Hardwired Mum-long

My kids think I am turning into Ray Romano's mother. 

I saw this happening a couple of years ago when Breyan and Sarah moved out to their own apartment.  I would come over and the dishes would be creating their own micro environment, the bathroom reminded me of a fifth grade science experiment and don't get me started on the last time someone changed the sheets.
It's not like I walk around with a white glove checking tops of door frames but really, I found three day old pizza under the playpen.

Yes, I'll admit, that there have been occasions when I've showed up at their door with mop, vacuum and bleach in hand.  But only because I was trying to reach them before Public Health.  I've gotten a little more tactful about the situation and try to do this only when they complain they are tired or sick, then I'm the concerned Mum, just here to give a hand.  Anyway, because of their environment they do seem to catch every cold or bug going around so yes I could claim I need to pop over once a month, or week...or day.

Okay yes I may have fantasies where I "borrow" Breyan's key to his house off his key chain, strap the ladder to the car and drive across town in the middle of the night so I can put locks on the cupboard doors and make sure all the outlets are covered and measure for blackout curtains in his daughters bedroom so that she can take her nap BUT that is not "interfering" as Breyan would call it or "Breaking and Entering" as the nice policeman may have mentioned.  It is the act of a concerned Mum who didn't want to have to bother her children while she prepared a nice surprise: an environment I can be sure my grandgirlz will be safe and healthy in.

(I knew that the cupboards needed locking and cough medicine was just sitting on the fridge shelf and that the outlets behind the thousand pound tv unit were not covered because hubby had done what he calls "An ETA; environmental threat assessment,)

And just because the last time we were at dinner I wanted to lock myself in the bathroom for two hours with a bottle of Tilex for the mold, it doesn't mean I am critical of their cleaning skills.  I was just worried that the hairballs in the sink and the wet towels might become moldy and my grandgirlz might end up hospitalized with pneumonia.  This doesn't mean I'm an interfering old bitty.  It just means I care.

I have spent the last 23 years of my life--  Half of my life making sure my kids were clean, fed and generally living in a Bubonic plague free environment.  Why do I have to stop doing that now?  How do I stop doing that now?   

Freud once said that the definition of insanity is "performing the same action over and over and expecting different results."  I don't think Freud had children.  It has become second nature to say things like, "pick up those clothes," "eat your vegys," "get off the computer."  It's hardwired into my brain.  I once asked my boss at work if he had a "boo boo" when he got a papercut.

And it NEVER works,

Caitlin still has the carpet of clothes on the floor, Breyan still doesn't stand up straight and well, they are off the computer right now because there is only one in the house and I've claimed it to vent but you can be sure the minute I get up to go to the bathroom or get a cup of tea, the seat won't have a chance to get warm before the chair is filled with some child or hubby checking his/her facebook or email.

It's just biogenetic engineering.  I became a mother; Nature rewired my system.

 I stand in line in the grocery store with a bag of milk and suddenly I find myself rocking it back and forth and back and forth in my arms.  If I'm really tired I start humming nursery songs. 

I make food for six when usually there is only me and the Mountain Man at home.

I still do the three nanosecond sweep of the grocery store.  You know, when you hear a kid scream, "Mommy" in another aisle and you  whip your head around, verify it's not yours and go back to grocery shopping. 

I go out to buy myself a new sweater and come home with some fantastic sales that I saw that would just look adorable on Caitlin or Breyan.  The last thing I bought myself was at Value Village but only because I spilled rosehip tea down my shirt on the way to a job interview.

Breyan has been moved out for four years but I still find myself half asleep going to his room at 6 am and getting ready to knock on his door to wake him up for school.

And the house is so quiet.!!!!!!

For 23 years I have trained myself to worry when the house is quiet because as a parent I damn well know that the time to worry about what your kids are getting up to is when you can't hear them.

Caitlin is now a young woman who can take out any mugger.  I know this but I can't sleep unless I know she's home safe or she calls to tell me where she is.  (She should be able to take out the entire National Liberation Army with the weapons MM makes her carry;  Short List;  Mace, Alarm Whistle, a roll of quarters, an emergency phone card and taxi Money.  I saw him eyeing up the tazers at the weapons store last week but you have to draw the line somewhere.)

And I am nothing compared to the MM when he is faced with the prospect that his little baby girl is growing up. 

When he saw the birth control pills the doctor had prescribed for menstrual pain, we practically had to sedate him  (I have to admit that the impish side of me wanted to tell him she would use condoms for protection but I hadn't done my eyebrows and I didn't want a mug shot of me with furry eyebrows.)

When MM does the laundry, he uses a pair of tongs to put her underclothes in the washer and dryer.

When she brought Keagan home to meet us for the first time, she pulled me aside and begged me to "don't let Dad be cleaning his guns." 

He once made a boy infamous at her school when the kids found out that MM greeted him at the door with, "And what are your intentions with my daughter?"  The boy turned tail and ran so fast I only know what he looks like from the Facebook pictures.

Compared to most girls over the age of six nowadays, Caitlin dresses like a nun,  but mention the word cleavage and his daughter in the same sentence and you can render MM into a gasping puddle.

If you ever want to see a grown redneck man clap his hands over his ears and start rocking singing "La La La" at full voice, just try talking to him about having to buy his daughter new bras because she's gone up a cup size.

Some of this frustration is assuaged by the fact I have granddaughters.  They are my reward for not killing my kids when they were teens.

There are inalienable rights to being a grandparent.  When they come over I can feed them, spoil them, give them candy and send them home when I've had enough,

(I may keep a candy jar for them on the bureau but MM keeps a bag of candy in his truck for visiting their house.)

I can buy pink, plastic pretty crap that won't last the day and grill Breyan and Sarah on whether they have their medicine in a locked fishing box in the fridge. 

I can still sew little baby dresses that have hope of being worn if only for family pictures. 

When I see my son yelling at his four year old it is my right as the Nona to pick her up out of the timeout chair and tell her it's okay that she just tried to put a peanut butter sandwich into the CD player.  Daddy is just a little cranky from not eating right.

I see it as my duty to question whether the girls have been eating properly or offer Breyan and his wife money for vitamins because Ivy is looking a little peaky.

Just because when I go grocery shopping I pick them up a few extra things, like fruit or cheese, they should know it's because I recognize their budget is tight and the girls need fresh fruit.  Maybe I make a lasagna or spaghetti and meatballs, you know nutritious  food and drop it by their house so that the girls will have at least one night they are not eating food that came out of a bag with the HamBurgler on it;  this should not be interpreted as critism of Sarah's ability to cook.

I'm sure in a few years when she reads the dozen or so cookbooks I gave her, including the Five Roses one that tells you how to make boiled eggs, Sarah will learn to make economical, filling, healthy food for her family.  Until then I'm just helping to make sure my grandgirlz don't get scurvy or rickets.

What can possibly be wrong with that? Even if it is maybe a little intrusive to ask why they are having another surprise child when there is a variety of birth control options as they can clearly see in the planned parenthood pamphlets I left on their coffee table the last time I was there, I see it as my duty as a parent and grandparent to support my children and insure a stable and happy future for them and my grandgirlz.

How could this possibly be described as being overbearing, interfering or any other words that are nastially used to describe the mother-in-law?

I swear it's not that I'm a mean mother in law, it's just that I'm Hard-Wired to be a Mum.