My Mother, My Guilt (Anonymous Guest Post)

Someone I know, like and respect very much asked me if she could write a few guest posts for this blog. I agreed, because she is a fantastic storyteller and has totally legit reasons for keeping her identity private. So we’re calling her posts “Tales from the Family Crypt.” Feel free to comment away (anonymously, if you like). — Susan

Do I hate my mother? I once told my therapist that I did and he made the sad face. You know, the one toddlers give when they are reprimanded. No, you’re right, Mr. Therapist, because it makes you sad, I do not hate my mother.

Do I hate my mother? I know it is a societally abhorrent question; ergo My Mother, My Guilt (MMMG).

I didn’t always hate my mother. As a child I was blindly devoted to her. She was my first caregiver. Later as an adult though, there were chinks in this armored explanation. By the time she informed me she could not attend my wedding because the dogs needed her, I knew I was on catching on to something.

This though did not lead to the currently unaskable, DO I HATE MY MOTHER (MMMG)?

It is her unremitting meanness.

As adults, my sister and I exchange some dark humor about this. A call to my mother generally includes a half hour harangue against my dad and Republicans and a long exposé on how Poochie the Dog went to the veterinarian to get his anal gland squeezed.

Dog owners of the world, you probably don’t know that dogs have anal glands. Keep it that way. Last time my sister was with her at the bank she informed the bank teller that her dog’s anal gland needed squeezed.

For years, she has terrorized waiters in her hometown. “How is that cooked? Oh, Oh. Does it come with that? Oh? You know we are here to celebrate a birthday but my husband was late and ruined everything. That’s my divorced daughter over there.” When I got divorced (I was “that” daughter) she said “You weren’t done. You had 12 more years.” Is that hateful Mom years or just regular years?

The worst is how she yells, particularly at my Dad.

Mean, mean, mean. The police were called on her once, when she was raking the neighbor’s leaves in his yard because they annoyed her and when the neighbor came out to ask her to stop she poked him in the leg with her rake. Forget sharp instruments, she isn’t safe with blunt ones. There isn’t time today to get into the hoarding and her secret misuse of medication. But let’s just say I like a clean house and follow the labels.

I need to go visit my mother this weekend because she needs help. I don’t like her. I don’t trust her (I won’t leave my children alone with her). I am frickin’ getting in a vehicle to go help her. This could only be love.

Last night, lying awake, I woke my husband and asked him to get me a Zanax. It’s not prescribed to me (MMMG), but I took it. Before he rolled over and went back to sleep, he gave me an extra one and suggested I slip it in her coffee when I arrive.

This mother writes from an undisclosed location in a tiny ranch house with a husband, two children, and no pets. For her day job, she must be unfailingly polite.