I come from a long line of mothers who have mastered the art of guilt as manipulation.
I believe it started with my great-grandmother. I never met her, but I’ve been told that she ruled her home with an iron fist in a velvet glove, commanding her 11 children to bend to her will. The stories my mother told me of visits to her grandmother’s home painted a picture of a dark and foreboding place.
I was never intimidated by my grandmother
My grandmother, Dora’s daughter, was different. She doted on my brother and me, focusing all her attention on us when she came for her weekly Sunday visits. She brought us the treats our parents rarely allowed, including a coconut cake for my brother and a chocolate one for me.
My mother was her only child and basked in the adoration of her and my grandfather. A gorgeous baby, my mother won several beauty contests and eventually became a model. She was very smart, skipping two grades and enrolling in college at age 16. Although she wanted to live in a dorm and enjoy the full college experience, her parents nixed the idea and demanded she attend a local public university and live at home.
Even after my parents got married, my grandmother still exercised an extraordinary level of control. A few years ago, I found the telegram she sent the day after my parents’ wedding, demanding to know why they had not notified their parents of their safe arrival at their honeymoon destination in Mexico. No words of congratulations or expressions of joy, only the question, “Did you survive your flight or are you lying dead in a field somewhere following a fiery crash?”
When I became a mom, I was determined to break the pattern
The fact that my mother hated how her mother influenced her actions did not prevent her from repeating the pattern with me. The focus was always on her. When I was in college, she required me to call home every Sunday morning to check in. If I missed a week, she called me, never asking if I was OK, but reminding me of my obligation to see how she was doing.
Even before my five children were born, I already knew I would not use guilt to manipulate them. In fact, I intentionally swerved in the opposite direction. While my mother always took center stage, I chose to watch from the wings, cheering my kids on in all their endeavors.
I think I may have gone too far in the opposite direction, though. Now that they are adults, I have no expectation that they’ll prioritize me in their lives and carve out time to meet up, or even call me weekly. My mantra is, “Keep your expectations low, and you’re never disappointed.”
That’s not right either, so I’m striving for a happy medium with just a modicum of guilt-inducement. Instead of responding to their texts asking how I’m doing with an everything’s fine, I’m going to let them know when I’m having a tough day, feeling sad, or missing them. Instead of waiting for a dinner invitation, I’m going to make reservations for a meal together. I’m inviting them to spend Sunday afternoons with me and taking them up on their offer to visit their homes whenever I feel like it.
It’s taking effort for me to make this shift, but I want them to know how much better I feel when I can honestly tell them I need them. In an effort to counter the behaviors of the generations of mothers before me, I don’t have to go guilt-free; I just need to be strategic in how I apply the guilt.
Read the full article here
