It’s So My Mom.

Image by vectorlyme via Flickr

In doing research for my upcoming book on women becoming their mothers, I’ve come across a dilemma.

Some of our turning into our mothers is nature, some is nurture. But how much is scapegoating?

I ask this because a lot of the traits that we criticize as coming from our moms are things that are, for lack of a better term, “bad.” I can relate to this: I think my own obsessive compulsions–which have manifested in everything from my weight to preoccupying myself with my boyfriend’s masturbation schedule–stem from my mother’s OCD (hers manifested in the myriad rules and regulations surrounding her home, children and husband).

But then, I could also say it’s just me: I have a history of fixations and phobias that extend back to grade school. So am I turning into my mom, or just blaming her?

This observation is echoed in another girl I interviewed, who said she was amazed that she condemned her 16-year-old stepdaughter’s scant clothing as “inappropriate,” a word her mother would have used, though the 30-year-old, tattooed mother of 2 led a wild life and certainly doesn’t think of herself as uptight.

On further reflection, she thinks this reaction might actually have to do with her own sexual abuse. When she was 14, her 50-something uncle molested her. So, she reasons, is she just afraid that she’ll lose her older husband to her stepdaughter’s friends? Or just passing on the judgement her mother subliminally passed down to her?

Can you relate to this? Is there an element of blame or escapism here? How can we tell the difference? I can’t decide for myself.

We had just finished a blissful morning of living in sin when I logged onto gmail to find the boyfriend’s disturbing chat message, which always tends to be more emotive than the man himself.

This time it was a morose excerpt from John Mayer’s “Say”: “Fightin’ with the shadows in your head.”

What I said in my blog chat:

Me:  Oh no
Are you sad?
Sent at 7:40 AM on Thursday

What I wanted to say:

Oh God, oh no … you’re sad. Is it me? Do you feel smothered? Want me to move out? You’re in love with your lesbian girlfriend, aren’t you? You only typed a freakin’ novel to her the other night … you never type that fast to me!

I’m not sure where I got the incessant need to double-check my loved ones’ nuances. I’m pretty sure it’s a mutation of my mother’s obsessive compulsiveness, which is manifested these days in things like lording over people who bring laptops to the wood kitchen table, making sure they have two placemats under them.

How long will I go blaming my personal faults on my mother?

Um, as long as it’s useful?

In the end, my boyfriend finally responded.

John:  No im not sad
Me:  ‘Cause your chat message
from “Say” …
John:  I like that verse is all
Me:  Oh. it’s dark.

Men are so simple—probably because they have fathers to emulate.