Mark is 6'5" tall. He's 19 years old (a legal adult). He has now been away from home for a year. He can obviously handle the rigors of earning dual degrees and rowing for the Michigan Men's Rowing Team while being a commuter student. He was active in church and had lots of friends. He can take care of himself.
And yet, whenever any women get around Mark, they want to do one thing: mother him.
I don't usually think of the word "mother" as a verb, but in the case of Mark, it couldn't be anything else.
I am the most guilty of the action. As soon as he comes home, I just want him to catch up on his sleep, so I do everything for him. I make his food for him, I do his laundry, I even occasionally pick up his dirty clothes. Pathetic, I know. Or at least I thought it was until I noticed that I'm not alone.
Mark likes to joke about how tired he gets of living with his three mothers. Of course, he says it in some snarky way like, "Oh, how lucky I am to have three mothers" whenever Johannah, Glo and I are all trying to tell him to do something at the same time. This is a normal occurrence when he gets in the car and we all think we know where he should sit, and we know that there's no way in high-heaven that he could possibly make the decision himself.
Two days after Mark got home from Michigan, I headed out on a lunch date with my good friends. We get together every week or so to sit down and catch up. I'm very protective of this time, so when Mark asked if he could go to (we were going to T.G.I. Friday's afterall), I was hesitant. However, how could I resist his sweet face? I'm sure that he even probably asked me in his cute chipmunk voice. Fine. Come along.
Oh my gosh, forget all of us catching up with each other and discussing our most current problems. It was all about Mark. They wanted to know everything that had happened since they had last seen him. Questions about school. Questions about his girlfriend. Questions about rowing. Mark told me afterwards that he actually started getting a headache because he was being peppered with so many questions, and because there was so much laughter! We are a talkative bunch when we are together, and I could see how it would be overwhelming.
Well, Mark goes to T.G.I. Friday's for one reason: buffalo wings. He loves them. In fact, he orders nothing else besides a root beer and wings. For lunch, or dinner.
His order came, and they were messy little things, dripping in sauce. After the first one, his hands and mouth were covered in sauce, and of course, he was still fielding questions and maintaining a conversation.
And that's when it happened.
With no coordination from any of the four women at the table, we all handed Mark a napkin at the exact same time and told him to wipe his hands.
He didn't know what to do. He literally had four napkins in his face, even though he had his own napkin in his lap! When he tried to tell us that "it's okay, I have my own napkin", almost in chorus we said, "Mark, take the napkin."
I think he eventually took someone's offering, being the polite boy I taught him to be. However, we weren't done with him.
A couple of minutes later, he was using a knife to try and dislodge a piece of chicken that was stuck between his front teeth. Barbara, my wonderful Asian friend, noticed. Barbara has the most beautiful, long black hair which, I didn't know until this point, works well as floss. Yes, floss. She offered Mark a piece of her hair to use as floss for his teeth.
Surprise, surprise, he declined.
She wasn't stopping though. Like all of us at the table, she knew that she knew better than Mark. Low and behold, she opened up her purse and pulled out a legitimate piece of floss.
What next? She told him to use it. And he obeyed. Afterall, you can only fight mothers for so long before we win. Every child should learn this at a young age--it would save us all a lot of headaches.
The independence thing only lasted so long for Mark at home. Eventually, he took his rightful place as #4 in the seniority line-up of the Kennedy Family. And he discovered (or perhaps was reminded) that it's really not so bad.
In fact, since we have come to Interlochen, it has hit Mark that he only has so much time left with us. 12 days from today he enters the MTC, and we won't see him for another two years.
He has his own room here at Interlochen that he shares with the girls. They are gone most of the day, so you would think he would want to hang out in there. However, he doesn't. In fact, he opens up a cot that is in his parents' room and stays right there. With us.
I can see everything he does. I frequently send him on "minion" chores. I remind him that there's more to life than texting all day long.
He takes it all. He doesn't complain. He doesn't fight back. I think perhaps he realizes that after these 12 short days are up, there's going to be no mothering in his life. No gaggle of mothers offering him napkins. Or floss. He'll be alone, and so for the time being, he's happy letting me smother him with all the mothering love and attention I can. Thanks, Markie-Boy.
And yet, whenever any women get around Mark, they want to do one thing: mother him.
I don't usually think of the word "mother" as a verb, but in the case of Mark, it couldn't be anything else.
I am the most guilty of the action. As soon as he comes home, I just want him to catch up on his sleep, so I do everything for him. I make his food for him, I do his laundry, I even occasionally pick up his dirty clothes. Pathetic, I know. Or at least I thought it was until I noticed that I'm not alone.
Mark likes to joke about how tired he gets of living with his three mothers. Of course, he says it in some snarky way like, "Oh, how lucky I am to have three mothers" whenever Johannah, Glo and I are all trying to tell him to do something at the same time. This is a normal occurrence when he gets in the car and we all think we know where he should sit, and we know that there's no way in high-heaven that he could possibly make the decision himself.
Two days after Mark got home from Michigan, I headed out on a lunch date with my good friends. We get together every week or so to sit down and catch up. I'm very protective of this time, so when Mark asked if he could go to (we were going to T.G.I. Friday's afterall), I was hesitant. However, how could I resist his sweet face? I'm sure that he even probably asked me in his cute chipmunk voice. Fine. Come along.
Oh my gosh, forget all of us catching up with each other and discussing our most current problems. It was all about Mark. They wanted to know everything that had happened since they had last seen him. Questions about school. Questions about his girlfriend. Questions about rowing. Mark told me afterwards that he actually started getting a headache because he was being peppered with so many questions, and because there was so much laughter! We are a talkative bunch when we are together, and I could see how it would be overwhelming.
Well, Mark goes to T.G.I. Friday's for one reason: buffalo wings. He loves them. In fact, he orders nothing else besides a root beer and wings. For lunch, or dinner.
His order came, and they were messy little things, dripping in sauce. After the first one, his hands and mouth were covered in sauce, and of course, he was still fielding questions and maintaining a conversation.
And that's when it happened.
With no coordination from any of the four women at the table, we all handed Mark a napkin at the exact same time and told him to wipe his hands.
He didn't know what to do. He literally had four napkins in his face, even though he had his own napkin in his lap! When he tried to tell us that "it's okay, I have my own napkin", almost in chorus we said, "Mark, take the napkin."
I think he eventually took someone's offering, being the polite boy I taught him to be. However, we weren't done with him.
A couple of minutes later, he was using a knife to try and dislodge a piece of chicken that was stuck between his front teeth. Barbara, my wonderful Asian friend, noticed. Barbara has the most beautiful, long black hair which, I didn't know until this point, works well as floss. Yes, floss. She offered Mark a piece of her hair to use as floss for his teeth.
Surprise, surprise, he declined.
She wasn't stopping though. Like all of us at the table, she knew that she knew better than Mark. Low and behold, she opened up her purse and pulled out a legitimate piece of floss.
What next? She told him to use it. And he obeyed. Afterall, you can only fight mothers for so long before we win. Every child should learn this at a young age--it would save us all a lot of headaches.
The independence thing only lasted so long for Mark at home. Eventually, he took his rightful place as #4 in the seniority line-up of the Kennedy Family. And he discovered (or perhaps was reminded) that it's really not so bad.
In fact, since we have come to Interlochen, it has hit Mark that he only has so much time left with us. 12 days from today he enters the MTC, and we won't see him for another two years.
He has his own room here at Interlochen that he shares with the girls. They are gone most of the day, so you would think he would want to hang out in there. However, he doesn't. In fact, he opens up a cot that is in his parents' room and stays right there. With us.
I can see everything he does. I frequently send him on "minion" chores. I remind him that there's more to life than texting all day long.
He takes it all. He doesn't complain. He doesn't fight back. I think perhaps he realizes that after these 12 short days are up, there's going to be no mothering in his life. No gaggle of mothers offering him napkins. Or floss. He'll be alone, and so for the time being, he's happy letting me smother him with all the mothering love and attention I can. Thanks, Markie-Boy.
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