Fifty Things That Aren't My Fault

by Cathy Guisewite

  More sounds from the living room. More sounds back from me: “I’m serious! Stop whatever you’re doing in there! Focus on your wretched TV show!”

  I pick a princess up off the floor and wrap her in a long yellow gown with glittery butterflies on the skirt. I can barely remember what I did yesterday, but I remember that this gown from years ago came with matching long yellow gloves and teensy silver plastic stilettos with an even teensier butterfly on the toes. I dig through the pile of clothes, determined to put the outfit in order.

  It isn’t only relationships. Everything’s more complicated for my daughter’s generation. Hanging on to career passion when it’s so hard to find a job . . . Feeling that one person’s voice can’t possibly matter when so many voices together haven’t made a difference . . . Knowing who and what to trust . . . Staying connected to humans when so much of life is online . . . Feeling safe when the whole planet feels so fragile . . .

  I worry that the bright, blazing possibilities of my generation don’t seem possible at all to a lot of young women today. I hear my own daughter say things no women were saying when I was her age. Things like “Nothing’s ever going to change . . . Nothing I do would make a difference.”

  I never imagined I’d think what I think a lot of the time now, which is that I don’t really know how to prepare my own daughter for womanhood in this world.

  The sounds have stopped completely in the living room. It’s way too quiet in there. I look down at everything that came out of the Barbie boxes on the floor in front of me. The sparkly pink uncomplicated jumble of what was. There’s no going back, I know that . . . but I wish I were a little more confident about how things would go forward. I’m feeling more than a little powerless when . . .

  My daughter’s suddenly back in the room, standing in front of me.

  “Here, Mom,” she says, pulling something from behind her back and handing it to me, with a compassionate grin and smiling eyes. “I keep him buried in the back of the top shelf of my closet. So I always know where he is.”

  Same oblivious surfer dude grin. Same blond hair still frozen in place. That overconfident, undeserving, nonthreatening Romeo. That oh-so-welcome unlikely touchstone of innocence. My heart skips a little beat.

  “Also, don’t worry, Mom,” my daughter says, pointing toward the living room, “we’re in there laughing about what losers the kids are on that show. I’m not going to turn into one of them! And the guy who’s with me . . .”—she rolls her eyes and shakes her head—“believe me, Mom, nothing to worry about with him, either.” With that, she leans down toward me and taunts my motherly fears with a big grin of her own and “Not THAT guy, anyway!”

  She leaves me with another comforting pat on the head and something even sweeter—a hint of reassurance that she’s able to handle things better than I think. I’m heartened by her self-awareness and sense of humor. Maybe along with all the new things coming at her from the outside that I can’t control, she has coping skills on the inside that I actually planted. Maybe I put enough in there to help keep her grounded in who she is, no matter what the world brings. I touch my hand to my head where she patted it. Maybe she even wants to take care of me a little, just like I want to take care of her.

  I hear her get resettled on the couch with her guy. I gaze at the guy she brought to me from the shelf in her room, and have my second beautiful moment of zero inner conflict for the day: This feminist Barbie Mom doesn’t care one speck how happy it makes me to be reunited with Ken.

  FIVE WAY BETTER THAN ALL THE OTHER REASONS I DIDN’T EXERCISE TODAY

  I don’t want to get all muscly.

  I don’t want to get all sweaty.

  My sunscreen is too sticky.

  My earbuds are tangled up.

  I’ve exhausted myself thinking up excuses.

  45.

  MEDITATIONS ON A SWEAT SOCK

  Some sit quietly, listening to the healing tones of the Native American flute. Some meditate to recordings of shorebirds or mountain streams. Eyes closed. Body still. A gentle transport to that beautiful place of serenity from which to gather strength and inspiration for the day.

  I sit in front of my sock drawer. I organized the drawer four days ago and it brings me instant peace. One organized drawer in a house full of drawers and closets, in a lifetime of Things to Go Through. It fills me with hope. I come back to it several times a day. All I have to do is pull the drawer open and peek in at my perfectly lined-up socks to feel restored.

  It wasn’t easy in the beginning. My dog associates the opening of the sock drawer with the possibility that I’m going to put on socks to go for a walk, and he went berserk the first nine times I came in here to be re-inspired. His frantic, hopeful barking, leaping, and clawing at my leg interrupted my journey to stillness. The disbelief in his eyes when he saw me bring a chair into the room, sit in front of the open drawer, and look at the socks instead of putting any on made me question my path. The way he slumped to the floor when he realized there was no possibility of a walk and stared up at me with those pitiful sad eyes, boring guilt into my soul, made me want to give up.

  But not succumbing to outside pressure is part of the journey to inner peace. I’ve glanced at enough mindfulness-seeking links on my Google search for Purpose and Meaning to know that. My personal quest is to own the concept that I can’t fix every single thing for every single person. I’m never going to make everyone happy. If I can rally past the guilt of disappointed dog eyes, I know I can learn to say NO! to the rest of the universe.

  I’m emboldened by my progress. This morning I used some of the new clarity of mind provided by my nice neat sock drawer to present my dog with a choice: did he want to continue staring at me or did he want to chew on a big smelly bone in the other room? He chose the bone.

  Surely anything is possible for me now.

  46.

  MOTHER’S SOUP

  There couldn’t possibly be more love packed into this little kitchen. My mom, my daughter, and me. Three generations of women, deeply devoted to one another. Mom is gentle and joyful. She was never overbearing, but she’s even more serene now, grateful for each day and the people she loves. I’m more gentle and joyful, too. I quit panicking that I was going to turn into Mom long ago when it became clear I already was her. My only worry now is that during all the years I was so resistant to being like her, I blocked a lot of the goodness I could have inherited. As for my daughter, she has one foot in childhood and one in adulthood, and is standing right on that sweet spot in which she mostly needs to be hugged more than she needs to be belligerent. Today we are all best friends.

  The kitchen is a special place for everyone in the family, but when it’s just the three of us in here, as it is today, it’s something more. Something happens. As soon as we get out the pots and pans, as soon as we begin the ancient, honored ritual of making food, all our love and devotion spirals into that other ancient, honored ritual of loving mothers and devoted daughters: We drive each other crazy.

  It’s all so beautiful when Mom, my daughter, and I sit and talk in the kitchen, sharing plans and stories. It’s only when we try to cook in the kitchen that trouble happens. Women of our family should never, ever cook in anyone’s kitchen. Not together. Not ever. Especially not this one, the kitchen of kitchens: Mother’s Kitchen.

  Every single fork, saltshaker, potholder, cutting board, glass, measuring spoon, bowl, pan—everything has an exact place from which it must be picked up and to which it must be returned. It isn’t bossiness—just Mom’s sweet, maternal belief that everything has its own little home and should be tucked back into it when it’s finished doing its job. Everything also has its own purpose. This knife cuts tomatoes; this one is for bread; this plate is where chopped things go, on this side of the stove; this is the burner that has to be used with that pan. An orderly one-woman monarchy with systems carefully streamli
ned and perfected over decades to better serve her people. Everything is always just where it should be, including my beautiful mom, whom my daughter and I found standing in her welcoming position a few minutes ago—the Queen right in the middle of her Queendom, arms open wide, lovingly, magnanimously, inviting us in to make the great big mess that will make her insane.

  Although . . .

  The Queen is beginning this day a little bit on edge because the whole family’s in town for a visit this week, and her refrigerator looks as if it’s been invaded by aliens. The family currently includes two vegetarians, two carnivarians, a pescatarian, a few flexitarians, two gluten-free people, one low-carb and one orthodox vegan, who won’t allow a broccoli floret to be steamed in the same zip code as a hot dog. Before we came, we all emailed Mom our requirements for our morning coffee: whole milk, fat-free milk, lactose-free milk, soy milk, rice-almond milk blend, and non-dairy hazelnut creamer.

  I’m a little on edge today because I adore my mom and am supersensitive to how taken advantage of she must feel by all the self-centered, picky members of my family whose obsessive food requirements took over her refrigerator. However, I’m the one who needs whole milk in my coffee, and I’m peeved that Mom either forgot the instructions in my email or simply ran out of room in the refrigerator for me. Coffee with fat-free milk throws my whole system off for the entire day.

  My daughter’s a little on edge because she’s nineteen, and that sweet spot on which she’s standing can also feel like a suffocating spot into which she’s stuffed. Especially in the morning, especially when I make her get up before 10:30 a.m. on her vacation.

  Three generations on edge. So many reasons not to suggest what I’m about to suggest.

  But I am my mother’s daughter. I have optimism wrapped around my DNA like a strand of Christmas lights. Surely our love for one another can see us through one happy cooking experience together. Surely my fear that I’m running out of chances to ask Mom things I’ll wish I’d asked, the reality that this could be the last time we’re ever in her kitchen together . . . Surely I can smile and say thank you instead of getting irritated when Mom tells me I’m slicing celery the wrong way.

  Surely the understanding that my adopted daughter is at a time in her life when she’s struggling to know who she is and needs all the happy family memories I can provide to help make up for all the blanks in her family tree . . . Surely that will inspire me not to attack her for the sloppy way she peels a carrot.

  Surely the years and years I spent writing about the beautiful, profound, and tangled relationships between mothers and daughters—literally drawing the mom who’s standing in front of me right now as my role model of unfailing forgiveness, love, and good humor . . . Surely some of that will guide me today, in my dual mom-daughter roles, to react with patience and appreciation, and not do what I usually do.

  I move between my familial bookends, put an arm around each of them. I am ready to be the loving mother and daughter I know I can be. Ready to embrace this morning of possibility and make it as meaningful as possible for all of us. “Mom,” I say, full of emotion, “I’m so happy to have the three of us here together. I would love it if you would spend this special morning teaching your granddaughter and me how to make your amazing chicken soup.”

  Mom looks at me and smiles.

  My daughter looks at me and doesn’t smile.

  “I’M NOT EATING SOUP IF IT’S MADE FROM A CHICKEN THAT’S BEEN IN GRANDMA’S REFRIGERATOR FOR A MONTH!” she announces.

  And we’re off.

  Mom quits smiling, clearly sensing I’ve shared some of my concerns about her disregard of expiration dates.

  “We have a new chicken!” I hiss to my loudmouthed child. “I bought it yesterday!”

  “Why would you buy a new chicken??” Mom asks sharply. “I have a perfectly good chicken in the freezer!”

  “I thought we should start with a nice fresh one! One we wouldn’t have to take time to unthaw!” I answer as brightly as possible, not mentioning that we also wouldn’t have to take time for any hospital runs, since her chicken’s been in the freezer since 2011.

  “I thought you didn’t eat chicken anymore. Half the family won’t eat chicken!” Mom states.

  “I will eat your chicken soup, Mom!” I say, giving her a hug, trying to salvage the moment. “I’ve tried to make it so many times, but your chicken soup doesn’t taste like your chicken soup when I make it. I want us to watch, to work by your side, to learn every step from you!”

  I reach into the cupboard and pull out a big pot.

  “Not that pot!” Mom declares. She gets on the floor, pulls out half the contents of the cupboard, and retrieves a bigger pot from the back. “This is the pot the soup goes in!”

  I feel the first little twinge of annoyance from being corrected before we even start. Mom hands the pot to my daughter and asks her to fill it with water.

  “Where’s your water?” my Los Angeles born and raised daughter asks.

  “The sink!” Mom points to the sink, showing more early signs of exasperation. “The water comes out of the faucet in the sink!”

  My daughter shoots me a look.

  “The sink,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “Use sink water!”

  “But, Mom, you said the contaminants in tap water can . . .” she starts.

  My child only repeats my wisdom when it will get me in trouble. I divert attention by getting out ingredients I know go in the soup—carrots, onions, and celery—and cheerfully ask, “Where do you keep your vegetable wash, Mom?”

  Mom looks at me with lowered eyelids. “My vegetable wash is the water that is currently coming out of the faucet which your daughter is now putting into the pot,” she answers curtly.

  I can’t stop myself. “But water alone can’t get rid of pesticide residue, airborne toxins, and microbial—”

  “If you already know everything, why did you ask me to teach you how to make soup??” Mom interrupts, her eyes now in a full stern squint. With that, she turns, gets the fresh chicken I bought from the refrigerator, and hands it to my daughter, saying, “Here, honey. You need to remove the chicken from the plastic and rinse it under the faucet, making sure to stick your hand inside the cavity and remove the little pouch of organs and neck bones.”

  “I’M NOT STICKING MY HAND INSIDE ANY CAVITIES ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND GRANDMA AND ALSO I AM NEVER TOUCHING ANY ORGANS OR NECKS! EVER!” my little city girl shrieks.

  “Maybe you should show us how to rinse the chicken this one time, Mom,” I offer.

  The chicken finally makes it into the pot. Mom tosses in seasonings while I try to calculate how much flies from her hand into the water.

  “How much was that, Mom?”

  “I don’t know. Just toss in what it needs.”

  “How do we know how much what it needs?”

  “You just know!”

  I move on to something measurable, like how many wrong things I can do while I try to cut up the vegetables.

  “No! This is the knife for onions,” Mom says, correcting me.

  “No! This is the plate for the pieces.” Mom corrects me again.

  “No! The plate should be on this side of the stove . . .”

  I turn it on my daughter.

  “No! This is the way to peel a carrot!” I snap at her.

  “No! This is how big to make the pieces!” I snap again.

  “No! The scraps should go there! . . . ”

  Before long, every helpful suggestion is taken as a judgment. Every comment received as a critique. The daughters get defensive, the moms get frustrated. Perceived disapproval turns into real disapproval. Within minutes the three of us put salmonella to shame in terms of how quickly and completely we’re poisoning the happy, healthy attitude that used to be in the room.

  “Why are you getting snippy? I’m just trying to help!�
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  “Why are you attacking everything I do?”

  “What attack? I just mentioned you should use the cutting board, not the counter!”

  “Exactly!”

  Before long, Mom doesn’t need to correct, I don’t need to snap, and my daughter doesn’t need to grumble. It’s all done with a glance, a gesture, a sigh. The secret sign language of women—so powerful when we’re not directing it at one another, so devastating when we are. In minutes we’ve gone from being glad to be together to silent irritations flying around the room like Mom’s seasonings. No calculations necessary. No need to taste the pot. It was way too much before anyone started. Even completely silent. Everything that isn’t being said sounds like “The way you’re doing it is wrong.”

  “What, Mom?? What now??”

  “I didn’t say anything!”

  “You thought it. I heard you think it!”

  With mothers and daughters, what’s going on in the room is never simply what’s going on in the room. One word can call up a whole history of grievances—an incident from childhood, unspoken slights, ancient aggravations. Decades of motherly guidance that got translated by the daughter brain as criticism and rejection. I’m not good enough, I’ll never be good enough. One sigh can summon up all the old baggage. Even in my happy family, and I didn’t even think we had baggage. But one look from Mom, no matter how 100 percent devoted she’s been my whole life, registers as some kind of scolding. For some reason, it’s always worse in the kitchen when we’re cooking. Is it being near food that brings out so much tension? Because the umbilical cord is located so close to the stomach? All I know is, when my mother flips on the under-cabinet light a little too abruptly, as she just did so I can see what I’m chopping, I feel attacked.