I am currently drinking wine out of a coffee mug. It’s a fairly plain white mug with the chemical structure of caffeine printed in black on it. I remember purchasing this for my husband when he was in graduate school. It was prior to amazon.com so I had to take the long train ride to Redding terminal market where I had seen it a few weeks before but neglected to purchase it because the panic of Christmas shopping was not yet upon me. I used cash, and it was the only thing I purchased, except maybe some yummy Amish baked goods that I can’t exactly remember but I’m sure I couldn’t resist.
Those were easy, simple days when a 15-dollar mug that spoke to where we were at that moment in time was a perfectly acceptable gift. I kind of miss those days. But as lovely as those memories are, they somehow don’t distract me from the fact that I’m pissed I am drinking a fairly decent Malbec from this same mug 20 years later.
Why, you might ask? Why am I pissed off or why am I drinking wine out of a coffee mug? The answer is the same to both questions. If my son had bothered to do the dishes (it’s a consequence for something he did that I can’t quite remember) on any one of the last 5 days, I would be using a wine glass instead and not be pissed off.
Or if I had decided to do the dishes myself because sometimes you need to pick your battles, I might be sipping it out of one of my regular glasses, the cute French ones with the bees on them.
Perhaps if I had really thought through giving him dish duty as a consequence I wouldn’t be so angry, because I would have never shot myself in the foot by giving him something that is important to me. Or maybe I’m just pissed he still has to have consequences at all.
Or that I’m the one doling them out.
I used to think I wanted a dish fairy who would come and magically clean the kitchen while I slept or read a book or did anything else but the dishes. To me they are a chore much like the laundry, never ending with no sense of accomplishment upon completion.
But the dishes and I have come to a sort of détente, I do them mindfully, and I don’t freak out about how they are a symbol of the lack of respect and gratitude that my entire family feels for me.
So maybe I haven’t come to détente with my dishes, but I have come to realize in the grand scheme of things dishes are not a ditch I want to die in. I just do them and they stop irritating me.
Instead of a dish fairy, now though, I want a consequence fairy. A fairy who will magically swoop in and issue the perfect consequence for whatever infraction has been brought to my attention. A consequence that will be a punishment that fits the crime sort of thing, something that will be meaningful and not punitive. Something that will be a learning opportunity and bring greater meaning and respect into all of our lives.
Or, fuck that, just something that he will do and if he doesn’t only he will suffer any negative impact. Just not the dishes, it drives me crazy having a sinful waiting to be done.
Ha-ha. Did you see that? I accidentally typed sinful instead of sink full. Maybe this is a sign I have a subconscious belief that dishes are my punishment for some horrible sin I committed.
Maybe I feel unworthy of love and the dishes have just become a projection of this deeply held, unacknowledged belief.
Maybe I’m not upset about the boy child’s refusal to do his job, but instead feel I need to be punished because, perhaps, I am a bit too jealous that my husband is in New Orleans eating his way through the best culinary city on the planet while I am at home with a sink full of dishes and drinking wine out of a coffee mug because our almost 18-year old son has decided to assert his autonomy.
If I indulged in another mug of wine, I could probably come up with all sorts of Freudian issues that this anger is indicative of. I could use my now better than average knowledge of psychological wellbeing to institute a treatment plan to help me recognize and overcome these issues and start building skills to make them manageable.
I probably don’t even need another mug of wine to realize that this nest leaving behavior is the same pain-in-the-ass behavior from when he was two and asserting independence.
Enough, enough! I’m fine with independence. I can deal with change and distance and autonomy. It has been my goal as much as it has been yours. There is no need to challenge my authority, goodness knows I haven’t asserted it very much anyway. I know you are capable of independence. I know that you are ready. I know I can’t control you or anything else.
Could you please just do the dishes?