And Then There's Mom

Despite that inauspicious introduction, Mom came to really like Scott.

He was exceptionally handsome.
He had impeccable manners.
He had a great smile.
The dog liked him.
Her friends thought he was the cat’s pajamas.
He may have been the only classmate of mine, male, female, high school or college, that didn’t at some point get chewed up and spit out in little wet crumbs after somehow offending Mom’s hard-to-grasp sensibilities.

Somehow he was the one who charmed the little bellbottomed embroidered pants off of Estelle. Without even trying. He’d have been dead meat if he’d been discovered to have been trying. Only one other person since has warmed her little thorny heart. He’s a dear friend still. We attended each other’s weddings and maintain a lively Facebook friendship.

So the fact that Scott found me on Facebook after 30 years and is as handsome and charming and wonderful as her failing memory would recall for her, despite her general mistrust and disdain for all things internet, she’d be thrilled, in spite of her frostiness toward me of late.

But because she can not bring herself to see our shared culpability in the current feud, and will not extend or accept an olive branch (according to Charlotte, unless the olive branch takes the form of me running on my considerable sword), she is missing the joy of it all.

The companionship I am enjoying with Scott.
The laughter to the point of tears. The fun.
The smiles on the kids faces; their acceptance of him, the friendships between the kids.
The easiness. The respect. The partnership.

In short, Mom is missing out on the wonder it is to watch your child fall in love.

Among other things.

And maybe that is by design.

Mom has told Charlotte that she believes my life is like a bed of roses. Her litmus test for that statement being that I do not call her for help.

I am sorry, this is not algebra homework.

My life, though rich with rewards and full of wonders, is hardly a walk in the park. I have a whack job ex-husband, two kids with genuine troubles to contend with, a taxing job with many demands that test my mettle, and lots of responsibilities.

She has no idea that the tearful calls I do make are to Charlotte. Joy. Kate. And now Scott.

And on some level, Mom knows me well enough to know this. It just may be that she can not sufficiently minimize the challenges I face, and finds it easier to simply pretend they do not exist.

From 5 states away you can do that. Let someone else, or a whole crowd of someone elses make my bed of nails feel like a bed of roses. So that when and if you choose to show up, you can say, “I told you so,” and pretend it’s been rosey all along.

And somehow take some credit for having made it that way.

Whatev.