When it was first suggested my Nugget add an occupational therapist to his entourage, I was hesitant. I’m not going to lie, until recently I thought occupational therapists were therapists you sought when you’d made a horrific err in choosing your career and needed a little guidance finding a more suitable occupation. (You see it too now don’t you?) Wasn’t two a bit young to make a career decision. I now know better but they really should change the name.
Last week, thanks to the Nugget’s ever growing barrage of medical anomalies, we added occupational therapy to our list of things to do between developmental therapy, sign language and speech therapy. (For reals, we’re on the light side of things. I don’t know how some parents do it. Thank God they come to our house.) Our initial meeting, like all the others, consisted of a litany of questions about Nugget’s behaviors, development, habits, preferences and home life. As I described our daily grind it became rather clear that the development of both my boys has been strikingly similar, especially in that they are strikingly attached to me. It hit me. I HAVE CREATED TWO GIANT MAMA’S BOYS! While some might be dismayed by such a realization, I simply say…nicely done Margaret.
Now I can’t take all the credit for my little sultans being so attached to their mother. As Turks, they are genetic predisposed to this kind of all-encompassing mother love. Turks are, by nature, a culture of mama’s boys. To the foreign world they may appear to be badasses but in the comfort of their own borders their mommies are still kissing their booboos.
When I taught in Turkey, every day the lunchroom would be filled with mothers feeding lunch to their sons. True story. I’m not talking about little boys either- these were middle schoolers allowing their mommies to cut their meat and feed them bite by bite. Mothers would wait by the fence until the kids headed to lunch whereupon numerous boys would receive piping hot, home cooked lunches delivered to them by their doting mothers. The girls, more interested in gossip, academics and independence, took care of themselves. I once witnessed an entire soccer team of mothers holding food on the sidelines and as each player ran by, they were fed a bite by mom. Disturbing? Yes, but a bit enticing.
A few years ago there was a Turkish commercial, which showed an office full of men working in cubicles glancing lovingly at the photos on their desks. Moments later, their Turkish mothers appeared in each man’s cubicle serving tea, wiping crumbs and cleaning. The camera then reveals the photos on the desks are photos of the men with their mothers. Ahhhhh. As the mother of a Turk, what’s not to love?
I’m not ashamed to admit it. I plan to keep these apron strings tight for the long haul. Thanks to those Turk genes, I should have no problem.
Will I be selecting their professions? Of course. I’ve got my retirement to consider. If one of my boys does something stupid like following his passion instead of the money, who will I live with? I’ll be forced to become a Walmart greeter and I’m too surly for that.
Will I be selecting geographic locals? Duh. These boys are my ticket out of cold weather. It can’t be left to them to choose where their mother would like to live. Only I hold that answer.
Will I be choosing their spouses? I think you know that answer. I can’t risk my sons being sucked in by some skank ass ho or a gold digging, mother-hating manipulator. Rest assured boys, Mommy’s got this.
Over the years when I’ve heard girlfriends complain of domineering mother-in-laws (Apparently, mothers with sons only are the worst. Go figure.) I’ve listened sympathetically and tried to understand. It’s hard to get any skin in the mother-in-law game when yours can only visit via a 19 hour flight but is scared of airplanes. (Nicely done again Margaret.) But any more, when I hear of controlling mother-in-laws coming between husband and wife, inserting a mother’s power to make the husband choose her over his wife, I’m enthralled. Please…tell me more. How does this happen? I must know. I will need this knowledge later…
One of my charming girlfriends I like to call the Mouth of the South often tells me, “You got to stop this crap or you’re gonna be stuck with those tittie babies forever.” Your lips to God’s ears I say. Though that whole tittie baby title is a bit off putting.
Yes, I have created two mother-loving, old school, Turkish mama’s boys and I could not be more proud. I will continue to cultivate this until I head to the grave (The grave upon which I expect my sons to throw themselves and weep for days upon my death.) Relax, they too will become badass Turks some day, thanks to me. But even when they are grown-up badasses, mommy will still be number one. I’m doing every thing I can now to make sure of that.