My Mom Is Texting My Boyfriend, So Naturally, I'm Worried
Technology is a wonderful thing. It affords us many opportunities to stay connected, which at a time like this is the only thing keeping us all sane. It lets us to reach our destinations quicker and more efficiently, without getting lost in unfamiliar neighbourhoods; easily search the answers to obscure questions or trivia that would plague us with curiosity; casually keep up with friends who live far away so we don’t have to lose sight of who they are becoming; and it allows my mother to text my boyfriend whenever she wants, which is not a wonderful thing.
I love my mom and I love my boyfriend, but that’s just it: I am the middleman, or at least, I should be. Back in the good ol’ days—not that I know much about them other than everyone smoked all the time—a woman would be the gatekeeper through which her family could access her partner. She held the keys, and could then sit in the corner to supervise like a social worker assigned to a custody battle. Go on, have your fun, but know that you are being watched by the person who decides whether or not you’ll spend Christmas together.
I’m not saying there’s anything shady going on, like she’s planting seeds of doubt in his brain, or they’re secretly dating and the past five years have been a rouse to achieve his Harold and Maude fantasy that culminates in their elopement on a seniors' cruise. At least then I could write a tell-all that goes on to receive international acclaim and gets selected for Reese Witherspoon’s Book Club. She'd eventually adapt it into a film where she plays me (she’s an incredibly youthful 44) and Annette Benning plays my mom, the role that finally wins her an Oscar. No, in reality, I’m just left anxiously wondering what she said to him. Guessing from her telling an entire dinner party about a rash that erupted on my body—which I found out from a neighbour who did not attend that dinner party—it’s going to be more than anyone bargained for.
I imagine most of their correspondence involves my whereabouts, gifts they are going to give me, what my best qualities are and why... Essentially, a fan club consisting of only two members. But the more I prodded my boyfriend—reminding him that I respect his privacy enough not to snoop—the more my worries were both relieved and deepened.
Items that came up were:
Pictures of chairs from Home Sense (he just moved into an apartment, so her inner HGTV host has awoken)
Videos of my dog from several years ago (he sees him weekly, but the time zone in which my mother operates is The Past)
Song recommendations (innocent enough, but the tone and contents of these tracks are what need further investigation)
An extensive collection of college-era texts wondering where I am and when I will be home, spanning all hours of the day and night (I will deduce that for every three unanswered texts she sent me, he received one)
“Cool Hand Luke is on Channel 1331 right now” (how many classics of American cinema can a man who does not have cable be alerted to before he cracks?!)
Her favourite serial killer series (I obviously know my mom has watched The Fall seven—yes, SEVEN—times, but he doesn’t need to know how often she spends time in the mind of a psychopath)
They aren't the most incriminating exchanges. She’s on brand with what I’ve come to expect, but it’s a whole different story to an unwitting party. Will he buckle under the pressure to promptly reply with well-positioned emojis? Will she (inevitably) pull back the curtain on my inherited anxiety that I am just now beginning to unpack in therapy? Will there come a day when I say, “I have some news… I’m pregnant!” And he responds with, “I know, your mom told me, and she has some name suggestions.” It may indeed, which will confirm one of two things: I share too much with her, or she's developed the habit of rooting through my trash.
While I spiral into a state, taking this as yet another opportunity to assign blame to my mother who deserves much more credit, I take a moment to notice my boyfriend’s relaxed demeanour. He isn’t bothered by any of it, and that is my cue to let it be, or at least give a convincing performance. So I did, until he said, “We also talk on Facebook Messenger sometimes.” I can only hope her invitation to play Words With Friends is the extent of it, but I have no way to tell. That’s between the two of them.