Standing in the kitchen the other night, as we wiped down counters and closed up shop for the day, my husband, trying his best to avoid my gaze, casually mentioned that his mom was pushing for a visit before we moved back to the UK. We have been living in Oman for the past five years, and have mercifully avoided her save for one visit over the previous Christmas.
“Um, no.” Came my automatic response.
“C’mon, Ash, why not?” He shot back.
“You know exactly why!” My hands shot in the air in an expression of exasperation. “The last time she was here, our five year old child was saying things that felt as close to suicidal as a five year old can be.”
The rage was boiling out of me at this point.
“This isn’t about us anymore. This is about protecting our kids.” I was nearly shouting now. “What the fuck. No.” I slammed my hand on the counter. “She cannot come.” I stormed out of the kitchen.
I didn’t want to remind him of this incident, but when it comes to his mom, he has near complete amnesia.
When she had visited just four months previously, I had avoided her and her daughters — who function as her emotional proxies and virulent mouthpieces — as completely as possible.
I’ll just give her the time she wants with her precious boy, and away from me, the devil who has ruined her relationship with him. She can be with the grandkids and I can stay out of the picture, I thought.
My technique worked for me, until on the final night, after a row over who was going to pay for her mozzarella sticks, the three of them finally fucked back off to England. In the dark parking lot, as we watched their cab pull away, my five year old turned to me and said, “Mommy, Auntie Ellie told me that I’m a lot cooler than you.” So there it was. The bitchiest flying monkey had been talking shit about me to my daughter the whole week. I knelt down to my daughter, who, at five, still idolizes her dad and me, and was clearly very confused. I knew this comment had hurt her. I had no idea what to say at the time, so just hugged my girl, and shook my head at Sam. I could see the steam coming out of his ears.
When we got home, Harrie had the biggest meltdown I’ve witnessed from her since she was three years old. She screamed at our beloved babysitter that she hated her and wanted to fire her. She stormed off into her bedroom. As I lay down next to her, and stroked her long blonde curls, I asked what was going on.
“I don’t want to be human anymore, Mommy. I want to be buried under the ground.”
I tried to stay calm as I listened, feeling her deep hurt like it was my own. We talked about shame, and how it’s the worst feeling we can have. I told her about times when I felt ashamed and that I was so grateful she told me.
After she fell asleep, I stepped into the dark living room.
“They’re never going to be alone with your mom and sisters again.” I told Sam.
“I know.” He said, with what I thought was conviction at the time.
So how were we here, just four short months later, discussing his mom coming to visit again?
After I had cooled down, I found Sam sitting in his rocking chair on the porch. I could tell in the dim light from the streetlamp that he was holding back tears. At that moment, he looked like a scared 8 year old boy, vulnerable, closed off, trying to stay small.
“I’m so sorry I got angry, Sam. That was the wrong reaction to have. You’re in a really tough place with your mom.”
“Please, just let her come for a few days. Then she will be off my back for awhile.”
“Do you have the days to take off to show her around?” I asked, gently, knowing full well he did not.
“No.”
“Can we please defer this until you’ve spoken to your therapist?”
Reluctantly, he agreed. He had decided he needed to continue with the therapist he had worked with in LA, who had helped him come to the realization that no matter how hard he tried, his mom would never change. He had gained a few words in his vocabulary like “boundaries” and “narcissist” but hadn’t quite gotten to the place where he could understand the damage she was doing to him, and now to our family.
Now that we were moving back to the UK, we were both scared of having her within geographical proximity, something we’d never experienced in our married life. It came to a head when she suggested that she was waiting to hear where we were living so she could move nearby.
Sam had decided he needed his therapist to help tell her that we don’t want her living near us. I understood, because the blow up could be catastrophic for him. She has spent his entire life spewing vitriol, shaming him, guilting him, pouting, shouting, storming off, threatening him, and otherwise abusing him into getting her way.
Unfortunately, that was no longer an option, because I am in the picture now.
Her Again 