Fancy

My mother is in town. Yes, just two weeks after our trip west, my mother is on this coast. She’s in town for other reasons, but arrived a day early to spend time with us. I invited her to do so. I believe there was good, loving intent all around.

But isn’t it strange how just one word – truly, one word – can change the whole tone of a visit and turn all that good intent and effort upside down?

In this case, the word is “fancy.”

My mother uses the word fancy as a kind of a compliment and an insult all rolled into one. For her to say, “My, what a fancy dress,” means, “Yes, it is a lovely dress, but who do you think you are to deserve to wear such a dress?”

She has used this word to her intended effect on many occasions. It can cut down my sister and brother and me in a heartbeat. Our visit had started quite well, so I thought such comments wouldn’t be an issue. I was feeling relaxed and hopeful.

Last night, after a dinner picnic on the beach, and what I thought was a nice relaxed evening after the kids went to bed, we headed up to bed ourselves. Mom was to sleep in S’s room, while S slept in her Dora sleeping bag in our room. Then, in about 10 seconds, were two “fancy” comments:

Upon walking by the upstairs bathroom, “There’s that fancy floor.” Then, upon walking into S’s room, “My, what fancy sheets.”

What the bathroom floor and S’s sheets look like don’t really matter here. The floor could be cardboard or marble and the sheets burlap or spun gold. This was about control. She was asserting a bit of motherly control over the tone of the visit.

I wanted to curse at her. I didn’t. I didn’t respond at all.

I had been falling asleep on the couch minutes before, but now my mind was racing. How could she? Why did she? How dare she?

Eventually I fell asleep. But slept fitfully.

I know this isn’t really about me. It’s about her issues, not mine. We don’t have much in common, so there isn’t much to talk about. We can’t talk religion (she’s still a Christian Scientist at heart), politics (we’re quite opposite), or family (she thinks she shouldn’t get involved in many issues around my sister), she likes rocks and fossils and I like art and writing and gardening. I like to think I able to accept these differences more than she can: I don’t know why it is this way, but it is. Whatever discomfort or disappointment or regret or whatever she feels about our (lack of) connection manifests itself in these little controlling comments. It’s sad.

It hurts.

This morning I made strawberry pancakes for breakfast and we went to a museum in the afternoon. I dropped her at the hotel she is staying at through Tuesday. I’ll see her tomorrow night at a dinner, and then she’ll fly back west the next morning.

I love my mom. I do. I’m sad about this visit. But maybe seeing one another as much as we have in the last 2-3 weeks (and, really, it's very little compared to many families) is just too much for us. Maybe we just need our respective coasts.