Happy Mother's Month

May is Mommy month for me because it is Mother's Day and my mom's birthday. Oddly enough, the month had a rocky start because Mom went on strike. Let me explain. Mom lives with me in my condo. Saying that she lives with me is an important distinction because people often ask me, "Do you live with your mother?" No. The phrase, "living with my mother," implies that it is her house and rules, and that I'm some kind of loser who is too immature to take care of myself.

When I say, "My mother lives with me," I mean that we have spheres of influence, but ultimately, it is my condo. I'm an adult, and it is a daily part of my routine to balance being grateful for all that she does while simultaneously saying "No thanks," to her careful ministrations.

If you have ever returned home to stay with your parents and discover yourself reverting to the role of a child, then you may understand what I mean. I constantly have to remind her that she has a life of her own; that she can do what she wants; and she no longer has to do things for me. This admonishment does not stop Mom from making all the meals, throwing out the garbage and keeping the house clean. So we implicitly divided our duties along those lines--I deal with the outside world, and she deals with the inside.

I'm really lucky because whenever I call my friends who live by themselves, they find themselves helpless in front of a slow defrosting whole chicken. I don't have to struggle with deciding what I'm going to have for dinner or clean the bathroom. I always have clean clothes. I am grateful for all the countless ways that Mom makes my life easier, but there are some negatives.

For instance, some of her foibles are typical Mom behavior. She has instructions on how everything should be done-from how to wrap lunch, where to place the water and food in the refrigerator and when to throw out the garbage. If you don't do it her way, she will keep saying something until you do it her way or helpfully tell you why it is the best way to do something.

Some things are less cute. Mom is always worried that something may happen to me so she likes to know where I am at all times. So my cell phone may ring constantly, even when I am not permitted to answer it at work. If I don't answer, then when I am able to return her call, it can take ten minutes to convince her that I am really at work or where ever I was supposed to be. Once I come home, she expects that I will spend every minute at home with her. I like spending time with her so I compromise by devoting part of Wednesday night with her and the entire evening on Thursday (also known as Mark Burnett night); Friday or Saturday and Sunday.

If she does not get one of those evenings, it does not matter what I do. I am not going to have any peace in my home. She cannot be dissuaded when I ask her to put it in perspective. After all, parents usually do not get to spend every day with their adult child and are lucky to get a call.

If you have not read C.S. Lewis' The Four Loves, I suggest that you do so immediately. He characterizes the scenario perfectly, and when I read it, I knew that Mrs. Fidget often made guest appearances in my home. So when Mom became frustrated with my lack of attention, claimed that I didn't appreciate her and went on strike, I was delighted.

In the end, it was the best week ever. Mom did not anticipate what torture it would be for her. I responded to her "strike" by not responding to her less than reasonable demands and insisted that she follow through with her threat. I prepared my own meals while she asked me questions to make sure that I was doing it right. "It smells like it is burning." "It is just fine," I mumbled back with a mouth full of food. When she thought that I was not looking, she would clean my dishes. I still spent time with her, but only when I was available. I returned her calls when I felt like it. Because my attention was not in response to her immediate demands for attention, I hope that she valued it more.

Today was the end of her strike, and she is utterly relieved. She finally accepted some dinner that I made in her honor days ago. She is free to do what she loves, which is apparently to make my life better. I love her and do appreciate it. I just wish that she would remember C.S. Lewis' words: "We feed children in order that they may soon be able to feed themselves; we teach them in order that they may soon not need our teaching."

Mom, you are more than a mother and more than what you do for me! This is the time in life when you can do whatever you want! Please accept my gift of freedom. Don't worry about me. I'm fine, and I'll be right here.