Brenda’s Voice
I swore that the next time I found damp smelly clothes, left in the washer for way too many days; I was going to kill him. When I noticed one of my favorite photos lying on the table without its frame – and finding that frame downstairs in his room, sporting a picture of his new girlfriend, I decided that if I couldn’t kill him, then at least he should be grounded forever. Who was I talking about? My teen-age stepson, Christopher the alien.
Wait a minute. How did I get so anal? When did I become so rigid? This from the woman who swore that she would never be as meticulous as her mother. Who said she would be more understanding about her own kids. What was the big deal with just putting the clothes through another cycle and throwing them in the dryer myself? So what about him using those special guest towels? After all, they were only towels, easily replaceable at any Target or Belks.
And yet, with every annoyance, came escalating feelings and reactions. I began to express these feelings to my poor husband…under the guise of hearing “Brenda’s” voice in my head, Brenda being my mother. I would say, “While I know it’s not really a big deal, Brenda thinks that Chris shouldn’t eat all but the last spoonful of ice cream and put the container back in the freezer.”
In the beginning, it was great. I could put all of my so-called negative thoughts on Brenda. She could be the bad guy. Which was probably how I had envisioned her for most of my life. The strict one…the rule maker.
But over time, I came to empathize with Brenda, began to see things from her viewpoint. Not that maybe she wasn’t a little too rigid at times, but you know, I could understand where she was coming from. How sometimes the everyday stresses just get to you, and whatever patience and tolerance you may be trying to maintain just fly out the window. In keeping with that train of thought, I decided to try an experiment. I put myself in Brenda’s shoes, imagining what she felt like when I was my stepson’s age.
What an eye-opener.
At the time of these adolescent tribulations, I was turning forty. I thought back to the years around Brenda’s fortieth birthday. And shuddered, realizing that it was a miracle that we had all survived those years. That she had actually been doing a damn good job of keeping things together.
Those were the last years of my dad’s drinking. The bad ones, the ones that led up to him hitting bottom and getting sober. It was around that time that my sister ran away. Things were crazy at home, and she had gone to live with a friend’s family. For a while we didn’t know where she was. My brother had discovered his rebellious side and was pushing every limit.
Forget about using the guest towels or not mowing the yard, he was sneaking out at night, wrecking cars and getting DUIs. And for me, I had discovered boys and drinking, not a good combination. Too many nights I would stay out late, either not calling home or calling whenever I thought about it…which was usually about two in the morning.
I compared our situations. Here I was, happily married to a sober husband, working four days a week in my dream profession, with all of my needs and most of my wants being met, my only problem being smelly laundry, used guest towels and mostly empty ice cream containers. While she had lived the above scenario…a drunken husband, three teen-age children spiraling out of control, managing the household while working full-time in children’s clothing store for minimum wage. Certainly not the job of her dreams, she had given that up when she became pregnant with me and quit nursing school.
No wonder Brenda was a little compulsive about the towels or the dusting or whatever concrete thing she could focus on. They were probably the only things she felt she had any control over. Everything, or at least everyone else, in her life was completely out of control. Yet somehow she carried on. The house was clean, there was food to eat and the bills were paid. The yard was mowed and the clothes were washed, dried and even folded.
Somehow in the midst of all of the madness, she found the strength to return to school, finally achieving her goal in nursing.
No matter how much the world swirled around her, she was doing the best she could to keep things going and make them better. I didn’t appreciate it at the time, but looking back on it, I do now.
Even with this realization, I still occasionally find myself going nuts over unimportant things; I just don’t blame it on Brenda anymore.
I wish I could say with certainty that realizing this made me a better stepmother. I think it did. And I’m pretty sure it made life easier for my husband.
But I know it made me a better daughter.