Mom Called...

I didn’t come from a home with a lot of rules.  Really, there was just one:  The Golden Rule.  That covered everything and it worked for us.  If you’re not familiar with this rule, I will 1.) question whether you were raised by rabid warthogs in the wild and 2.)  attempt to enlighten you. 

The Golden Rule very simply states:  Treat others as you would like to be treated.  Lest you think this is some old-fashioned and out of vogue “Do unto others, yada yada…” Christian view, rest assured that most cultures have some version of this very same rule.  True, there is the Christian version, from Matthew  "Whatever you wish that people would do to you, so do to them.” but it doesn’t stop there.

Judaism says “Thou shall love thy neighbor as thyself.”  Islam says “Not one of you truly believes until you wish for others what you wish for yourself.”  Buddhism says “Treat not others in ways you yourself would find hurtful.”  Hinduism says “This is the sum of duty: do not do to others what would cause pain if done to you.”  Confucious said “Never impose on others what you would not choose for yourself.”  Wicca says “that which ye deem harmful unto thyself, the very same shall ye be forbidden from doing unto another”.  Even Tom Cruise would tell you “Cause only those things which others are able to experience easily.”

When you look at it like that, it seems less like a rule and more like Common Sense, doesn’t it?  So maybe our home didn’t really have rules.  We just had an expectation of common sense.  The understanding was pretty much that we could do whatever we chose.  HOWEVER, it was also understood that our choice brought consequences and those consequences were ours to deal with.  No one was going to make us go to school.  But no one was going to bail us out when report cards arrived, either.

I won’t pretend that we were perfect little Golden Rule-adhering respectful angels.  We’re human siblings who knew which buttons to push to aggravate one another.  And we did.  Generally, our sparring partners were the sibling closest to us in the birth-order line.  Everyone else was referee and/or police.  Those moments aside, we basically worked as a team to do what needed to be done.

Our mother worked hard to keep us afloat.  Often, this meant 2 hour commutes which required her to leave the house before sunrise and to be away until it was dark once again.  This meant that we young folks were reasonably expected to keep the house from falling down.  We did our own laundry, cleaned our own messes, and tended to the tasks that we thought needed tending.  We took turns preparing meals, we took turns cleaning bathrooms and we took turns washing dishes.

OK, maybe we had ONE other rule.  Dishes.  Dishes had to be done before Mom got home.  Actually, they didn’t even need to be DONE, but they sure better be started.  The fear we had over not doing the dishes was not fear of Mom.  No.  It was fear of the wrath of siblings who absolutely would not tolerate disappointing Mom.

Now that I think about it, I’m really not sure what would have happened if dishes weren’t started when Mom walked in the door.  I don’t remember her screaming (ever!), I don’t remember her crying, I don’t remember being grounded over dishes.  But I remember the fear that it must be done.  Dammit!  All these years of recalling the Law Of Dishes and I am just now realizing that what I really remember is Sibling Manipulation!

Remember, Mom was away, bringing home the bacon.  It was understood that we weren’t to bother her at work.  If we dared to call her at work, we’d better have a very good reason.   She was busy!  Which also meant that she wasn’t calling us, either.  She only called if there was something that she really needed or wanted us to do.    If Mom called, that meant action!

Hearing “Mom called” meant that whatever she wanted us to do ABSOLUTELY must be done.  “Mom called.  She wants you to bring in some firewood and find some kindling.”  “Mom called.  She wants you to take the hamburger out of the freezer.”  “Mom called.  She needs you to mop the floor.”  Those things were done, no question.

“Mom Called” brought out an almost Pavlovian response.  “Mom Called” triggered us to our feet to tackle a mission.  Now, when Mom Called, she rarely named names.  She didn’t say “Terri needs to mop the floor.”   She just said that she’d like it mopped and trusted that it would be done.  Whoever happened to answer the phone when she called really had all the power to do the task or to assign it to someone else.  That’s some serious weaponry!   Naturally, it didn’t take long for us to abuse the power of the Mom Called. 

It was pretty easy to play a Mom Called card when you needed clean underwear but didn’t want to do laundry yourself.  “Mom Called.  She wants you to do a load of whites.”  That eventually morphed into “Mom Called.  She said you need to make me a sandwich.” or “Mom Called.  She said to tell you it’s my turn with the Atari.”  You don’t question a Mom Called!

Wow.  What a kick to the gut.  All these years I’ve been recalling my Utopian Golden Rule childhood only to just now see that I’ve been hornswaggled by improper application of the Mom Called strategy.

Still, I fully trust the power of the Golden Rule.  However, to my brothers and sisters I say “Mom Called.  She said you need to apologize.  And make me a sandwich.”