 6, 2009 as my move date. I schedule a truck and some guys and continued to pack, and pick and choose what few things I would be bringing with me.
On Monday, April 27, I went over to drop off Lucy (my dog) and head out to dancing. When I got there, my mother said she wanted to talk to me. Now, my mother and I talk all the time, but this was obviously different. First, she never announces her intention to talk. And second, her tone was not her normal, happy self.
Clearly upset, she told me that she had decided she did NOT want me to move in. Six months had passed since my father had died, and she was doing just fine on her own. She didn’t need me and she didn’t want me to move in.
I was shocked. Stunned. Stupefied. But I wrapped my head around the idea and told her I would do whatever she wanted. It’s her house, and if she didn’t want me to move in, I would NOT move in.
Still not really understanding what was happening, we sat there while she continued to talk about how she just didn’t need me to move in and that she was doing fine.
My mother repeats herself a lot. But this was not her normal tell-the-same-story-several-times thing. This was sounding like she was trying to convince herself that she was doing the right thing.
Eventually, I asked, “What’s really going on?”
After a pause, she said, “I don’t want to be the reason your alone and not happy.”
I’ve never doubted that my mother is amazing. And it shouldn’t surprise me that she would put my (potential future) happiness above her own needs. But I never expected this.
So we talked. More like, I talked. About how when she and my father were first married, how they lived first with one set of relatives, then another. How her parents came to live with us for a while. How regardless of circumstances, they always managed to make things work.
I talked about how I wasn’t worried about being alone and unhappy. That if I met a nice guy, he would obviously need to know and understand that I live with my mother. That I would never consider getting involved with a guy who didn’t understand that commitment and what it meant.
I said suppose I DO meet a guy. Would it be a problem if I told her that I was meeting him for dinner and wouldn’t be home till the morning?
Well, of course not.
If I was seeing a guy and he happened to be here for breakfast, would it be a problem?
Well, of course not. She would be THRILLED if I had someone in my life like that.
And so, there we sat. Both crying a little. Both knowing that we could do this; we could make it work. And that it would require we be honest with each other about our concerns; considerate of each other’s needs; respectful of each other’s lives.
That we could do this because I knew, without doubt, that my mother loved me and wanted me to be happy. And she knew that my making a commitment to be there and help was not me giving up something, but us creating something, together.
This is a great story, but I’m guessing unfinished? There will be a second (at least) episode?
My hope is to tell many (probably not all) of the stories that have happened over the years that I have been living with my mother. I’m starting with some of the earliest things to create a context.
I also will sometimes write about some of my friends who are also living with one or the other of their parents, most of whom do not have the kind of relationship I have with my mother. Some very said and difficult stories indeed.