Psst, You, Yes, You

My mother had a lot of quirks, but she was also an unlikely repository of excellent advice served up as snappy bits of home-spun wisdom. One of her best tidbits was if something feels off, it’s because it’s off. That was her way of saying that when the voices in your head start talking, you better start listening.

I spent most of my life ignoring that advice, to my detriment. Then, somewhere around my 40th birthday, I decided to try a different approach. I tried actually listening to my mother. I tried listening to the voice in my head and I did a great job. When the voices kept nagging me about my unhappy marriage, I left. When they told me the career I was in at the time was killing me, both physically and mentally, I left. When they told me to get my pen out and start writing again, I wrote. It was almost becoming second nature, voices speak, I listen.

Until recently. About 2 months ago, my middle son contacted me about a difficult time he was having. He’s 29 and has been on his own since he was 22. He was barely done telling me what happened when I heard words fly out of my mouth that I vaguely recognized. “Oh, come up here and stay with us,” I said.

Wait, what? As soon as the words were out of my mouth, the voices in my head started an all-out riot. They took to the streets of my mind, picket signs in hand which read Take it Back and Bad Idea. I ignored them, my Little Buddy needed me, I reasoned. He isn’t the first adult child to need some help, and we’re in a position to be able to, so why not?

Anyone that has more than one child can relate. There’s always one in the bunch that requires a little more than the others. Maybe they’re more sensitive. Maybe they need a little more encouragement or help. Whatever it is, they need it and we, as mothers, give it. My Little Buddy was that kid. His childhood was, in many ways, a series of fires that I struggled to ideally prevent, and if not, put out. I vowed never to do it again. Yet here we are.

Things have been going pretty well since he got here. He got a job and he’s generally agreeable to live with. That being said, my husband and I had become accustomed to living on our own, having our own routine and enjoying life as empty nesters.

I remember discussing how we’d deal with having my son back home again with my husband and we agreed that while we’d make it a pleasant experience, it wouldn't be too comfortable. We agreed to a time limit, a small amount of rent to charge, and that I wouldn’t baby him. My inner voices were in complete concordance with the plan.

Yet here I am, doing everything I promised I wouldn’t. I’m driving him to and from work. Taking him across town right before suppertime and hauling my ass out of my warm cozy bed to face the dark cold of 5:45 am to pick him up. He doesn’t drive, but there is a bus that runs right past our place and another that stops at the gate of his workplace.

His work hours run counter to my normal schedule. I’m exhausted. I whine to my husband constantly about it. The voices in my head are screaming at me, “there’s a damn bus; put the boy on it!” I know it makes sense. I spent many years taking the bus to work when I was young. Hell, I even walked to work a time or two. But I can’t bring myself to do it. The bus is inconvenient. He’d have to get up an hour earlier and go through the inconvenience of transferring downtown in the mornings and waiting close to an hour after his shift in the evenings. It’s just easier for me to take 10 minutes every 12 hours to act as his personal taxi.

My grocery list has changed too, much to the chagrin of the voices in my mind. Suddenly, my house is filled with crap food that I don’t like. Chocolate milk, Doritos, deli meats and frozen, processed stuff. Why? Because Little Buddy likes them.

On laundry day, I ask him if he needs anything washed. The voices scream, “he’s almost 30!”

I know I’m doing it again. I know I’m not helping. If anything, I’m making things worse. I know the voices are right. But I just can’t seem to stop.

Originally published on Medium