The toxic mother hen
Last night an expression came to me, “Mother hen.” It’s not a super common expression, but all expressions can be useful. This one seemed to express something really key.
What is a mother hen?
According to Google: a person who sees to the needs of others, especially in a fussy or interfering way.
"Josephine got to be a real mother hen, giving everybody a bit of what they needed"
I’m not exactly sure where I’m going with this, so I’m just going to start writing.
I started thinking about this because I brought my car in to be fixed, and also asked for a job, at a local family-owned business. I brought my resumé here last out of all the employers I approached, because it was a place my dad worked, and I had strange ideas about the owners.
When I did some business with the current manager, however, my previous preconceptions seemed excessively odd. Where did I get these ideas from?
The man in front of me was very kind, fully in control of his domain. He could offer me a job, to support my family. He could make a bid (and get accepted) on multi-million dollar deals with local industries. He could buy a quarter-million piece of equipment without even thinking about it. He could take a vacation anywhere in the world, but rather enjoyed being where he was. He was part of a connected family that was doing business together. In many ways, a very enviable person, and a key part of our community.
Contrast that with some of the things I heard about them growing up.
“Do you know about such-and-such warehouse?” I was driving taxi, as a late teen. The warehouse was where I picked up my taxis in the morning.
“I guess…”
“And the owners? Do you think they are good people?”
“I don’t know.” I really didn’t.
“I’m just concerned about dad’s boss. He’s buying that place. I hope he gets a good deal on it. You know, I would just hate to see such a sweet, hard-working local man get cheated on a thing like that. Do you think it needs a lot of work?”
I got the idea that this man must really not know what he is doing, if he would need the wife of his employee to ask her teenage son what he thought about the place, before making a deal.
Later, I remember my parents talking about “all the stress” their bosses were under with controlling their investments. My parents (hopeless with money, and perpetually in debt) made it sound like they had a gambling addiction. As though having assets was some kind of a sin.
I am searching for other memories, but I think my mind has let the others go, and held onto these as emblematic ones.
What was happening? My mother was “mother henning" this family. As though they needed her help — at least, her moral support from afar. Did they need her help? Um…no. She could learn a thing or two from them, but they were just fine, thank you.
But what was the result of her words, her ideas, her posture?
They lost huge respect in my eyes. I saw them as childish, incompetent, and on the verge of financial ruin.
The man scanning my resume and directing an employee to fix my car with a casual flick of the eyebrows was not at all that man.
I think of times that my mom has offered to help me. Why? Why does it make me so mad when she tries to help?
For example, she offered to help publish my previous blog. I turned her down: as a missionary, it wasn’t the time to become a published author. But, I offered that if she really wanted to help, she could go through and edit my posts. That would make my content a lot better, and ready to publish when the time came. She wasn’t interested in that.
She wanted to take control, ownership. To place her stamp on it. But make me stronger so that I could spread my wings and publish on my own? No, no thanks. I’m not really interested in that.
My younger brother (the one from my dream, and also mom's dream) is a struggling musician, who finally settled on being an auto mechanic to make ends meet. His first album, my mom tucked into the dust-jacket of one of her self-published books, and sold as a set. The album was teenage rock, the book was about something completely different. As art, they had nothing to do with one another.
He was grateful for the help: but then…what next? That was his release. Where else would he publish the album? He just started working on the next one. Thanks a lot, mother hen.
It’s like a caterpillar. They say that there is a certain amount of struggle that is needed for a butterfly to get free of its cocoon. If helped too much, the butterfly will emerge too soon, and die.
Is that what I fear? Is that what I experienced?
I feel like I should have better examples. I can’t think of many. Maybe they are not the sorts of things that one can put their finger on. A little help here, a little comment there.
I saw someone doing it on Hell’s Kitchen one time. A contestant was very strong. A rival contestant began trying to take her out. She moved into her space. “Oh, here is the ladle you wanted.” “Your biscuits were almost burning. I took them out for you.” “Would you like some more salt for that sauce? I think you forgot…” So helpful. So kind. The strong contestant (that could put up with verbal assaults, pressure, demands, multitasking, etc.) could not handle this over-helpfulness. It threw her completely off, and I thought she would go home that day. The only reason she didn’t was because the saboteur got called away on something else, and forgot what she was doing.
I still do not know exactly why…I stopped blogging and podcasting eight months ago, after talking to my mom. I am trying to figure out what it was about what she said that made me stop. She was kind, and supportive, and said my journey had inspired her and all of that. What was it that totally silenced me?
I texted my wife yesterday, “It’s like my mom hates flowers. She can’t stand to see them grow on their own. She has to either take over the gardening all by herself (so she gets credit) or else she yanks them out. Yanks them in the kindest, most compassionate way, of course.” …and probably, if she takes over gardening, she blocks the sun and over-waters so they die. So either way, flowers, beautiful things and emerging strength dies around her.
I am thinking of some more examples.
One time, my mom had the opportunity to meet Mark Buchanan. He is the author of “Your God is too Safe.” I had told my parents that this book had absolutely changed my life. It woke a deep desire in me for an intimate, vital relationship to a God who was bigger than I. He’s also one of those rare Canadians who has written a fairly successful Christian book. My mom should have been honoured to meet him: and, as an author, maybe try to learn a few things.
“Yeah, he’s nice. I guess.” She had said, “But he uses big words, like all the time. It’s like he can’t turn it off. Even in ordinary conversation.” I got the idea that Mark could really learn a thing or two from my mom, if only he would listen. Did he realize what greatness he had been privileged with, at that supper?
Another time, my mom compared me to the lead singer of Mercy Me (very popular band at the time). “I like your voice a lot better than his,” she had said, “His voice is very harsh. Yours is more soft and comforting.” I guess that was meant to be a compliment to myself. But after that, I did not really enjoy listening to Mercy Me.
I guess these are not “mother hen” examples. But it seems related to me.
One counselling technique — to be used with people with chronic fear — is to visualize the person that you are afraid of in a vulnerable position. For example, imagine a crying baby, and put your boss’s head on that baby’s shoulders. Or imagine the bully in his underwear.
I think my mom imagines everyone in their underwear. Especially if they do or accomplish anything that in any way competes with her own accomplishments, or the accomplishments of her sons (when she is living life through them). Then, from this position, she sees how she can “help” them. “Oh, poor widdow you! Does somebuddy need a hug? Does somebody need their blankie? Maybe some help tying your shoes…or publishing a book…?”
Perhaps that is why she always wants to work with under-privileged people. It is easier to find people who “need” her…people to “help” *shudder*
It is hard to put your finger on what is so wrong about how she does this. But it is not so much what she says, but what she is thinking. Keeping in mind, I have been so connected to her, I could nearly read her thoughts. (Yuck) And so when I know that she is thinking of someone (or myself) as a weak and needy person…that has a profound affect. And if I accept help, then isn’t that admitting that she was right? That I am that weak little wimp that needs her? And then if she helps me (if, shudder, if she had helped me publish my blog) then…who gets credit? Then, for the rest of my life, who would get credit for those ideas? Myself, or my mom?
This explains why I finally had to block her on Facebook. I could not block her from reading my blog…but I can make an anonymous blog. And I blocked her from commenting. Why? What was her great offence?
She would comment. Favourably. All the time.
“Good job, son! Great job!” “Great thoughts!” “Way to go!” Like she was cheering little-league. Loudly. Embarrassingly loudly. And she would share it to her friends. Nice, right? Why did it always bug me so much?
Then, near the end, I posted on Facebook about our moving event. I had been silent for quite a while, but I needed help, so I opened it up to more people. My mom pointed out a typo in the post. “Just being helpful”? Or just being a mother hen? I was not wrong. I had written in French, and Facebook auto-corrected it: and so I told her as much. She was wrong, not I.
That was the last occasion I gave her to interact with me on Facebook. She was excluded from friend lists that I posted to. Then, finally, I blocked her around Christmas. And I felt free. Finally, free!
Free to just post and not be helped in any way — with compliments, shares, corrections, or anything by my oh, so helpful “mother hen” of a mother.
Note to the reader: as I mentioned in my "about" section, this blog is not about making normal, healthy parents feel guilty about their parenting. Of course you are proud of your kids. Of course you try to help them. Of course you treat them favourably. I am wrestling with the effects of a personality disorder, and that is what I am processing here. I am feeling the effects of many things which are just slightly off about how I was parented, resulting in a very hurtful experience that I am still unraveling. That is very different than a normal parent doting on and feeling some sense of favouritism towards their own child.
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