I was Wrong to Shelter Mom

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The ancient Chinese told a tale of a middle aged man who was very loyal to his aged parents. He played on the floor around them, like an infant, to shelter them from the knowledge they were old. 

I sheltered Mom, and that was wrong. 

During her parenting years, me and my five siblings walked on eggshells. Mom was convinced that our bedroom clutter—no worse than any child’s room—meant we didn’t love her. Call it crazy-love-reasoning. This when throughout the house she kept every surface piled like an archeology dig. I suppose a modern psychologist would say she had a Thinking Error, advising “just keep your child’s door closed.” But who had such wisdom back then? And since I didn’t know Mom’s reasoning, I opened my eyes every morning knowing I was bad.

One boy later drove a cab and reported every fare to his dispatcher. One boy grew up to play cards with criminals in the wee hours—but he never bought stolen goods. One boy grew up to drive for Jimmy Hoffa’s teamsters union—but nothing ever “fell off the truck.” I remember a T-shirt from those years showing cement overshoes: “Jimmy Hoffa swim club.” 

During childhood I owned toy plastic men, from inside cereal boxes. Of course I sometimes left those interesting guys scattered, having their adventures. We had a wood stove. One day, in the ashes outside, I found their remains. Salvaging some wounded, I felt deep sorrow for the guys, with no anger towards my dear mother at all.

The growing years were horrible for Mom, as she rampaged and hit and broke one boy’s daisy rifle over another boy’s head. It wasn’t easy for her, feeling unloved. She raised six honest kids, so I had my own Thinking Error: Not knowing “manipulative,” I never guessed she was a liar—even though every time I announced an accolade she said it didn’t count, “They wouldn’t say that if they knew your room wasn’t cleaned up.” I felt guilt, and all-my-fault.

After I was in another city, living in a basement suite with my expensive computer, I sheltered Mom: If ever she learned I still had trouble with clutter, even as a grown man, then she might realize that it was natural for children to have clutter too: Cue her silent scream of realization of her wasted years— 

As an adult, I had a Thinking Error: Before I rebelled or complained or felt easy towards Mom I should pay my dues, ensure credibility, by “cleaning up my room.” I kept hoping, any month now, I would get cleaned up. Years too late I realized: I had as much chance as Sisyphus rolling his rock.…. A guilty life of turning from fun to go try to go tidy up.

One year, instead of driving to see my parents in the next time zone, I took my holidays as a “staycation” so I could work on my clutter—How I loved my books. Each day I trundled to the Used Book Store. I reduced the walls of books under my bathroom sink to only one layer, not two, I got all the books out of the freezer, and I even emptied the car trunk: All the better for fuel efficiency. I was so pleased with myself but I dared not tell Mom.

I found a plain garden variety counsellor, I phoned up for my first appointment:“Name three issues you want to work on.” 

“Uh…” I only told him two—no point in him laughing over the phone at me if I confessed, “I can’t keep my room cleaned up.” I told him so. 

He asked, “Do you feel better after you clean up?” No. Never. He said, “Face it Sean, you’re an intellectual!” He meant House Cleaning is far-r-r down my list of priorities. “Oh.” We explored renting a storage locker: “Nah, I like having my stuff nearby.” 

Today, in the basement of my condominium block, the biggest storage locker is mine, with books in translucent tubs on rows of plastic shelves—that popped together, no hammering or nails for an uncoordinated intellectual. Later I added a few cardboard boxes to the floor in the middle, which became a pile, which became a hill right to the very top of my chainlink fence. At least no burglar will ever bother my stuff.

Mom become a kinder, gentler grandmother: With Dad retired, and six kids moved out, and downsized to an apartment… Her place was still a mess: Dad hated how he couldn’t lift the lid of the record player. I asked her—after taking a deep breath—if she judged people with messy places. She half laughed to say no, saying that her own place is messy. Maybe I had been w-w-wrong. And stubborn. And foolish. 

One night, in her cups, Mom voiced her crazy-love-reasoning, that her kids had messy rooms because they didn’t love her. I silently thought, “Oh. Wait—I thought we were bad people!”

By sheltering her, I had nailed myself daily to needless guilt… I don’t know yet whether to forgive Mom’s dishonesty; I forgive myself. Since I don’t play with toys on the floor, and since my home is ever-cluttered, I have no idea where I stowed away some plastic soldiers. At least I have stowed away childhood thinking. Tomorrow the sun will rise on a nice day.

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Sean Crawford

Calgary

September

2023