oedipal schmedipal

I can get so irritated and restless when I find myself dealing with the kind of boring, predictable problems that other people have and talk about in the next cubicle or in line at the grocery store. A leaky roof, unexpected car trouble, sinus infections. I'm not sure why. Do I think I'm above it, too special for the tragedies - both miniature and large-scale - that afflict us all? Or maybe I think that eating organic beets and giving to local charities should act as a magical shield, deflecting all the bad stuff the world inevitably throws our way?

I'm gradually getting better about this. I've lived on this good earth for thirty-three years, and with every passing day I accumulate more intimate experience with clogged toilets and back pain. The first incident that knocked me off my special stool was my dad's cancer diagnosis. I remember thinking then that this was the sort of ill fortune other people suffered - not us. Fifteen years later, the reality of death and taxes and all the rest of it has continued to slowly seep into my thick skull. I'm not exempt. I am other people.

And we other people-types have kids who pass through an Oedipal stage of development. Mama's boys and daddy's girls. What off-putting, icky expressions! But the alignments are undeniable in our house right now. Gabriel's intense preference for me and increasing separation anxiety only serves to reinforce them - though Frances is gaga for her papa, with or without Gabriel's help. I came down the stairs this morning to find her comfortably curled into the orange chair in the kitchen, chatting with Mike while he made coffee. I said good morning to them both, and in response Frances said, Mama, I'm SO hungry, will you make me my oatmeal right now? I asked why she hadn't asked Mike to make it for her, and she told me that they had been having such an interesting talk, she didn't want to. She'd rather I do it.

I see.

The morning before, I woke up and found her awake in her room. We snuggled into her bed together. Nice, right? She stared at the ceiling a moment, then asked me why was it that on her fourth birthday, which had fallen on a different day from her birthday party, I hadn't sung Happy Birthday to her? Why did I only sing it at the party? And also, why had I packed green grapes in her lunch yesterday, when I know she only likes red grapes because she's told me a million times she ONLY likes red grapes. Don't I ever listen?

And on and on. Sass when I ask her to help out, complaints when she discovers what's for dinner, and rage over the time Gabriel and I spend together while she is at school. But do you see what I mean? This is boring! Mother-daughter tension is an age-old problem that other people have. How in the world have I fallen into this? I didn't write this script. I do not want this part. And yet, I take the bait, and snip snap right back at her.

I have been so discouraged by the state of our relationship, and the seeming immovability of our childrens' parental preferences, that I tried something different today. When Frances came home from school complaining relentlessly, I told her she could not begin a sentence with I don't like, I don't want to, But I can't, or I hate. If she did, she'd have to go to her room for five minutes.

I sent Frances to her room six times in a row, and was met with screaming protests and rivers of tears each time. But after the sixth time, she came downstairs very quietly. She told me she was ready to behave better now, and that she would like some private time to herself.

Per her instructions, we set up her play tent in the living room. She scurried inside with some drawing materials and then placed a couch cushion in front to serve as a door. After about ten minutes, she created the "privisy" sign and mail slot below, explaining to me and Gabriel that she did not want to speak to anyone just now, but we could leave her messages in the mail slot if we wanted.

Her manners were impeccable throughout all this. A little while after she had established the new communication system, she emerged from the tent and wandered into the kitchen, where I was noisily blending sesame peanut sauce for dinner. When she appeared, I stopped. Frances was uncharacteristically quiet, transformed from an exasperated adolescent-in-training to a heart-breakingly small and vulnerable five year old girl.

Mama, she said, I feel lonely for you guys. Would you send me some mail?

It was one of those knee-buckling moments, when tenderness sweeps through you with such force that it is hard to stand. I nodded yes, and she turned and headed back into her tent without a word. 

So yeah, we're having some Oedipal troubles around here. But today, I knew in my heart that Frances and I were on the same team. Our detente served as a happy reminder: it's called the Oedipal Stage. This too shall pass.

Before I go, a brief report on some other growing things in our kitchen that are beautifully and blessedly uncomplicated: the seedlings. The array of little green and purple plants that are growing with visible exuberance beneath the shop lights Mike has hung from PVC pipes are a source of inspiration - a delicate promise of flowers and fruit to come.

And can you see it? Gabriel and I planted these together on Monday afternoon, and already, a zinnia seedling is shouldering its way into the light!