Snow!

It's going to snow here. TODAY. Again!!!

Puits d’amour (2021), Flora Yukhnovich

It’s going to snow AGAIN, TODAY (!!!!), so naturally I’m listening to Vince Staples’ “Feels Like Summer.”

I need a rap about snow. The ideal would be “The Recipe” by Kendrick Lamar and Dr. Dre but with snowflakes instead of weed, and hot chocolate instead of chocolates in the sun.

Okay, I just fact-checked that last line and apparently I’ve been thinking that Dr. Dre was saying “Double Ds, got them chocolates in the sun,” but instead he was saying “Double Ds, got them topless in the sun.”

Glad you asked! Living with my mother has been, uh… a fascinating transition.

Now I want you to take a second and imagine moving into your mother’s house or apartment or shared room at her continuous-care facility. Imagine smashing as much of your bullshit as possible into her living space. Now imagine you’ve got a husband and a teenage daughter and all of their stuff comes along with you, too. Next, throw in two dogs who bark whenever someone makes a knocking sound or bumps a table or creates a shadow against the wall or uses a funny accent in a joke. Now squeeze all of those dependents and codependents into your mom’s domicile. You’re responsible for them. Whatever they do or don’t do, it’s on you.

Are images springing to mind? Are emotions and sensations flooding into your body? Do you have a sudden urge to eat a foot-long roast beef sub standing up?

Good.

Now imagine that you’re on a drug that causes you to toggle between indifference and despair.

Excellent.

Now give yourself a job WRITING ABOUT JOY.

That’s 80% of what living with my mom is like.

The other 20% is brought to you by seeds, nuts, powdered cowhides, ruthless workouts, my weather app, my treadmill desk, my husband (who loves chatting with my mom first thing in the morning, god in heaven shed your divine blessings upon him forever and ever), and my mom herself who, in spite of grappling with a new diabetes diagnosis, works her ass off to stay busy and productive and social and optimistic every single day.

Don’t get me wrong, my mom is still my mom. A mom will mom. Moms be momming.

Living with your mom is going to feel like living with your mom no matter who you are. Jesus Christ would resent Mary the Virgin Mother of God after a few weeks of watching her properly straighten and rehang his laundry in the hot basement of her house. Mary says that Jesus is letting the wrinkles dry into the fabric of his robes and he doesn’t disagree with her, exactly. He was in a big hurry so his laundry-hanging was admittedly suboptimal. And look, Jesus is just grateful to have a roof over his head. It’s true that he would prefer that Mary get a dryer like a normal person, but Mary thinks dryers are bad, wasteful, and unnecessary and Jesus respects Mary’s preferences and boundaries.

That said, after dragging his fourth basket of laundry down to the dark, cobweb-strewn, dungeon-like basement in a single day, Jesus does feel ever so slightly like God has maybe, just possibly FORSAKEN HIM, at least a tiny bit.

Here’s a thought experiment for you: What does your mom say when you’re doing something that she views as suboptimal? What interesting and helpful perspectives does she have to offer on your life choices? Maybe your mother, like mine, wisely keeps her mouth shut on these subjects and more. And yet! The nature of mothering is such that any given mother NEED NOT SPEAK in order to communicate her various insights, expectations, and disappointments at how you conduct yourself in your day-to-day life.

A mother need not form words and say them out loud. A mother can simply observe and you will discover yourself bathing in her mindwaves without warning. You will walk through a room swiftly and these mindwaves will stick to your clothing like stray bits of lint floating through the air. This sometimes makes it cognitively unpleasant to have your mother within 100 feet of your person at any time during the day when you might, say, want to do something vital and important like eat two to four Cadbury Crème Eggs while playing Wingspan on your phone for several hours straight.

So now you understand why my only option, survival-wise, was to severely limit my alcohol consumption, increase my seed and plant uptake to ravenous woodland creature levels, enforce a strict bedtime and early wake-up schedule, mandate merciless daily exercise routines, and restrict all unnecessary and unwelcome commentary and helpful suggestions aimed at my mother. And also: Hide a lot.

That said, when my mother’s diabetes became increasingly out of control in spite of her following all drug and dietary regimens by the book, I did wake up early one morning, reflect on my mother’s history of autoimmune disorders, Google “link between autoimmune disorders and diabetes,” and correctly diagnose my mother as having type 1.5 diabetes instead of type 1 or 2, as confirmed by the GAD65 antibody test which I suggested she request from her primary care doctor. (I put these suggestions in a text; I daren’t speak these words to her live and in person!).

So I haven’t been completely useless around here. And honestly, living with my mom has been good for me. It’s been good for all of us. I know that sounds fishy coming from a masochist who loves to go on and on about doing hard things, but trust me on this. I have been forced to speak some calm, direct words about my boundaries. I have learned to clarify that said words are not designed to induce shame or even to alter her behavior in any way. I’m living in her house, after all. I’m the one who needs to make adjustments to suit her preferences. She is 82. My husband and my daughter and I know that our job is to keep my mom happy. Even the dogs know that!

But I am still living with my mom, bottom line. My lint sticks to her clothes and hers sticks to mine. We can analyze each tiny gray shred of ambivalence or we can just assume the best and keep it rolling.

So that’s my new seed-fueled mindset: Assume the best and keep it rolling. Look for joy and shut the fuck up about everything else… unless you’re talking to your husband in the dark bedroom with the two bored dogs and the piles of clothes everywhere, in which case GO FULL ORC, BITCH.

Right now, I have to admit I’m proud of myself. Maybe that’s just the endless tide of pep talks and peptides talking, but I’ve adjusted to suboptimal living conditions admirably well, all things considered. I mean it’s easy to feel like you’re a jackass when you just slump around your own house all day, complaining about Melanie Lynskey’s character arc on Yellowjackets. But when you’re living with your mother and no one has poisoned anyone else yet? That’s a victory. Moreover, you Googled your way to a diagnosis that three highly respected doctors couldn’t figure out, presumably because they don’t know how to Google stuff?

This orc is on fire.

***

Maybe I’m just in a good mood because it’s about to snow here.

I love snow so much. I’ve been chirping happily about the promise of snow for two weeks now, because this storm appeared on my weather app that long ago (all grace and glory to god almighty, maker of heaven and earth and earthly weather-tracking technologies!).

Weather in general is just such a blessing. It’s like watching an exciting and suspenseful mystery that never stops and YOU’RE THE PROTAGONIST. Every single day, I get to watch all of the fun barreling my way from the West, thanks to the little cartoon animation of thunderstorms and lightning strikes and snow clouds on my weather app.

A few years ago, a friend in Brooklyn asked me if living in LA was paradise, because that’s how it seemed based on my photos of flowers and sunshine on Instagram. It was so strange to hear this, since I had spent that month watching cartoon snow clouds drift through the Northeast and daydreaming about the glory of storms and fog and ice clinging to tree branches. After a 20-year stretch of 75-degree sunshine, I was pretty over it. Even though I had kids and moved and changed gears professionally over the course of those two decades, in many ways they felt like ONE LONG SUNNY DAY.

And honestly, fuck that. One of the best parts of moving back East has been our return to the delicious drama of seasons and weather. There’s truly nothing better than midnight thunderstorms and wet, hot summer nights and red and orange fall leaves and brown soggy cold winter drudgery building suspense for the shocking glory of springtime.

And speaking of suspense, did you know that I ONLY HAVE 40 DAYS OF TAMOXIFEN LEFT? Five years of Tamoxifen is drawing to a close in just forty daaaaaays!!!! Remember when I wrote this about Tamoxifen and how much I hated it, and someone wrote in the comments that being on Tamoxifen changed her whole personality and it was the absolute fucking WORST?

Well, brace yourselves for THE OLD ME, my lovers, because she’ll be back soon, and god only knows what she’s like. Do you remember her personality at all? I can only make out the faintest sketch based on old posts from 2019. She seems a little bit nuts, honestly! Was she a little too happy? Was that a problem? Was she annoying?

Thanks for asking! No snow yet, but it’s definitely on the way. And sometimes the anticipation is even better than the main event.

So few people recognize that. Children get it. Dogs get it. But most adults don’t. If you want to be joyful, you’ve got to RELISH THE SUSPENSE.

Even when you’re antsy, impatient, pacing, or lugging another basket of laundry into the hot basement, you’re still the protagonist. This romance is all yours. Assume the best, keep them chocolates in the sun, and keep it rolling.

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Update:

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