I entered my parents’ hotel room to much ruckus. Dad was sitting on Mom’s side of the bed in his street clothes. Mom was yelling from underneath the covers something to the effect that he was dirty and needed to change OR ELSE we weren’t going out for dinner. Typical scene, I thought, in that Mom was quibbling. Atypical in that Dad was practically lying on her, giggling, and trying to get her goat.
The next day, Dad was in a coma. That hotel room scene kept playing in Mom’s head. “We were quarreling,” she kept saying.
Last week, on what would have been their 55th wedding anniversary, she remembered their squabbles. “You know, I was constantly picking fights, but he rarely fought back. He just ignored me. It actually was no fun.” She laughed. “I regret fighting him so much.”
“That was how you loved him, Mom. And he knew that.”
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Because of the kind of person Dad was (a childlike genius of a lovable man, but childlike nonetheless), Mom had to take charge of things that Dad refused to care about.
Because Dad had zero vanity, Mom had to be vain for him — a tough job for the wife of a public servant (operative word: public). She had to run after him about shaving, following dress codes, wiping sauce off his mouth. Because Dad had zero interest in being healthy, Mom had to be the health police — supervising his intake at parties, making sure he took his medicines, coaxing him onto a treadmill. The list of Mom’s responsibilities went on.
Dad usually offered some resistance — a shout here, a whine there — but he always eventually caved. As long as she didn’t meddle in the things he cared about (his work, his projects), he would acquiesce.
Like opposite poles of magnets that pull together, Mom had to close the gap between them. To take care of him, she encroached and latched on, not necessarily in a tender embrace, but in a martial arts clinch. Mom taught us to do the same. At parties, she’d beckon and say, “Your Dad is on his 5th glass of wine. Go.” And like little rottweilers, we’d go and take the glass from his hands. “Your Dad has been in front of the TV for hours,” and we’d pull him off the couch and drop weights in his hands.
When we would switch allegiances (as we’d often do) and say, “Mom, just let him have his beer”, she’d snap, “You see? You don’t love him. You don’t care if he gets sick.”
It was clear: to think for him, to worry for him, to overwhelm him — that was how she had to love Dad.
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A few Christmases ago, my whole family descended upon Madrid for the holidays. My partner, J, and I stayed in the hotel with them for 2 weeks. On Christmas Day, as we were getting ready to head back to the hotel after a lunch in J’s suburban home, J said he would stay to hang out with his nephews. He’d see us tomorrow.
At breakfast the next day, my Mom said “You know, Ani, I was thinking . . .you did the right thing. You gave J his space.
It’s important that you give him freedom to do his thing while you do yours. Since you’re both well-baked in your own ways. Over-baked, in fact.”
“Although,“ she continued, “if your Dad tried that on me, I would say over my dead body.“
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My sisters and I often talk about this expression of love we’ve inherited — how we think it perfectly normal to be in our partners’ faces. How there is something comforting and secure about not having to ask permission to meddle. How love can be expressed as barging in and taking charge. And why on earth our partners, unlike Dad, just don’t get it?
The other day, J gestured, “You have something in your hair. Do you mind if I pick it out?” I rolled my eyes, “duh”.
If he had mayo on his nose, I’d swipe it off without a second thought.
When he isn’t a fan of what I’m wearing, he says, “It’s not my style. But you still look beautiful, so you do you.”
If I don’t like his outfit, I shriek NOOOO. NO. NO. NO, then take a picture and get my family to back me up.
When I ask him to wake me up, he tiptoes into the room, barely strokes my arm, then whispers apologies for having to wake me.
I wake him up with a marching band.
These differences have caused friction. I’ve had to adapt.
When he says he wants to spend Christmas with his family, I hold back on my instinct to remind him that my family is here for only 2 weeks. Instead, I recognize the loyalty he has for his family that I have for mine. When he holes up in the basement for hours to build a shelf, I resist the urge to pull him out and demand that we spend time together. Instead, I recognize the need for uninterrupted creative flow that I crave for myself.
And as with two magnets of similar poles, I push away — not in repulsion, but in respect for his personal space. I am learning that in this particular relationship, the strongest expression of love may be biting my tongue bloody.
