My husband didn’t marry his mother. Not by a long shot. Not by a short stretch of the imagination, even. Get the picture?
For starters, my husband’s mother and I don’t share the same race. We don’t share the same physical proportions. We don’t share the same philosophies, ideals or first impressions. And, yet, the one thing that we do share is probably the greatest or terrifyingly single, most unifying, thing ever – and that is a love for my husband. (Notice I didn’t say her son, ahem.)
For what it’s worth – and trust me, I’m smart enough, and respectful enough, to know it’s worth plenty – she had him first, both literally and figuratively. By sheer dint of will or through the beautiful brush strokes of biology, they are, and will forever be, inextricably linked. More
Every year my gang and I head off to an annual summer picnic complete with BBQ and games. All the family favorites are there: three-legged race, egg toss, mother-daughter/father-son relay. There’s even a swim meet. It’s a great day out and everybody has a blast. But as I watched my three sons battle out to be paired with their dad for the father-son final, it occurred to me that while there are many parental pairings, the one you rarely see outside of Pride Week is mother-son. I’ve often wondered why not.
Mostly, I understand the gender divide. My mom and I have an annual trip to Miami where we lounge in the sun, eat, shop and talk. My man has an annual golf trip with his buddies where they golf in the sun, eat, drink and don’t talk. He can’t wait for our boys to get older so he can take them on a boys’ weekend camping trip. I can’t wait for them to get older so when they do go camping, I can hang with my girlfriends. I get it.
But what I don’t get is that while father-daughter bonding is accepted, and even promoted, the mother-son combo is seen in a whole different – and much darker – light. Did Oedipus ruin it for the rest of us? More