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.