Marriage dynamics.
A visit to my parents reveals the good, the bad and the ugly.
I am Thirty-Three years old. I enter my parents’ house with barely saying hello. I unleash my girls on my Mom, instructing her to be the owner of them now; I can’t be bothered any more. “I came here to rest,” I inform her.
My mother is growing old. She is already past menopause, she starts to look her age. Her hair is messed up, dyed in light brownish blond so the gray blends in more evenly. It doesn't suit her, she looked better when she wore dark red or purple, just like me. Her skin glistens from sweat and she is dressed with “house clothes”, unflattering garments that are comfortable, but ugly. I don’t think I’m allowed to judge, I don’t look much better myself, albeit my attempts.
She takes good care of my girls. She plays, she sings, she educates. She is obsessive about educating: making sure they learn how to brush their teeth, wash their hands and face when they wake up, pick up their toys when they are done playing. In her patience to instruct them she is the image of what I would have liked to be able to be but I can’t. Her relentlessness obsessiveness for the rules makes me mad.
It’s summer outside and it’s hot in my parents house. It’s humid and the air feels almost watery but my folks refuse to turn on the air conditioning. “It’s too much of a hassle to shut all the windows and the doors in the house so the air conditioning works well and does not escape,” my father points out with dread. I let him in on a little secret: the air conditioning will work just the same even if the windows remain open. He gasps in disgust; that is a waste of energy. At my parents house, a waste of energy, or food, or anything that can be monetized, is worse than a catholic priest preaching for blasphemy.
My parents don’t mind the heat. They turn on the fan on full power. Its motor makes a buzzing noise, tsssrrrr, tssssrrrrr, tssssssssssssssrrrrrrrrrr. The circulation of air is blessed, but the noise bothers me, I feel it growing hands and pulling at my inner being, as if it can just dive into my skin, past it, to my internals. I want to shut the fan off so the noise stops, I need silence, but I can’t, I will be scorched in the heat if I do, burnt to ashes. I’m already boiling from within and from without. I grit my teeth in silence.
My girls are being potty trained. Actually, only Emma is, Elizabeth is already practiced, but she is in for the ride. My Mom promises a sticker to whomever uses the toilet and succeeds in peeing. If you poop in the toilet, she tells them, you’ll get a big special surprise. Emma wants the surprise but is too afraid to poop. She is holding it in, and every once in a while a smelly fart escapes her and sends us all scouring her underwear. Did you poop in your underwear? I boom at her without being able to hide the alarm in my voice. She doesn't. I monitor her tush frantically, I can’t stand the thought of shit smeared everywhere. I don’t like to potty train. I managed to make peace with the diapers, the snot, the messy eating, but I can’t rid the anxiety I have over potty training.
The jitters over potty training makes me even more torrid. My skin feels sticky with sweat. I want to go back to our home where I can turn on the air conditioning and the only obstacle in my way would be the subsequent fight with my husband over the temperature. I want it colder around the house, he roams around shirtless and is aghast when I attempt to lower the temperature. “You’re out of your mind,” he complains, “it’s freezing in here.”
I need to relax. Like a cigarettes addict I fantasize over my cup of coffee. If I could just have that and some peace and quiet I might be able to unwind. But the coffee, I like it scalding, I will only get hotter when I drink it. Feeling sorry for myself I stay seated. My girls are running around me incessantly. “Mommy will take me to the bathroom”, one cries out, “Read me a story, Mommy”, the other one appears on that exact moment, “Mommy, I want to sit in your lap”, they both start fighting over who will get to cuddle with me. I imagine myself smacking their little monster face and hollering at them to just leave me alone. Then I feel guilty for thinking horrendous thoughts. I am a horrible mother. I try to appraise my girls. They have curls, one is blond the other one a brunette and they have a lot of demands. I am awed at their endless passions. I miss having a passion, not just for someone, but for something.
My husband goes in the other room. He has dark skin and a scowl on his face. He mumbled a faint hello without smiling when we came in and disappeared to work on his laptop which he has brought with him. My mother complains many times that she doesn't feel comfortable with him. She can’t help it, criticism has always been her strong trait. I tell her he is who he is and that is my husband. “We can stop coming if he makes you uncomfortable,” I offer. She withdraws her criticism almost immediately; she wants to see her grand-daughters.
My Mom offers to take the girls outside. They start jumping and running around the house like little puppies, overthrown with joy. At last, outside. I have to prepare them for the journey. First we pee, then we put on some pants, then we put on our shoes. It takes half an hour, two tantrums and a bucket of sweat on my face but at last I manage to get them out of the door. When I say goodbye to them at the door I catch my face in the mirror, bloated, hair disheveled, pinkish and sweaty. It makes me want to throw up; I mentally push all the self-disgust deep down. I memorize an old saying, this is what I have and with this I’ll win. I’m not sure what the battle is, though.
The minute my Mom and the girls leave I feel like a heavy load is taken off of me, similar to when a lot of air is released from a huge balloon. I recognize the feeling, exactly how I felt when the doctors pulled my girls out of my giant belly during my C-Section. I escape to my old bedroom, close the door and turn on the air conditioning. I am hoping my anger will slowly dissolve when the temperature lowers. I splurge on the bed and wait, it starts to feel cooler in the room but I have not yet relaxed. I get up and go wash my face, comb my hair, put a little make up on. I look in the mirror again, I’m less pinkish, still very much bloated but not sweaty any more. Progress.
I am hungry. I ask my husband if he would like to eat. He’s not hungry. I go into the kitchen to rummage the fridge, my Dad follows me. I take out cheese and some cold pasta. My Dad takes out the bread. We sit at the table and eat in silence, chewing on the cold food. My Dad finishes eating before me. He puts his plate in the sink, leaving me sitting there still eating. He retreats to lie down in his room. I finish my bite and get up to take a cake I spotted earlier out from the fridge. I cut small slices from the edges next to the pan, licking the icing at the top and throwing away the rest. Old instincts rebel inside me, I should eat the parts I don’t like to hid the evidence better. My Mom will see the thrown bits in the bin, she will know I’ve eaten from the cake even though it’s the last-thing-I-need as she so often reminds me. I take my chances; I’m too old for this shit.
Half an hour after I’m done eating my husband appears before me. “I’m starving,” he lets me know. I offer to prepare food for him, he refuses, then he succumbs. He will not have time to go out by himself to eat somewhere; besides there is not a single decent cafe in this area. I prepare him a plate with bread, Tahini and some buckwheat I found in the fridge, probably a dish my Mom cooked for my Dad. The buckwheat is revolting, there is no salt or any seasoning, but my husband won’t let me season it. I can already imagine him complaining afterwards that he has nothing to eat at my parents house; it makes me mad. I sit next to him while he eats, he asks me why am I sitting with him, I decipher the hint and get up and leave. We have exchanged approximately Twenty words today, in sum. There are times when I despise my husband more than anything else: for everything he is and for everything he isn’t.
I spend my free time until my girls get back reviewing my Facebook feed for the millionth time today. There is nothing interesting to read, but I have no patience for anything else. I have no interests these days, I have no goal. I scroll and scroll and scroll endlessly till my mind turns completely blank, swamped with viral headlines from social media. Occasionally I peek at the clock, a mental countdown in my head until the toddler delegation returns.
My phone rings. My Mom and the girls are on the way back. Are you staying for later, my Mom asks, I tell her we’re not. “The visit has ended, girls,” I declare. My girls put their pacifiers in their mouth and follow my husband outside obediently. On the way out I remind myself to say Thank You to my Mom; she deserves it. She hopes I managed to get some rest, I assure her I did even though I didn't. She doesn't know one bit what is going on in my mind. Even if she did, she wouldn't understand, she would just prod me senselessly, so I remain silent, with her, and with my husband.
We drive quietly back home.
