She Wants “Boundaries?” FINE. I’ll Give Her BOUNDARIES.
It started in the kitchen, as dramatic moments often do. I had come from the bathroom, as I often do, after washing my hands thoroughly with lots of soap, which I rarely do, but since we’re moving into the, “Just Kill Me, Covid, and Get it Over With” third wave — fourth? Fifth? Who Gives a Shit wave of the pandemic, I’ve been far more diligent about this kind of hygiene than usual.
Hands clean and dry, heart full of love and need, I ask cautiously, “Can I have a hug?”
“No thank you.”
And all the clocks stopped.
That metaphor undoubtedly worked much better back when clocks ticked and tocked, but the next moment felt quite dramatic: it was filled with the recognition that the way I responded to her devastating rejoinder would determine, at the very least, the way the rest of the day would go.
Her brown eyes widened as she scrutinized my face, which was flush with the shame of rejection. “Is that okay?”
“Yeah.” I attempted a casual tone layered with intense, complicated emotions it would be her job to excavate, investigate, and resolve. “I kinda figured you’d respond that way.”
“Okay. Thanks. I’ve gotta get back to work.” With an insouciant smile, she breezed through the kitchen and climbed the stairs, as if unaware of the destructive power of her response. Was her nonchalance real, or was she acting? Was there a tinge of subterranean aggression in her passivity, or was she actually blasé?
Throwing myself onto the double wide recliner, I was already clutching my phone, which by now might as well be surgically grafted to my hand. I knew my next step would be designing a text that would make her feel… something; I just needed to decide how I wanted to make her feel.
Can’t think about it too long, or the intensity of my suffering will diminish, and that’s the fuel that needs to drive this missive: MY PAIN. Must make her feel the ferocious violence of her own words; sort of a throw-it-back-in-her-face kind of text. But with, you know, class.
Think, Woman, think! Start off gently, so she won’t be expecting the hit. Sort of a tap on the shoulder so she has to turn around before the bam!
Open with a friendly colloquialism that everyone uses… yeah, that’s the ticket! Then lay it out. Make her not just feel what she did to you, you must also ensure there’s plenty of guilt-induction: “Oh, god, what you said hurt me so much,” isn’t close to enough. That’s amature hour at the therapist’s office. In our clan, right along side the accusation — of whatever thought crime our loved one is guilty of — must come the dagger through the heart: “how could you do this to me?”
This one, delivered a scant 5 minutes after our encounter, is not great, but it’s not bad at all. The space before the last line is a nice touch: the pause offers extra drama for the climax. There are some comma issues, but only in the sense that correct punctuation whilst texting is like ironing the tails of your tucked in shirt: old-fashioned labor that no one but you appreciates. And the switch from third to first person was necessary, if not grammatically correct: it was imperative that she comprehend the enormity and heft of the ramifications of her words.
This text wasn’t just for me; I was representing. This was for The Archetype. The Universal Mother whose every living moment is spent in sacrifice to her child; who would crawl half-dead from wreckage, lift an SUV off of her pinned baby, then swaddle, feed, and sing, not any old lullaby, but the third cut on the playlist because that’s the one they love the most.
That’s why using the third person “your mom” instead of “I” or “me” works better. [Notes for How to Text Your Child So They’ll Text Back Masterclass]
Do you even have to ask if it worked? Please.
I hear her door open. Halfway down the stairs, she perches on a step and peers at me through the spindles. Splayed on the recliner and exhausted from the intense effort of successful manipulation, I silently admire her surprise IRL strategy: well played, My Darling Daughter, well played.
But! Still the Master, I am buoyed by a sudden surge of adrenaline, and ready myself for battle. Her youth and vigor are no match for my collection of weaponry: Tears. Threats. Hyperbole. Irony. Forgetfulness. Name calling. Swearing. False equivalencies, and of course, the well-worn, time-honored favorites that evolved from the prehistoric tide pool of my genetic structure: Guilt and Manipulation.
My quiver is full. Glaring at the picturesque young woman I created, I feel… what…? Pity? With only half of my chromosomal advantage, how does this cold beauty think she can survive even one round against The Master Manipulator? T’will be a lesson hard learned, but much needed: I need that goddamn hug.
Let The Games Begin.
But wait! Stop! Time Out! A sudden realization of what could be my spawn’s Secret Weapon: The Other 23!
That other half of the double helix that, tragically, has nothing to do with me!
What ancient, unpredictable destructive forces can she unleash? My entire being trembles in fear of: The Power of the Ex!
Who will reign victorious in this Epic Battle for Personal Boundaries?
