Not a Mama's Boy

I feel like Dorothy in the Oz movie and this isn't Kansas anymore. It's San Diego and one of the munchkins is under my mother-in-laws dinner table right now. She's talking in a feline language to a rambunctious cat that has a borderline personality disorder and the cat isn't going to budge.

"Sarah, get that cat away from the dinner table." Mrs. Jackson yells.

The little munchkin is Sara, all of 6-years old, and she's talking the furry cat into her arms. I'm hyperventilating and politely sneezing at the table. I whisper in Daniel's ear and remind him that I had allergies.

"Come on, Tabitha. We have to take you in another room to keep Lisa from dying." Sara whispers to the pet as she quickly escorts the creature to another part of the house and sings.

"Sara, thank-you." I say.

"You're welcome, Lisa."

Daniel's mother, Mrs. Jackson, is 55-years old and she's spent hours preparing the evening meal for a total of twenty people today. I know half of these people by name and the other half are strangers to my eyes. So far, I've counted eight red heads, five lop sided toupees, a dancing wig or two, and multi-colored lips flashing smiles.

Carol Clementine is a Lucile Ball redhead type, right down to the crying and, for crying out loud, she cries. She's a rather small, petite Capricorn, standing next to her 6'2" Abraham Lincoln look like spouse. My husband is a mixture of both of them.

I'm seeing a bunch of fairly happy souls, passing the turkey and potatoes around the table and talking at once. I notice that Mrs. Jackson's husband, Henry, isn't talking much at all though. When I make eye contact with him, I can almost hear him screaming the words, "Let me out of here."

"Me too." I want to say. "Henry, let's escape from planet Mars together." I notice that he isn't a toupee wearer and he's wearing a Hawaiian shirt. I think he said he comes from the Bahamas.

"Daniel and Lisa moved to Arizona," Mrs. Jackson announces to the group, as she attempts to transfer wiggling jello from the serving bowl to her plate. It's lime green colored mix and it doesn't fit in with the evening meal.

Carol Clementine is not pleased with her son for moving away from his Mama. She's plum infuriated with "the boy" and tells him so. I look at Daniel with my blue eyes and blink repeatedly. The more Carol talks, the faster my eyes blink, and Daniel doesn't bat an eye.

"Yes, we moved to Sierra Vista a year ago," my husband explains, "and I'm managing a grocery store out there."

Henry winks at his son, as if to say, "Good decision, my boy," as Mrs. Jackson eats her lime jello in silence and the house seems haunted now.

"I still don't know why you two had to leave California when you could have stayed put. Your father and I aren't getting any younger and, quite frankly, we need you in the area., my son"

Carol sniffles, reaching for a handkerchief in her pocket to blow her nose and I stare at her. I detect another one of her 'I Love Lucy' crying fits to begin any minute.

How many trips around the sun are packed with guilt and what can the son of a mother say? I suppose Daniel could say, "Hey mom, I'm 30-years old. My wife and I want to fly our own wings far away from you. Please do leave me be and eat your Thanksgiving meal."

I'm thinking that Henry and Carol's cuckoo clock doesn't have the right time at all. I'm actually quite surprised that it's 5 p.m. and the entire house is suddenly very noisy. Groups of two and three family members are discussing different subjects and I have little to offer.

"The turkey is delicious," I interject, as the wife of a man I love. Carol is crying and I'm trying to make peace. Yet, the truth is, I'm a daughter-in-law who isn't fond of my husband's mom. Carol is thanking me for the compliment on her cooking and eyeing her son. She's explaining to him that his distancing from her is hurting her.

"I want to live my own life and you think I'm hurting you?"

"Yes. I do, Daniel. You don't see your sisters moving a thousand miles away. Why can't you offer support?

This isn't a normal situation, it's insanity, and I desperately want a voice to defend my husband. Carol Clementine is a manipulator and I'm powerless to stop her. All I can do is look around the house and compose myself.

The dining room is large enough, with leafs on the table to give guests adequate room space, and Mrs. Jackson has used her finest china to serve the meal. The red oak dining room table is a hand-me-down from her own mother, having lived through many years, and it's in good condition. I notice that white shag carpeting fills nearly ever room and the walls are decorated with Mr. Jackson's artwork.

Everything about this Victorian style house has personality and the owners plan to live in until they die. Mr. and Mrs. Jackson bought this house when their last born child was born. Daniel was the new kid on the block and he was welcomed to the world by five sisters. All five of the girls are adults now, just like Daniel and I. They are controlled by their mother and staying in San Diego.

Needless to say, Daniel and I leave early and promise to stay in touch. We can't always control people, places, and things. All we can do is live our own lives and be happy people. One day, Carol let go of her son enough to let him breathe. For her sake and ours, I hope she does.