Complaining

My sweet cousin and her mother recently drove to town to visit my mother.  As we were sitting down to lunch, they inquired about my new job.  I said that it is “mostly good,” and didn’t offer details.  My mother seemed happy to hear this response and commented to that effect.  I guess that after ten years of complaints about my previous job, everybody is pleased to hear me put a positive spin on things.

I always thought I was being honest when I shared my concerns.  I thought I was offering both sides—what I liked and what I struggled with.  But maybe I erred on the negative side.

My grousing to my mother was partially designed to keep her at bay.  I’m overworked.  I only have time for short visits.  I can’t to this or that.  You don’t understand my crazy life.  She and I fell into conversational habits and patterns.  She would rant about certain individuals that, in her mind, repeatedly failed to behave properly.  And I would talk about various and sundry demands on my time.  We were probably both bored but seemed to locate few options that spared us from this regular litany.

 

Now we run a different course.  I try to be more entertaining.  She tries to understand things.  She routinely asks me why she no longer has a house.  At least once a week she tells me she needs a car, and once recently, suggested we run out and buy one.  A used one. 

But she rarely complains to me.  She told my Aunt Linda that she was “bereft” at the loss of her home and possessions, but she has not shared this with me.  The nurses tell me that she scolds her roommate, who is very loud and very bossy.  Very.  But my mother tells me “I like her enough.”  She appears to feel that my husband and I needn’t be burdened by her trials and tribulations.

It is strange. This woman, who has spent her life time judging others and applying honed critical skills, is now described by those her tend her as “sweet.”

 

I can’t quite get used to it.  It doesn’t fit my picture of her at all.

But even as I resist, I’m learning.