- Points
- 56
March 7, 2009 at 4:51pm
This is a story once told to me that I never repeated. It is the only story that ever had me sobbing like a small child. Here I will tell a story that is based on the true events of the life of the gentleman that shared a part of his life with me that day.
I GREW UP WITH AN OVER PROTECTIVE MOTHER THAT LOVED ME VERY MUCH. MY FATHER PASSED ON WHEN I WAS A SMALL CHILD. BUT FROM THE PERCEPTION OF A CHILD THIS WAS OVERBEARING AND OFTEN OVERWHELMING. TO SAY THE LEAST SHE GOT IN MY WAY AND EMBARRESSED ME ENDLESSLY INFRONT OF MY FRIENDS BY PROTECTING ME FROM THINGS AS NEGLIGIBLE AS THE SAND AND THE SUN. I FELT I MISSED OUT OF A LOT OF THINGS AT THE TIME, AS ALL MY FRIENDS WERE ABLE TO DO THINGS THAT I WAS BANNED FROM DOING FROM THE LASER FOCUSSED AND GUARDING EYES OF MY MOTHER WATCING OVER ME ALL THE TIME.
As a teenager things were no better. With a mind of my own, and with my training wheel understandings of my rights I was caught in a tight spot between standing up for myself against my unreasonable and interfering mother, or not hurting her feelings because I knew she was looking out for me at the end of the day. Somewhere deep down I acknowledged that she meant well so I just endured her nonsense. The price of this endurance was the feeling that I missed out on more of what everyone else seemed to be doing.
Another consequence of this enduring was a gradual development of resentment towards my mother as I angered my way through my 20’s and 30’s. Some days I even fucken hated seeing her and hearing from her. Nothing I did was good for me. Nothing I liked to eat was good for me. Most of my friends were not good for me. And most of all, the chicks I brought home or dated were not good enough for me. For fuck sake!!! Just let me live my life. THE MORE I THOUGHT ABOUT THIS THE MORE FRUSTRATED I GOT, AND THE MORE I FOCUSSED ON THIS, THE MORE THIS SEEMED TO BE HAPPENING.
Now that I am in the afternoon of my lifetime and still not married, I would often come home and find the same combinations of soups that my mom would leave for me. The same vegetable soups with no unnatural flavourings in them that she fed me as a child. This evening I came home to see another asparagus soup on my bench on a tray with a spoon beside the bowl wrapped in a napkin. This pissed me off. I poured it down the sink and cooked myself a steak.
Now finally I have married a woman thirty years my junior and I am happy. I am even happier that mother is now carefully supervised in a rest home with limited access to me. I can get on with my life and live the way I want, without having to put up with her interfering crap and having to be nice about it. I would get the occasional phone call from mother on weekends where she delivered the same junk with an older and slower voice. But hey, this was fine compared to putting up with her every day.
One Saturday morning the phone rang, the caller ID said it is from the rest home. I took a deep breath, rolled my eyes and answered the phone. It was not mother. It was the nurse that cared for her. She had informed me that mother had passed away. Strangely my feelings were a calm mixture. Sadness of course!!! This justified my duty of being a son. But undeniably there was a feeling of uncomfortable relief and freedom. I hardly acknowledged these feelings to myself at all. That would mean that I was an evil bastard.
The final part of this story is in the solicitor’s office for the settling of her will. All of her possessions and money was passed onto me with no attached conditions. As I prepared to sign the piece of paper the solicitor advised me of ONE MORE THING. A REQUEST note from my mother in her own hand writing.
``I request that where my husband and I are buried, that my dear son is also buried there along with us when he passes on. The reason for this is that his wife is so so much younger than him, and I can’t stand the thought of him being alone in the ground for so many years’’.
At the sight of this there was a magic moment. Nothing, NONE of the irritating things that my mother did mattered anymore. I just felt her love. In her final years I limited her contact with me. And a life time of tears were released as I realize now, I will never see her again……………………………….
Note from Yoda: To my dear friends who read this. If you want to, place your own conclusion onto the dotted line and share it with me. This story is an exercise I set for myself because I am still in the process of taming my ego, and wanting to be a person who is less damaging to the people around me. Those who have known me for some years will know what I am talking about. So I wish to share both ways and also receive your conclusion to this story. I was about to give a moral to this story like I do when I tell every other story. But this time, I would like my friends to tell me the moral of the story.
Warm Regards
Hope to hear from you.
Yoda
This is a story once told to me that I never repeated. It is the only story that ever had me sobbing like a small child. Here I will tell a story that is based on the true events of the life of the gentleman that shared a part of his life with me that day.
I GREW UP WITH AN OVER PROTECTIVE MOTHER THAT LOVED ME VERY MUCH. MY FATHER PASSED ON WHEN I WAS A SMALL CHILD. BUT FROM THE PERCEPTION OF A CHILD THIS WAS OVERBEARING AND OFTEN OVERWHELMING. TO SAY THE LEAST SHE GOT IN MY WAY AND EMBARRESSED ME ENDLESSLY INFRONT OF MY FRIENDS BY PROTECTING ME FROM THINGS AS NEGLIGIBLE AS THE SAND AND THE SUN. I FELT I MISSED OUT OF A LOT OF THINGS AT THE TIME, AS ALL MY FRIENDS WERE ABLE TO DO THINGS THAT I WAS BANNED FROM DOING FROM THE LASER FOCUSSED AND GUARDING EYES OF MY MOTHER WATCING OVER ME ALL THE TIME.
As a teenager things were no better. With a mind of my own, and with my training wheel understandings of my rights I was caught in a tight spot between standing up for myself against my unreasonable and interfering mother, or not hurting her feelings because I knew she was looking out for me at the end of the day. Somewhere deep down I acknowledged that she meant well so I just endured her nonsense. The price of this endurance was the feeling that I missed out on more of what everyone else seemed to be doing.
Another consequence of this enduring was a gradual development of resentment towards my mother as I angered my way through my 20’s and 30’s. Some days I even fucken hated seeing her and hearing from her. Nothing I did was good for me. Nothing I liked to eat was good for me. Most of my friends were not good for me. And most of all, the chicks I brought home or dated were not good enough for me. For fuck sake!!! Just let me live my life. THE MORE I THOUGHT ABOUT THIS THE MORE FRUSTRATED I GOT, AND THE MORE I FOCUSSED ON THIS, THE MORE THIS SEEMED TO BE HAPPENING.
Now that I am in the afternoon of my lifetime and still not married, I would often come home and find the same combinations of soups that my mom would leave for me. The same vegetable soups with no unnatural flavourings in them that she fed me as a child. This evening I came home to see another asparagus soup on my bench on a tray with a spoon beside the bowl wrapped in a napkin. This pissed me off. I poured it down the sink and cooked myself a steak.
Now finally I have married a woman thirty years my junior and I am happy. I am even happier that mother is now carefully supervised in a rest home with limited access to me. I can get on with my life and live the way I want, without having to put up with her interfering crap and having to be nice about it. I would get the occasional phone call from mother on weekends where she delivered the same junk with an older and slower voice. But hey, this was fine compared to putting up with her every day.
One Saturday morning the phone rang, the caller ID said it is from the rest home. I took a deep breath, rolled my eyes and answered the phone. It was not mother. It was the nurse that cared for her. She had informed me that mother had passed away. Strangely my feelings were a calm mixture. Sadness of course!!! This justified my duty of being a son. But undeniably there was a feeling of uncomfortable relief and freedom. I hardly acknowledged these feelings to myself at all. That would mean that I was an evil bastard.
The final part of this story is in the solicitor’s office for the settling of her will. All of her possessions and money was passed onto me with no attached conditions. As I prepared to sign the piece of paper the solicitor advised me of ONE MORE THING. A REQUEST note from my mother in her own hand writing.
``I request that where my husband and I are buried, that my dear son is also buried there along with us when he passes on. The reason for this is that his wife is so so much younger than him, and I can’t stand the thought of him being alone in the ground for so many years’’.
At the sight of this there was a magic moment. Nothing, NONE of the irritating things that my mother did mattered anymore. I just felt her love. In her final years I limited her contact with me. And a life time of tears were released as I realize now, I will never see her again……………………………….
Note from Yoda: To my dear friends who read this. If you want to, place your own conclusion onto the dotted line and share it with me. This story is an exercise I set for myself because I am still in the process of taming my ego, and wanting to be a person who is less damaging to the people around me. Those who have known me for some years will know what I am talking about. So I wish to share both ways and also receive your conclusion to this story. I was about to give a moral to this story like I do when I tell every other story. But this time, I would like my friends to tell me the moral of the story.
Warm Regards
Hope to hear from you.
Yoda
