Defying Mother

“Tell me right now!” her mother’s shrill voice poured from the phone. “Tell me the name of this person who is trying to ruin your future!” 

    “No.” That was my simple reply. I don’t typically tell my mother no, or anyone for that matter. Up to this point in my life I had been described as quite a people pleaser actually, but something about the way she was once again demanding to control my life sparked this one simple defiant word to spring forth from my lips before I even knew what was happening. 

    “Sandra Emily, if you don’t tell me the name of this professor right now, I will”

    “You’ll what Mom?” I challenge, cutting her off. “You’ll drive for four hours here to confront this person that you don’t know and what?” Man, I am really packing it on now. I feel great about this choice! I feel independent, and mature, and slightly wavering. Is this really the right move? I do have to go home in a few weeks for the winter break, and I can’t stay here and avoid this bold choice because the dorms will be closing. Is this really how I want to begin my holiday break, by having a screaming match with my mother over a decision I haven’t even made yet?

    “How dare you speak to me like that Sandra!” She was still going, and I can tell that I’ve opened the floodgates. “Who do you think that you are!?” I can tell that she’s building to something now because she always asks this same series of questions whenever I’m really in trouble. 

    The first time that I experienced this particular succession of questions was when I was 12 years old. I went to the mall with a friend and had picked out a skirt that I knew my mother wouldn’t approve of, but I was in love with it! It was a simple, black, pleated taste of pre-teen freedom. Of course when I got home, and my mother asked me what I had chosen to spend her hard earned money on at the mall with my friends, I showed her. At first she seemed contained, like a nuclear plant who had just begun to throw warning lights. Perhaps we could come back from this? All I needed to do was keep the coolant system running and follow the protocols that I had studied in detail. 

    Step One: Assess the situation. I take a gentle step back and notice that there are only three distinct warning signs flashing right now. My mother is red in the face, has raised her voice to a volume that I’m sure the neighbors can hear, and she is making hand gestures that can be seen from the international space station. I decide to proceed to step two with optimism. 

    Step Two: Explain. “Mom, I didn’t actually try on the skirt while we were in the store. How about I try it on now?” She agrees, and it seems for a small moment that perhaps I have extinguished at least one of the warning signs. What a mature and reasonable step I was taking. I go into the bathroom which is just a few feet down the hallway and I try on the skirt. It takes me about three seconds to realize that I am going to have to continue to step three, and that if I don’t follow the protocol exactly, there will be a major meltdown and we will have to start evacuating the surrounding cities. 

    Step Three: Gravel. I step cautiously out of the bathroom, of course she has moved to standing right outside the door. “Now Mom,” I begin, however it’s too late. There are now warning signals emanating from every panel around me in the control room and I realize that I’m not making it out alive when she says, “How dare you Sandra! Who do you think you are buying something like this!? Don’t you realize that you are only 12 years old, and I can tell you right now that you are clearly not responsible enough to go to the mall on your own…” The tirade lasted for about ten soul crushing minutes where every decision I had been allowed to make up to that point in my life was brought under a microscope in efforts to understand the misstep that was my current choice. 

I picked my fragile self esteem up off the floor, changed out of the skirt back into my loose but not faded or ripped jeans, and we drove back to the mall in order to retrieve my mother’s hard earned money from the shop where I had lost all reason. Now, as you can probably guess, after an experience this intense, I spent the next 9 years resolved never to go through that again. So why now, was I suddenly so serious about defying my mother? Was it the fact that I am now 21 and although I’m legally able to drink I still don’t because my mother doesn’t approve? Or perhaps the fact that I was finally tired of her choosing everything for me? Maybe I think it’s the distance, distance is safe. Even if she got into the car right now, I would have four solid hours of damage control, maybe more if there is construction or traffic, because of course she wouldn’t speed. 

My ears perk up as I realize that the dissertation on my disobedience that I expected, hasn’t come. Instead I hear a deflated, “Sandra, why do you do things to hurt me?” What!? My mind explodes, and now it’s my turn to deliver an impassioned speech. 

“Mom, I’ve never done anything to hurt you! In fact, everything I’ve done in my entire life has been to please you as best that I can, with very minimal positive feedback, might I add!” I’m screaming, walking on a crowded collegiate sidewalk, displaying several of my own warning signs. My pulse quickens, heat rises in my face despite the bitter cold of the season, and my hand gestures are wild. I barely have any consideration for how close the phone is to my face because I know that she can hear me, not to mention I’ve completely stopped walking, narrowly avoiding being crashed into by several people making their way in the blistering cold. “If I want to consider skipping one year before going to grad school and spending some of my hard earned money on traveling to places that aren’t just the midwest, learning things that I know you won’t agree with, then I WILL!” 

I’m practically a rabid animal at this point. I resume walking toward my dorm, still on the phone but saying nothing. I check the screen to see if she’s hung up, but she hasn’t, she just isn’t saying anything either. Ha! I’ve finally got her. She can’t control my life anymore because I’m an adult and I have freedom. After what feels like hours, she slowly begins to speak, “Sandra, I know that you’re an adult now.” Damn straight I am! “I respect your ability to make your own choices, but you need to know that I will not be helping you with any of the consequences of this choice. If you run out of money in some far flung nation, I will not wire anything to bring you home. If you lose out on graduate school opportunities after skipping a year, I won’t allow you to move back into my home. As an adult you will have to deal with all of the potential consequences on your own. I’ll see you in a few weeks.” She hung up. 

Now I’m trudging through the cold, feeling deflated, like I’ve just come down from a cocaine high, and I begin to put every choice I’ve ever made under a microscope. I find myself, not altogether surprised by this reaction. My mother has always been one to overreact and then come around later, but this time was different. She was so calm when she was speaking, like this was the final speech she always knew that she’d have to give me. I’m approaching my dorm building now, and I reach into my backpack for my key card. As I do, someone comes around the building on a sled and plows right into me. The world is a blur, and I’m on the ground. 

Step One: Assess the situation. I can see my feet and legs, as well as feel and move them. I don’t see any huge issues with my torso and I’m able to breath just fine. My arms… One arm is hot, on fire actually. I look over at my right arm, the one that was reaching into my backpack, and it is bent the wrong way. It’s definitely broken. Well I guess that I don’t have to worry about that fight with my Mom anymore, it’s very difficult to solo travel the world with a broken arm.