Control. Give it here or beware of what I become
First Posted: 1/20/2015
It should come as no surprise to you that I have definite control issues.
You can thank my sister Jennifer for this genetic flaw. She stole my brand, new Giggles Doll at age 6, threw it down the cellar steps and as I was going to save its poor little vinyl life, she tripped me, laid on top of me and hit my head off the floor. I remember pushing her off, standing over her with an ashtray poised for assault and screaming; “No more! I’m in control now!”
Well, sadly, that’s been my blueprint for power over everything and everyone in my life ever since.
Dr. Phil recently aired a show about sadistically controlling mothers. I was commenting to myself, as I always do throughout these episodes, mumbling;”Well, that’s crazy! She applied to colleges for her daughter? She forced her to play the harp? Who does that?”
Buzzing around nearby, I heard my daughter squeal:”Are you kidding, Maria? That sounds Just. Like. You!” (Upon closer inspection of this guest, however, my daughter did allow that the mother had took part in an overabundance of Botox, and while I may sound just like her, I was still able to move my forehead and lips).
Oh, I know she’s right. She must even think this in her subconscious, as well. Last week she told me about a dream she had. “We were at a hotel… and a crazy man came in and killed everyone. But we hid from him and we were safe. Until you sent me down to the lobby to get you a People magazine! You risked my life to get a magazine!”
I was intrigued. “Well, that’s very sad. Who was on the cover of People that week, anyway?”
“You’re totally missing the point! You were controlling me, even in my dreams!”
“Huh. Maybe. But really, was it that stupid Kardashian again?”
“Something is so wrong with you,” and off she flounced.
My sons aren’t immune, either. My controlling ways are only exacerbated by their ability to drive. Inquiries of “where are you going and with whom and when will you be home?” are always answered pissily and footnoted with the directive: “…..and don’t follow me!”
OK, in my defense, I’ve only done that once and it was under special circumstances. I can’t remember what made them special now, but I’m sure I had a good reason at the time. Every mother has good reason to follow their kids, trust me.
I’m trying to lay off my youngest son, but to no avail. He was recently finishing a project for school, and in my estimation, was doing the bare minimum.
I commented: “That’s a great job, but why don’t you add more color? Sparkles? It needs more oomph, right?”
He’s dismissive. “Mom. It’s fine.”
I plow on. “Well, fine is OK, but don’t you want to be better than fine? Don’t you want to go the extra mile, son?”
He shook his head sadly as he does when he thinks I’m on the road to crazy.
“Oh, Old Lady. If I go that extra mile all the time, I’ll just run out of gas.”
Well. Shut me up and stick a fork in me.
I’m officially done and on control sabbatical.
I have run out of gas.