The Texture Of Things

I am having a hard time being a grown up today.

For years and years, forever I think, the only opinion that mattered was my mother’s, particularly in the arena of personal appearance*. She rarely, if ever, had a nice thing to say about my appearance until after I had complied with her tacit, hint-driven demands.

“That sweater is terrible.”
I don’t think so.
“Well, it is.”

“Your hair is awful. When are you going to get it cut?”
I just got it cut two days ago.
“Where? I can’t see it. It’s still a mess. If you want, I’ll pay for you to get it cut.”

“Those shoes make you walk like you’ve got a corncob up your butt.”
Um, thanks, mom?
“You’re welcome.”

It’s the malicious equivalent of Rodney Dangerous’ character’s quip in the movie Caddyshack. “Oh, this is the worst-looking hat I ever saw. What, when you buy a hat like this I bet you get a free bowl of soup, huh? Oh, it looks good on you though.”

Maybe “malicious” is a strong word, maybe “controlling,” “domineering,” or “hurtful” would be better choices? But I swear I can still hear the tone her statements were delivered with when I was a child and it stings.

Dear Tot: when you are old enough to read this, I need you to know that Grandma always loved you, she always loved me, but sometimes she didn’t know how to let other people live their lives. She couldn’t help it. She learned it from her father and she tried to pass it on. I am trying to build a home and a life where you can live your life, but I’ve got to learn how to live mine first.

Every once in a while, I catch myself struggling out from under my mother’s expectations and I find myself not recognizing where I end up, out in the open, out from under her thumb. Today, it hit me in The Children’s Place, trying to find an outfit for the tot’s holiday pictures.

Wait, back up. It starts like this. I often go clothes and/or grocery shopping with my mother because then she gets time with the tot and I can shop in relative peace. Plus, sometimes she pays for things. Bonus. This was the case for the tot’s 6mo holiday and 18mo holiday picture outfits. I have a hard time spending more than about $12 for any outfit for the tot, let alone one she’ll wear maybe three times, so I acquiesced when my mother said she found a dress and it didn’t matter how much it cost because it was beautiful and she was paying for it so I should mind my own business and keep shopping.

The end result is that for the tot’s half-year/Christmas pictures, she has worn Grandma-approved garments. There was nothing wrong with either the 6mo dress or the 18mo dress, but they are not what I would pick. They were both bright red, which is my mother’s preference. When I suggested the other day that I’d like to put the tot in a cranberry or a burgundy dress this year, my mother put up her nose, told me how cheap and ugly the dress would look (I was showing her a catalog with a dress I truly thought she’d approve of), avoided eye contact with me, and said, “Whatever you want. I’m just the grandma.”

For most of the day and night following this exchange, my reaction sounded like this in my head: “I’m sorry, whose kid is this again? That’s right. You are just a grandma – not THE grandma, A grandma.” I became resolute to purchase a holiday dress before she has a chance to. It won’t stop her from buying one – she will and she’ll act all disappointed when the tot doesn’t wear it for each and every holiday occasion she has – but it will prevent her from being pissy that I bought one after she effectively called dibs on deciding how to dress my only child.

I do not mean to be ungrateful for the things she does and buys for the tot, but I am tired of how she uses her money to effect the changes she desires and of how she denies it.

So back to today. Armed with a “15% off all my purchases” coupon to The Children’s Place, I marched in with the sole mission of acquiring a dress, preferably cranberry or burgundy, though I was willing to consider a deep purple or blue. What I discovered was an array of red and black dresses, beautiful dresses, but no dark reds, only bright. That’s okay. They were definitely pretty. I pored over them but could not choose. I couldn’t even choose to not choose – to leave the store and keep looking. What if I forgot how adorable the skirt-sweater combo was? What if I couldn’t remember what the black velvet felt like? I felt harried, like time was running out but I still had questions to answer on my test. I have to answer something, I can’t leave it blank. I can’t get it wrong.

I tried to leave without them. I took pictures with my phone so I had record of them when I went shopping elsewhere, but in the end, I bought both sets so I could come home and mull it over with HG. I’ll take back whatever I don’t want, if I can even figure that out. You know, after I go to three more stores and have the same problem there.

black velvet bodice with delicate offwhite collar, plaid skirt with velvet trim

delicate, laced, offwhite turtleneck, red cardigan, plaid skirt with velvet trim

What occurred to me as I drove away is that I spent so many years second-guessing my apparel decisions that I don’t know how to make one on my own. I cannot decide which dress to buy without input. So, in a way, I guess she wins. I need a thumb over me because without one, I am lost.

Poor tot, to have such a mother.

*This is ironic since my mother’s appearance often does not live up to the startlingly high standards she sets for those around her.

There are a lot of people in this world who limit their television viewing or decline to watch it entirely. I am not one of those people. I know I watch too much television, the tot watches too much television, and really, it’s okay. It is what it is. We have good days and we have bad days (usually when I need to grade papers). I do try to turn it off or to put music on for a while instead everyday, but I also know the tv’s on more than it should be, often tuned to a cooking show just for background noise.

And then there are the shows that I find myself scurrying to the sofa for. South Park is one of them.

This link for a flash game has been going around (again) recently, so I finally took the bait and created myself as a SP character.

Here is me, making what Husband calls “the amy face.” I think it means I don’t like what is being said, often in the form of not believing what I just said (fully).

Here is me, after I’ve enjoyed the beer/Diet Pepsi I’m holding.

Here is the tot. She is not this tall.

Go make some South Park characters. It’s fun.

Today, the tot went to L’s house (L = babysitter) and while there, the tot provided all the proof anyone could ever need that she is in fact her father’s child.

Shortly after lunch, another toddler came to L’s house for the afternoon. He ran straight to the television and turned it on. An older kid’s cartoon came on, one the boy didn’t recognize.

He pointed to the screen and asked, “What’s this, L?”

The tot responded matter of factly, “It’s a TV, kid.”

L said they both then looked at her quizzically, wondering why she was laughing hard enough to pee her pants.

So my “I’ve never” meme has instigated quite a bit of conversation here at Ye Olde Tot House. My “Casino Windsor is not the same as Canada” comment first drew HG out of hiding (at home, not in the comments), leading him to call the statement “rude” and to imply that I’m prejudiced. I think. I wasn’t quite clear on what he wanted to call me, just that I ought to address that and correct myself. I did, I think. I’m not sure that what I edited the entry to say was any better, though. I’m trying, is all I can say, to be specific and of course not to offend, but the harder I try, the worse it gets. Such is my life. Welcome to it.

The very next day, HG approached me in disbelief. “Do you want to drive a foreign car? How have you never driven a foreign car?” (Or something like that. Frankly, I’m surprised he’s even reading this blog.) No, it’s not that, it’s just that I haven’t. I have ridden in them, but I’ve never driven one. No biggie. It is what it is.

It led me to think about cars, where I live, how I was raised, who I married, etc.

My whole life up until I went to college, the cars in my family were all F*ords. My grandfather was the local dealer, and even when he retired he maintained ownership of the dealership and leased it out. Part of the lease agreement was that all his kids and their immediate families would get killer deals on new F*ords from that dealer. So, it follows only logically that we all drove F*ords. They were cheap, and because my aunts and uncles all grew up working in the dealership, they knew all the people in the service department. For the only time in history, repairs done at a dealership were done quickly and cheaply.

Slowly, though, Grandpa’s reign of F*ord-ness lifted, and my uncle bought an Oldsm*obile. My mom and my aunt each got a P*ontiac. They all came back to F*ord for their next cars, but it was a start of an end. In the last few years of my Grandpa’s life, my mom temporarily drove a D*odge, my uncle bought his wife a Sub*aru (she liked the ads), my other uncle has a Ch*evy and his kids have owned an Oldsm*obile and a Ch*evy. None of these were to the exclusion of F*ords, merely in addition to them.

Looking at it now, I wonder what kind of power my Grandpa had over us all that the most adventurous we got was to buy GM. (The D*odge was a used Colt that my mom only had for a few months, until my Grandma told her they were worried about her in “that little car,” so instead of selling their T*aurus, they gave it to her, just to get her out of the D*odge.) For me, I married into a GM-loyal family and have had to withstand no end of hassling about my F*ords.

But where am I now? Before the tot was born, I was determined to get a H*onda Ci-vic Hy*brid. I didn’t care that it was Japanese, or maybe I did. I wanted a hybrid, and I knew that Japanese had the best hybrid technology, circa 2002-4. I am still determined that my next car will be a hybrid or will utilize alternative fuel in one way or another, but the acquisition of that car is a long way off. For now, I’m driving domestic. Old school fuel.

Maybe it wasn’t just my Grandpa’s influence, though. Maybe his iron fist merged with our regional influence to create an all-domestic-all-the-time approach to vehicle purchases.

Bloggers who live in other areas of the country and the world see Detroit with differently biased eyes**, particularly when it comes to transportation. We in Michigan depend on our cars, our cars are a part of us and an expression of us, our cities and land are sculpted by the roads we have built for our cars. And we love them. And we thirty-somethings have had it drilled into us our whole lives that we are supposed to support our state, support our people, support the businesses that keep them working, even if it’s just an entry level job at a nearby plant.

So every time I have gotten ready to buy a car (which has only been two so far in my adult life), I have ended up with domestic at or near the top of my list, and eventually in my driveway. I haven’t meant to, but I have done it. But it has, lately anyways, been accompanied by talk of disintigrating boundaries. So many “domestic” cars are built in other countries that it’s about time to consider buying foreign in order to support people in our neighborhoods, those working for “foreign” companies but making cars “domestically.” Assuming that’s still my primary goal, of course.

This is my moment in time. I wonder what we will think about manufacturing, transportation, industry, and geography in twenty years. I wonder what the future holds for Detroit, for Michigan.

**I think people who live in cities with mass transit are less likely to understand our relationship with our cars, here in the Motor City. That’s okay, but I hope that when people make suggestions about getting people here out of cars and into mass transit, they realize how difficult a change it would be for us. For pete’s sake, we don’t even have carpool lanes. (At least not any that reach all the way out to the ‘burbs.)

Before you were born, even while I was pregnant with you, I didn’t understand why parents of small children were always sick. I mean, I wasn’t going to get sick with everything you ever caught because I had already had a bunch of colds in my life, so I should have some immunities, and I was going to wash my hands a lot. Didn’t these other parents think to wash their hands a lot when their child was sick? Um, ew. Clearly, I needed to rethink having dinner at their houses, right?

Wrong. They are certainly washing their hands and their children’s hands, because I am, and I have still caught your pestilence.

But the pre-baby me is screaming in my head: “How?! How could this happen?!” Exclamation point!

I have some hypotheses.

1. Tot, you like to play in my bed, “the big bed,” and I think you wiped your germy face on my pillow. So, washing hands isn’t enough – I’ve also got to limit your access to certain areas of the house when you’re sick.

2. Tot, I know we are all overwhelmed by a sneeze or two in our lifetimes, but did you need to ah-choo it into my face the day before yesterday? So, clearly I need to teach you more about living a kind and thoughtful life even while sick. Here’s a pointer – although I routinely encourage you to share or take turns, this does not apply to illnesses. I wipe your nose because it’s my job, not because I actually want someone else’s snot on or near my own hands. I do it because I love you.

Also, the next time you suddenly find yourself sneezing unexpectedly, please point it down toward the ground. Do not look up for help. The bogies don’t run down your face for at least a minute after you sneeze. We’ll wipe them up then.

But, tot, I don’t want you to feel like this letter is all negativity aimed at you. You are, after all, only 2.5. It’s my job to teach you, so I should expect these things.

Today, however, I learned something from you, and that is that you are one tough kid. Seriously, I’m impressed. Throughout this cold, you’ve been pretty good natured. You’re not your usual bubbly Tot-ness, but you have energy, you are mostly happy, and you are still climbing over everything you encounter, including my body. The cold has not slowed you down much, but I am only several hours into it and I can see that it is probably going to stop me in my tracks. Full stop.

It’s an especially timely lesson too, as I was just complaining inwardly about my students. I actually thought, “Now I know why people say ‘Youth is wasted on the young.’” It might be wasted on college punks, but my dear tot, you are not wasting it. You are using it to plow ahead through your day, paying little heed to the pounding pressure of snot in your head.

You are amazing, little girl. Truly amazing.
Love,
Mama.

A new banner, thanks in part to HG, who figured out the code. I added the MS Paint lettering all by myself.

Woot!