She never would have admitted it, but I was my mother's favorite. She didn't love me more than my sisters; that's not what made me her favorite.
She doted on me more.
I was treated like - and therefore acted like - a baby.
And then I became an adult.
It's a strange experience: being a baby inside a woman's body...
I recently said to my therapist, "No one knows how courageous I am because no one knows how scared I am, all the time."
Being the baby of the family had its perks: loads of affection, a special place in my mother's heart, and her immediate attention whenever I needed it (or demanded it). My sisters frequently and understandably lamented about how unjust it all was. "You let her get away with anything, Mom!" "You're spoiling her, Mom!" They were right. She didn't expect from me what she expected from them. I was a child and didn't know any better, nor was I about to insist that my mother treat me with equal discipline, but at an early age, I realized I could avoid punishment and consequences by acting like a baby. Her baby.
It went something like this...
Mom gets angry.
1. Turn on the baby talk.
2. Claim incompetence or innocence.
3. Look desperately scared and confused.
4. Watch the anger melt and the emotional rescuing begin.
Presto! I avoided consequences... again. It's important to note that I was doing this unconsciously as a child, but conscious or not, the pattern was engrained.
It's all laughter and memories now. The passage of time has transformed their outcry of injustice into eye rolling and chuckles. Adult perspective mitigates anger - I was a child and not accountable for my mother's parenting, fair or unfair. And I've long since forgiven Mom for any mistakes she made in her role as my mother. She did so much right.
It's all funny now...
Except when it's not.
The effects of being babied are still with me to this day.
Deep inside me, I lack confidence.
I closed on a new condo last October, and one of my favorite features in the living room is the wood-burning fireplace. A fireplace adds an element of welcoming warmth to the aesthetic of any room, but I bought the condo assuming I'd never use it. I figured I'd just enjoy the look of it.
Why?
Well, one reason is that I'd lived in Manhattan for many years, and fireplaces in New York City are mostly decorative. Only a handful of condos have working fireplaces, so I just assumed that, as in New York, I wouldn't be allowed to use mine.
But I live in Tennessee! My real estate agent encouraged me to have the chimney inspected and said I'd likely be able to enjoy many cozy nights by the fire. I thanked him and inwardly dismissed it. Then lunch with a friend and mentor... "Vanessa, call a chimney inspector. You can probably use that fireplace. You'll love it!" I graciously thanked her, made the appointment, and then canceled it. Too expensive.
It's too much trouble... I can just put a candelabra in there and enjoy the glow of candlelight.
So I bought a 9-light fireplace candelabra, and it sat in a box next to the fireplace for weeks... unopened.
And some part of me sat by the fireplace, unopened.
The obstacle standing between cozy-nights-by-the-fire and me was not city codes. It was not the cost of a chimney inspection. It wasn't the fact that I'd never built a fire, even though that is a salient point. If I'd purchased a home with a gas fireplace, maybe I'd have had an easier time... turn a knob to ignite and then turn again to extinguish. Fine.
But this is a wood-burning fireplace. This involves some know-how. This requires the most basic and primitive of all human skills: how to build a fire. And I didn't know how. And I lack confidence.
And that is my problem.
What if I burn my house down?
What if it gets out of control?
What if my entire house fills with smoke?
What if I get ashes all over my white furniture?
One thousand reasons why I couldn't manage it.
I was sitting in my therapist's office when the subject of fear arose, and I mentioned the fireplace. He pointed out my assumption - that I couldn't handle it - and left me with a choice to make.
I called the chimney inspector that day, rescheduled the appointment, and waited until Friday. Friday came, and I thought about canceling it. This is stupid. I can just use the candelabra. It's sitting right there! I don't need to pay this money. I don't need a working fireplace. I'm going to burn my house to the ground!
No, I answered myself. Calmly. Patiently. I'm going to take just one step. I can always decide after the inspection that I don't want to use it, but not out of fear.
The results came in: the fireplace and chimney are in great working condition.
No more excuses.
What now?
Dear Mama...
I wish you'd said "No" more often to me, even though in the moment I would have fought you.
I wish you'd said, "Figure it out" instead of doing it for me or distracting me away from things I couldn't do.
I wish you'd said, "I won't do it for you, but I'll help you."
I wish you'd said, "Honey, I don't know how to do that. Let's learn together."
But you had your hands full. And your heart full. And you were amazing. And now... I've got to teach this little girl inside me that she can build a fire.
How many years have human beings been learning what they can accomplish by building a fire?
Count me in.
I'm ready for another cup.
Until next time...
Being the baby of the family had its perks: loads of affection, a special place in my mother's heart, and her immediate attention whenever I needed it (or demanded it). My sisters frequently and understandably lamented about how unjust it all was. "You let her get away with anything, Mom!" "You're spoiling her, Mom!" They were right. She didn't expect from me what she expected from them. I was a child and didn't know any better, nor was I about to insist that my mother treat me with equal discipline, but at an early age, I realized I could avoid punishment and consequences by acting like a baby. Her baby.
It went something like this...
Mom gets angry.
1. Turn on the baby talk.
2. Claim incompetence or innocence.
3. Look desperately scared and confused.
4. Watch the anger melt and the emotional rescuing begin.
Presto! I avoided consequences... again. It's important to note that I was doing this unconsciously as a child, but conscious or not, the pattern was engrained.
It's all laughter and memories now. The passage of time has transformed their outcry of injustice into eye rolling and chuckles. Adult perspective mitigates anger - I was a child and not accountable for my mother's parenting, fair or unfair. And I've long since forgiven Mom for any mistakes she made in her role as my mother. She did so much right.
It's all funny now...
Except when it's not.
The effects of being babied are still with me to this day.
Deep inside me, I lack confidence.
I closed on a new condo last October, and one of my favorite features in the living room is the wood-burning fireplace. A fireplace adds an element of welcoming warmth to the aesthetic of any room, but I bought the condo assuming I'd never use it. I figured I'd just enjoy the look of it.
Why?
Well, one reason is that I'd lived in Manhattan for many years, and fireplaces in New York City are mostly decorative. Only a handful of condos have working fireplaces, so I just assumed that, as in New York, I wouldn't be allowed to use mine.
But I live in Tennessee! My real estate agent encouraged me to have the chimney inspected and said I'd likely be able to enjoy many cozy nights by the fire. I thanked him and inwardly dismissed it. Then lunch with a friend and mentor... "Vanessa, call a chimney inspector. You can probably use that fireplace. You'll love it!" I graciously thanked her, made the appointment, and then canceled it. Too expensive.
It's too much trouble... I can just put a candelabra in there and enjoy the glow of candlelight.
So I bought a 9-light fireplace candelabra, and it sat in a box next to the fireplace for weeks... unopened.
And some part of me sat by the fireplace, unopened.
The obstacle standing between cozy-nights-by-the-fire and me was not city codes. It was not the cost of a chimney inspection. It wasn't the fact that I'd never built a fire, even though that is a salient point. If I'd purchased a home with a gas fireplace, maybe I'd have had an easier time... turn a knob to ignite and then turn again to extinguish. Fine.
But this is a wood-burning fireplace. This involves some know-how. This requires the most basic and primitive of all human skills: how to build a fire. And I didn't know how. And I lack confidence.
And that is my problem.
What if I burn my house down?
What if it gets out of control?
What if my entire house fills with smoke?
What if I get ashes all over my white furniture?
One thousand reasons why I couldn't manage it.
I was sitting in my therapist's office when the subject of fear arose, and I mentioned the fireplace. He pointed out my assumption - that I couldn't handle it - and left me with a choice to make.
I called the chimney inspector that day, rescheduled the appointment, and waited until Friday. Friday came, and I thought about canceling it. This is stupid. I can just use the candelabra. It's sitting right there! I don't need to pay this money. I don't need a working fireplace. I'm going to burn my house to the ground!
No, I answered myself. Calmly. Patiently. I'm going to take just one step. I can always decide after the inspection that I don't want to use it, but not out of fear.
The results came in: the fireplace and chimney are in great working condition.
No more excuses.
What now?
Dear Mama...
I wish you'd said "No" more often to me, even though in the moment I would have fought you.
I wish you'd said, "Figure it out" instead of doing it for me or distracting me away from things I couldn't do.
I wish you'd said, "I won't do it for you, but I'll help you."
I wish you'd said, "Honey, I don't know how to do that. Let's learn together."
But you had your hands full. And your heart full. And you were amazing. And now... I've got to teach this little girl inside me that she can build a fire.
How many years have human beings been learning what they can accomplish by building a fire?
Count me in.
I'm ready for another cup.
Until next time...
No comments:
Post a Comment