“Omar!” I yelled up the stairs to my 19-year-old. “Did you hear me? I told you to feed the dogs!” I could hear the sound of the basketball video game, cheering crowd, excited announcer, slapping of high fives.
‘Hold on, Mom!” he bellowed from behind his closed bedroom door.
“It’s 9:00! The dogs are hungry, Omar! Dogs are living beings!” I yelled. This was the boy’s only chore. I felt irritation tickle under my ribs.
“I said I’d do it!” he replied, loud, irritated himself now.
I stomped up the stairs, passing the gallery of family photos framed in black with white mats, Nick, me and our daughter Chloe down at the barn at Nick’s parents house with Nick’s parents and sister, her kids. Up the wall a bit, the sketch of 11-year-old Chloe made in Central Park on a visit to NY. Then a family professional photo of my side of the family at the beach, Dad, my stepmother, Nick and Chloe and me, my sisters and their kids. I turned right at the landing where pictures of Omar began to appear — a portrait made in a mall, a jolly, fat baby, then one with him in a suit and tie, four years old. He behaved better when in that suit, as if his clothes made him feel too dignified to bounce off the walls to make his friend laugh or push a kid down from the top of the slide before they were prepared. Then Omar in a basketball uniform, posing woodenly with a basketball under one arm, unnatural when not in motion.
I whipped the door open, grabbed the controller out of his hand, yelling, “You’re done!” at the same time he yelled, “Mom!! I’m sorry! I was gonna do it!”
I stomped on every stair on my way down, with him following me. This was not our agreement when he returned home from his first semester in college. He agreed to be more responsible and, well…agreeable! Instead, he had argued with everything I had asked him to do for months and this was the proverbial last straw.
“Mom, I’m sorry! I’ll do it! Can I do it?” he said, following me into the kitchen, towering over me when we both stopped in front of the sink. Sometimes it startled me to look up at him.
I didn’t answer but thunked his controller on the counter and began rinsing dishes, determined to hold it together, to not get upset, to not yell. I had tried everything — reasoning, lecturing, begging, bribing, cajoling. It always ended with me yelling. I’m not proud to say he pushed my buttons big time. I had lost it many times with him. He had given me a mug for Mother’s Day the year before that said, “I’m this close to losing my shit.”
“Mom, I’m sorry! Can I do it now? I’m doing it now!” he said, opening the pantry.
I took the opportunity to collect myself, trying to recall the tools I was learning in Compassionate Communication. Name my feelings, give myself empathy, try to identify my needs, make requests. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply. He came back into the kitchen and stood beside me.
“Omar,” I said, in my calmest voice. “I really don’t want to get mad right now.”
“I’m sorry!” said Omar. “I mean I’m not sorry, I know you hate that.”
“I don’t want your sorries. What I want is a better understanding between us.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I mean, I’m… I’ll change.”
“Omar,” I spoke very slowly, “Could you please just listen to me? Can you just stand still and not interrupt for a minute? I have been a hands-on, stay-at-home mother for 29 years. I’m tired of being a mother. I want to move on to different things in my life, I’m ready to do some things for myself now. And you are a 19-year-old man who doesn’t want a mother any more. You want to be independent and make choices for yourself. So tell me, Omar, how are we going to work this out?
“I’m sorry, I’ll remember to feed the dogs. I mean, I’m not sorry.”
“I’m not talking about the dogs, Omar. I’d really like you to hear what I’m saying and really understand how I’m feeling. What are you hearing me say?”
“You want me to act better.”
“No, let’s try this again. I am so tired of spending my time trying to get adult people living in my house to do what they’re supposed to do, the things we agreed upon. I need autonomy. And I think you need autonomy too..”
“I’ll do it next time.”
“I don’t want to be crazy, mad, stressed-out Mom anymore. I want to have an adult relationship with you. I want a peaceful home. I want the freedom and space to do the things that I’m interested in. I want to write and dance and travel and play and have fun. Can you tell me what you’re hearing me say?”
“Yeah, I get it. You are tired of yelling at people and you want to be free and have fun and go to dance class.”
“Yes! Exactly! Do you think you can help me out with these needs?”
“Sure, Mom, I’ll help you out. Can I have my controller back?”
“It’s all yours,” I said, handing it to him. “I love you. Let’s try to learn to live together, okay?”
“I got you, Mom.”
I was skeptical. But the following night, as my husband Nick and I were drying the dinner dishes, Omar bounded down the stairs.
“What do you have planned for tonight, Les? How do you see the evening progressing?” Nick asked. Nick is an actor, which means he is at home and also underfoot quite a bit of the time, often asking me annoying questions like, “What are you going to do today?”
“Leave Mom alone, Dad,” Omar said, squeezing between us at the sink and putting his hand on Nick’s shoulder, “Don’t ask her all those questions. She needs autonomy, space and freedom.”
I guess he does listen after all.
I love this story! Omar is so wise.
Absolutely felt this! Life tips I’m taking away: “What are you hearing me say?” Yes to autonomy, space, and freedom and the space you’ve given yourself to say the phrase!