Sitcom Mom

Anyone who has been reading this blog for awhile knows that I have an affection for a couple of current TV moms, namely Frankie Heck of The Middle and Beverly Goldberg of The Goldbergs. Not only do I think they're two of the funniest depictions of motherhood available for your viewing pleasure, I also think they're consistently an honest representation of the inner thoughts and feelings, (good, bad, and certifiable) that come with being a mom.

Until Frankie and Bev came along, I had never seen myself in past TV matriarchs. Roseanne was way too caustic and crude. Carol Brady was entirely too chipper (and sported a haircut that no one could identify with). And Edith Bunker was too passive. I did throw my chips in with Debra Barone (like Frankie, another Patricia Heaton role) of Everybody Loves Raymond for awhile but, as the series went on, she developed a nasty edge that broke the bond. (But if you haven't seen the PMS episode, check that out of your local library. It should be required viewing for all married couples.)

I'm not saying that I agree with all of Frankie and Bev's choices but watching Frankie run down to the field after she thinks her son is hurt in a football game or Bev, mournfully sniffing her children's baby blankets after one of them gets his driver's license, makes me feel as if someone out there gets it; that someone else knows how it feels to wear your heart outside of your body. And, if I can feel better, knowing that at least I would never have embarrassed my kid by bringing his jockstrap to class or loudly proclaiming to other shoppers at Bed, Bath and Everything Else that my son had agreed to spend the day with me, that's a productive use of a half hour.

But, sometimes, an episode hits a little too close to home.  This year, on The Middle, the eldest son goes off to college and neglects to call his mom. Oh, he texts his dad about everything under the sun but doesn't make an effort to stay in touch with the woman who gave him life. (Did that sound too bitter?) When she finally confronts him about how hurt she is, he's clueless but does confess to not wanting to hear her ramble on about nothing or risk being chastised for something he had or had not done and that, here's where the knife goes right into the heart, it's just easier to talk to Dad.

My son hasn't come out and said any of that or I might be saying all of this to a therapist instead of my keyboard. And, in all fairness, my son's Internet connection is not up yet so we haven't been able to Skype and my ancient flip-phone is incapable of sending a text that doesn't take ten minutes to compose. (Yeah, I know I have to get on that.) But I haven't heard his voice in over a week (if you don't count his outgoing voicemail message) and, like my sitcom compatriot Frankie, I'm having a tough time with that.

I thought we had a deal. I would let him go without hanging on to his leg, begging him to stay. And, in exchange, he would pick up the phone often enough that I could pretend he wasn't a thousand miles away. He was supposed to "call me when he got there".

It didn't work for Beverly Goldberg either.

What Goes Around . . .

Forgive me while I snap out of a major case of deja vu. Conversations with your kids will do that to you. One minute I was sprawled out on my daughter's bed listening to her concerns of the day and the next minute I was being gently reminded that my marriage was woefully lacking in the communication department. Huh? When I finished defending myself, I couldn't help laughing at the irony. Thirty-five years ago I had the exact same conversation with my own mother.

What I couldn't explain to my genuinely concerned daughter (or my twenty-three year old self) was the difficulty of anyone on the outside accurately assessing the state of someone else's marriage. It may look seriously flawed, if not completely broken, to invested onlookers but, in reality may just be going through another one of those temporary bottlenecks commonly referred to as a rough patch by us long time married folks.

My daughter, unmarried as of yet as I was when I had my infamous "let me help your marriage" talk with my own mother, was just trying to help. I know her intentions were completely noble and driven by love for both her wayward parents. Believe me, I can relate. But there's no way she will ever be able to fully comprehend the complexities of marriage until she has one of those rings on her finger for a very long time. No one can.

How can I explain to her that it's okay that we're in a little bit of a rut? It's okay that we're on a little togetherness hiatus. It's even okay that we haven't connected in the romance department for a little while. I know that it's not going to stay this way. I know it's just another one of those breaks in the dance. Like all roads leading to Rome, our mated-for life paths are destined to reconverge sooner rather than later. I just have to give myself the necessary kick in the pants (which isn't even remotely possible with my bad knees) to jump start the process.

I wonder if it's too late to make dinner reservations?

Call Me

From the beginning, communicating with my daughter was a piece of cake. She shared her thoughts with me. She came to me for advice. She called me when she had good news to report or bad break-ups to get through. Sometimes she confided more than I wanted to know but my discomfort was a small price to pay. It felt good to be in the loop, to be a part of her life.

I only wish I had the opportunity to experience that connection with my son.

I never thought I'd enjoy having a boy as much as I did. A frightening combination of daring and energy, he kept me on my toes and taught me things I never knew I wanted to know. We spent hours building massive Lego starships. We constructed medieval villages out of hundreds of plastic pieces and filled them with tiny warriors on horses. We read books about dinosaurs, airplane engines and baseball. We laughed at Mad-Libs and silly songs he made up on the spot. He was a lot of fun but there wasn't a whole lot of talking going on.

Now that he's moved out, I realize how much easier it is to make the break with a daughter. Girls pick up the phone. They make lunch dates. They ask you to go shopping. They don't swing by, grab something still lurking in their childhood closet and race back out to an engine still running in the driveway. They don't disappear for a week without some kind of contact. And they don't make a habit of ignoring voicemails for days at a time.

I know I shouldn't get worked up about my twenty-two year-old son's reluctance to hang out with his family. I know I shouldn't take it personally. Everyone tells me to relax. He's a guy. But maybe his lack of social skills (not to mention common courtesy) has nothing to do with being a guy. Maybe he just has a lot of growing up to do.