Mothers. Is there any woman on earth who doesn’t have an issue, of some kind, with their mom?
I know that I do. Yet, to blog about my main issue with my mom is rather disingenuous. Since it is such a big issue, it can easily overshadow all the otherwise good mothering that has occurred. This strikes me as unfair. I am now called upon to find a metaphor to describe my relationship with my mom. Sadly, this is a metaphor involving poo. So feel free to run away now.
My relationship with my Mom is like a punchbowl filled with really good punch, and also … some poo. After years of strife, the poo has settled to the bottom of the bowl. If you don’t stir it, you can easily get punch that doesn’t have any recognizable poo. Sure, it’s there, but you can’t really taste it or see it, so it’s easy to ignore. The punch in and of itself is yummy, after all. 90% of what’s in the punchbowl is wonderful, so I would kind of be a twerp if all I did was whine about the 10% poo. This punch is not for everyone, obviously. You have to grow up drinking the punch, and have reconciled yourself to the fact that in order to get the punch, you must accept that there is the possibility of poo in your cup. It would doubtless gross other people out, but they don’t understand the quality of the punch. The punch is good enough that it inspires a person keep drinking it, even if there is poo in there too. And it helps that my Mom understands that if she stirs the punch to get a reaction from me, then she will be truly sorry when I find poo in my cup, because I will unleash my inner hell-beast and that thing can rip hide off your ass faster than a school of piranhas.
Sure, that’s a gross and disgusting metaphor, but it’s the only one that seems to really fit.
My mom’s wishes that I bring my children to the family reunion, knowing that there would be child molesters there, stirred the poo. I (metaphorically) smacked her in the face with the punch ladle. She quit stirring. The poo has settled back down to the bottom, and we can both enjoy some more punch.
The main difference between my outlook on our mother-daughter relationship and how Mom sees it is that I know there is poo in the punch, and drink it anyway because it is some awesome punch. My poor Mom just wants us to pretend there is no poo at all. My refusal to pretend … well, it’s hard on her from an emotional perspective. So I am not the only one who hurts when the stirring happens.
Will my relationship with Lilo, Stitch and Spock be this complex? Will they consider my punch to be worth drinking? What if there’s no poo, but the punch is just crappy and mostly yucky sherbet residue?
I’m gonna go give them lots of hugs and kisses. Because I need to work on my punch recipe. Just in case.
There could not possibly be any poo in your mothering punch. Speckles of golden glitter, yes. Poo, no.
We all have issues with our mothers, but maybe those issues help us be better moms to our kids. Maybe our grandkids’ punch will just be 100% fruit juice.
From your lips to God’s ear!
Yu’re the mom now. And you’re doing a great job.
I hope so, but I won’t know for sure until they’re older!
A friend of mine who had a horrific childhood used to say that at least we could learn to be better parents from our experiences. I am sure that there is absolutely no poo in the Fokker-mom punch
Sure, some days it’s gonna be lemon when you were in the mood for raspberry, but that happens to everyone.
And the poo in punch metaphor? Brilliant. I’ve been struggling with my father lately, and you put into words the concept I have been struggling to grasp. I’m almost to the point where I do not care how good the punch is, I definitely don’t want to deal with the poo anymore.
And I am super excited that you are planning on going to the Cincinnati signing, and I will hopefully get to meet you!
Now you have an exit line if you need to take a break form your father. “The punch isn’t worth right now. Call me when you get some of the shit out of it.” Of course, he’ll have no idea what you are talking about, but that’s not your problem. It’s his fault for not reading The Fokker.
I am sure there will be some poo in the punch, at some point. There is no way I won’t screw at least something up. It may be the years of thearpy if they ever find this blog as adolescents. The Kinky Starfish alone would be serious poo in their punch, from their point of view!
I am looking forward to meeting you too! Seriously, I’m wearing a tiara fro identification purposes. Because, in my mind, I am Queen of Everything. See you there!
Thank you, thank you O Queen Fokker of Everything! Just when I feel no one sees the world like me and I am alone in my frank but useful clarity I come across something like this that. Just. Gets. Me! The quality of my own punch has deteriorated over the years and I have always had to fend off inquiries asking why I still drink it. I can’t explain this any clearer than you have. Also, I think the punch is rather addictive. So while it may be time to lay off the punch for awhile I’ll just be a dry drunk cause later the punch will sparkle with delicious color and I’ll be tempted once again to use a shallow ladle to avoid the poo.
From one Queen to another…Don’t worry. Your punch (like mine when the time comes) will show that it only has bits of soggy inedible mushy fruit in the bottom. No therapy necessary.
I understand. I do. I hope you are able to skim off some poo-less punch! And I hope with all my heart my daughters all find nothing worse than mushy fruit in their punch when the time comes. Or I at least get the chance to try to scoop some of the poo out for them.
I’m glad you posted ths cuz I coudn’t really comment on your last post, being of the “I’d rather be stabbed with bread knives covered in lemon juice than have children” school of thought (and I hate non-momies who try to tell mommies how to do their jobs).
I have a similar relationship with my mother, except that the ratios are pretty much the complete reverse of yours and I am finding it ever-more difficult to sift through the poo to find the droplets of punch.
Droplets which were neither refreshing nor blueberry flavoured (my favourite) so not really worth searching for at all.
Yet I continue to sift and to search for them, not because I want a relationship, but because I believe firmly that if I didn’t she would end up old and alone and then I would feel horribly guilty and like the poo-y one for leaving my mother to rot in the pit of loneliness and dispair that she deserves.
Not that I’m bitter or anything.
Anyway, I commend your punch-making focus and suspect that eventually your daughters will too.
I also must commend you on this metaphor, which works alarmingly well.
Hrm.
- B x
I’m sorry you are getting more poo than anything tasty. I’ve friends with moms like that and, as much as I want to scream, “for the Love of God put down your ladle and walk away!” I don’t because I know it’s not that easy. I hope that the knowledge you are being a good person for helping your mom at least tastes somewhat like punch. To get the taste out of your mouth if nothing else.
Isn’t that everyone’s relationship with their mothers?
I have my suspicions that it is …
Awesome metaphor, Fokker! But then, as the love of my life, you are awesome at everything! Wish I could see you in your tiara.
I don’t think there is much poo in my mother’s punch. Or my punch. The punch. Anyway, I think that there is definitely some nasty-tasting stuff floating here and there in it, most of which is invisible so I don’t see it’s there until I spoon it up. There are some sparkles, too, because my mother is occasionally sparkly. I think my mother’s punch is warm apple cider.
Of course Fokker’s punch will be very sparkly. Fokker: I see you as a grown-up Fancy Nancy (do you read those books to your girls?).
I am really glad you have poo-less punch in the mother-daughter punch bowl. It can’t be tasty all the time, but at least no poo! And now I want cider.
I haven’t read the books … what are they? I am always looking for new books for the Fokkerlings.
Ask your library or book store for Fancy Nancy books. They are picture books and the first one is named Fancy Nancy. It’s a little girl who believes life is better if lived while wearing a tiara, feather boa, and sparkly things. She spends the first one teaching this philosophy to her rather normal family. They are excellent. The children’s librarian here at the coast introduced me to them several years ago. They are perfect for you and, thus, the Fokkerlings.
Fancy Nancy, Fancy Nancy and the Posh Puppy, Fancy Nancy’s favorite fancy words, and a whole bunch of i-can-read level 2 books featuring the characters. The Boy from Paris is good and I’ve just ordered the Spectacular Spectacles cause I have a girly girl in class who doesn’t like her glasses.
I actually like poo-in-the-punch metaphor better than the watery diarrhea one from yesterday.
I have nothing else to say. Except pooooooop. Poooooooop.
Diarrhea is a gross word, but child molesters are even grosser, so I went with it.
I’m 53 and my daughters are in their 30′s. I think that the punch I serve up for them is probably about 20% poo. Considering the punch my mom serves me is about 60% poo, I have at least improved the situation.
Sorry I won’t see you in Cinci. Can’t wait to see Jenny in Lexington. I hope someone takes a pic of all the cherry/betties with Jenny and Lucy and posts it.
I’m trying really hard to get a really low poo/punch ratio. But I won’t know how I did until they are much older. And I’m not going to count the teen years because teenagers are poo-flinging monkeys. I remember me as a teen. Urgh.
Ugh. Sorry Fokker. The metaphor works great, but if this is the case, There Is No Good Punch. Even the good punch is poisoned with microscopic bits of poo, microbes and other evil beasties. Even if you are skimming off the good punch, you are still worried about poo — and it is still there.
I do have a relative which this works for. And, yes, it totally poisoned the whole punch until I couldn’t bear to drink anymore.
OTOH, my mom is good. And doesn’t know there was poo in the punch.
At any rate, to introduce an unoriginal metaphor, stand your ground. Tell your mom you aren’t exposing your kids to known sexual criminals. And don’t. She’d better get on your team pretty fast, I’m thinking. Maybe it’d help if everyone stopped protecting the molestor.
Sorry, don’t mean to be so . . . whatever I’m being. In my case, it was easy, because the molestor also physically abused me, and I was able to share a few of those stories as an “excuse” not to be in the same room alone with him. And to keep him away from my kids. But it still took until he threatened to kick my baby before I actually stood my ground. Before, I just watched him like a hawk, and it was very exhausting.
I hope it works out OK for you.
Kick? Your Baby? WTF?? EVIL EVIL EVIL
Here’s a virtual hug the size of Illinois, Micki {{hug}}. You poor darling. I’m so glad you protect yourself and your children from this creature.
No one should ever need an “excuse” to stay away from someone who makes them uncomfortable, much less someone cruel and violent.
Even the words “kick” and “baby” in the same sentence made me long to beat him pulpy. He is evil. You are good. Add my validation to LitDiva’s hugs!
There are always the microscopic flecks, but the punch is worth it. In all other areas, she’s a wonderful mom. Just so deep in denial about “family” it’s almost surreal. I am standing firm, and I am sorry you had to build a fortress and raise an army to finally get your safety. As for the monster that hurt you and then threatened to kick your baby … there are several poo metaphors I could use just for him. And also a shotgun to the face.
There’s no mitigating the evil: the baby was four or five at the time, and “disobeyed” by going to the door to see the wild kitties after he said not to. He didn’t do anything, but I was very frightened. He disparaged my parenting style, and we didn’t see each other for three years, and that time it was on my terms (not at the house, in public). And then seven months later he died.
Which was a huge relief. I didn’t have to deal with it.
But . . . I realize there’s a huge dance going on in this situation, and people are trying to protect this evil monster who put the poo in the punch bowl. Part of me howls, “Who (what?) are you trying to protect?” But another part of me did this same dance . . . my sister and I couldn’t out him to the family, we had to protect him because . . . god, I don’t know why.
I wish I could help. I can only think of two reasons why your mom would not support you. Maybe she doesn’t know the details (explicitly: Mom, he asked me to hold his penis and then he . . . .etc.) and thinks the poo is just a nutmeg floating in the punch. Or, maybe she’s had a similar experience, and for some reason thinks because she learned how to drink the punch, you need to suck it down, too.
My main regret is that by not speaking up, other little girls may have been molested.
goddamn, it’s a hard, hard issue, and I send my best wishes and a hope for a wonderful inspired solution to your problem . . . .
Also, sorry to hear you were ill on top of all this. Hope you are feeling better now.
Thank you for this. I’ve been trying for years to explain to Tall One why I put up with my mom’s poo. This may help enlighten him some.
If the punch is worth it, you learn to live with the poo.
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