Rage

No one can make me feel rage like my mother. A therapist once told me that is a testament to how much I love her. Something about how you have to love and care about someone to feel intense anger. Blah, blah, blah.

Tonight, though, she has me seeing red. She and my dad took Macy to dinner, as they like to take the kids out one on one sometimes. She brought her inside to say hi to me. I was busy cleaning up dinner dishes, making chicken stock from the chicken bones, and making up some “Cream of Anything” soup mix. (In other words, I was cleaning up from cooking, COOKING, and preparing a recipe for cooking things later, hang on, that will be important later.)

First thing she notices is that we haven’t eaten the chocolate/caramel/candied apples she bought the kids for Halloween from a really expensive, fancy chocolate place at the mall. I immediately feel bad, because I know how expensive they were and it seems like we weren’t grateful or something. But I had been planning to cut them up and serve them as dessert since Sunday, but something happened every single night that prevented it. So here it is Friday, 8 days after she gave them to the kids, and I was absolutely planning on eating them tonight because we were having a family movie night. But she sees them first, not knowing my plans and starts in on me.

She thinks they are going to be ruined/spoiled. So I stop my cooking and cut into one immediately, to prove they were still ok. She then proceeds to tell me how to cut it. I look at her, politely roll my eyes, and say, “Mom, I got it.” I continue cutting the first apple and she continues to tell me how to cut out the core and that I’m not doing it right. I tell her again, that I know how to do it. She says, “Well, you’re not going to do it right and, you know, you’re not a.. well, a cook.” I was so pissed so I snapped, “What the f@&k do you think I’m doing right now?” So she gets all insulted and storms off. I follow her half way and say, “Sorry if you don’t like my language, but you are so insulting to me!.” She said something about how horrible I talk to her and I said, “I only talked like that after you insulted me!.” But she was gone.

So I’m left to stew. I know I can cook. I enjoy cooking. Heck, I was in the kitchen all night. I have cooked 10 out the past 12 nights. But it boils down to her never giving me credit for the things I do. If I don’t do things exactly the way she does, then I don’t know how to do them right. And it just got to me tonight. I didn’t tell her to eff-off, I controlled myself. But I just wanted to be seen. I wanted to get acknowledgement from her that I WAS cooking. But, nope. That was too much to ask. I will never get acknowledgement from her and I should stop seeking it.

The funny thing after all this was I was retelling it to Scott and he was cracking up… he could barely get words out. He finally stops laughing and says, “She actually Marie Baroned you: ‘You can’t cook, Debrah.'” (Scott has always loved Everybody Loves Raymond, because he sees a lot of similarities between my mom and Marie, and I guess this was exactly what he was talking about.)

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