The Mother Load

I still think of it as my room, but there's very little of me left in it. The room I grew up in, with its pale pink walls and bright red, pink, and orange bedspread and matching curtains, the worn red carpet, and my piles of stuffed animals, my books, and my state of the art push-button princess phone, is a mere shadow of its former self.

The dimensions are the same -- give or take a half inch from the paint touch ups every few years; the custom made chandelier with the painted globe that, when not lit, gives off a curved reflection of the room's perimeter, is the sole survivor of all the changes in decor. The twin bed is gone, long ago replaced by a convertible sofa that leaves me with severe back pain for a week every time I visit, and the multi-layered painted walls are peeling from the insurmountable pressure of water retention and just plain old age. I know just how they feel.

Techno-granny's computer is set up on my old desk, and her collection of hardcover bestsellers lines my bookshelves. My dresser drawers and my closets have been filled with my mother's overflow wardrobe, and any worldly possessions I left behind were long ago disposed of in a cleaning frenzy. I couldn't even find a spare hanger in the closet for my coat. My displacement is most apparent, though, in the crowded array of framed pictures occupying every inch of spare dresser, nightstand, and desk space. Each photo is of one or more of my children; I make an occasional appearance, but I am clearly no longer the star of my own room. The torch has been passed, and I am merely the behind the scenes producer, essential, maybe, but not the one with the name on the marquee.

I'm okay with it all, though; it's not like she's festooned my old furniture with pictures of somebody else's kids. And let's face it, they're way more photogenic than I am, and who wouldn't rather gaze at images of fresh young faces than wrinkly old potatoes. And the truth is I know my mother still views me the way I view my own children: as a piece of herself, a piece she wants to hold onto for dear life.

How do I know this? Well, first of all, she's a mother. But not just any mother. To clarify things for me, she burst into tears this morning, claiming the biggest tragedy in her life is that she can't talk to me -- her daughter. And this was not a reference to her inability to converse because of her hearing problem, and (I know it sounds cynical, but trust me on this one) it certainly wasn't intended as a warm and fuzzy gesture of love. She was referring to the fact that I don't routinely share with her the intimate details of my fucked up life, depriving her of myriad opportunities to offer up I told you sos and you should haves to her heart's content. And mind you, the crying fit came after I thought I had guaranteed myself a spot in heaven by conversing with her over coffee for a good hour, sharing enough little tidbits so she could feel comfortably in the know and satisfyingly smug. Rarely does a good deed go unpunished.

But she's my mother, and she tends to show love in odd ways sometimes; as usual, the butter knife twisting in my heart filled me both with rage and resolve to do better. I have promised myself to keep her in the loop (via email), and give her just enough information so she can feel as if she's an honorary soldier in my army of white knights. I am well aware that in spite of her need to lecture and remind me how stupid I've been, she is, first and foremost, my mother, and she worries. It's what we do -- even the craziest ones, who shall remain nameless. We'll just call them "mom."