My Oedipus Wreck

I haven't written about this before, but given that it's an ever-present tension, it's worth mentioning. What I'm talking about is the mother-son thing. Call it maternal love, worship, devotion, whatever. If it were bottled, it would have to be a controlled substance.

When I first heard about the so-called "Oedipus complex", I thought the idea that a boy would want to kill his father to be with his mother (or some less fatal variation of that) was pretty absurd. Then I met Ian. When Ian was about 6 months old, I was nuzzling with my husband on the couch one Saturday afternoon. Suddenly our placid baby boy, who was playing with a toy on the rug, dropped everything, pointed wildly at my husband and started to scream.

We thought the nuzzle-kiss-scream trick was pretty cool. We tried it again. Closer, closer, a little peck, there it is: SCREAM! It never failed. We did it for friends. See, watch what he does when we do this. Again and again. Eventually Ian learned how to cope a little bit better, but when his chips were down, look out Papa.

Then, 16 months later, Julian came along. At that point, our Oedipus Complex became multi-layered. Julian didn't want Ian. Julian didn't want Papa. Ian didn't want Julian. Ian didn't want Papa. Both sons had only one object in their sights: me. Each of them schemes regularly about how to get rid of the other two men in the house.

Scared yet? I am. Especially when it's bedtime and I have to listen to:

"I don't want Ian to see MY STORY!" Shove, push, slap (yes, I'm sorry to say.)

"I don't want Julian to sit on the couch next to us!" Shove, push, and another slap.

Then in the morning when we pile into the car I get to listen to:

"I AM sitting behind Mommy!!!"

"NO, I'm sitting behind Mommy!! You CAN'T sit behind Mommy! No no no!!!"

The energy from the anxiety circulating around the car (mostly from me) would be enough to light half of Manhattan for a week.

Ian wants confirmation: "Mommy, where are you going to sit? I want you to sit here." He points to the passenger seat, which is in front of him. I explain that if I sit in the passenger seat then nobody will be driving the car. This is a small detail that he doesn't want to be bothered with.

"Mommy, you have to sit HERRRREEE!" He's still pointing to the passenger seat. Juilan catches on to his taking-the-mountain-to-Mohammed strategy.

"No, Mommy always sits heeere! Mommy, you have to SIT HERE!" Julian is about to turn his third shade of purple as the Acapulco-cliff-diving tears are jettisoning themselves from his eyelashes.

They're both kicking the back of the seats on our leather interior Honda, a small luxury my husband and I snuck in for ourselves when we bought the car. I just see heels flying, fists waving, tears, hear screaming. I think I'm starting to black out... now I know what those Calgon people were talking about.

This flag-planting, lets call it, on the continent that is "Mommy" continues day after day. It's usually down underneath many a temper tantrum. Oftentimes, I'm too weary from the onslaught to be very good at soothing them. I'm sure I'm sowing all kinds of seeds of male dysfunction (a la, 'my mother didn't love me enough that's why I have commitment issues,' etc), but look: I'm just trying to keep my head above water most of the time. This is too much love for any woman, don't you think?