Oh, boy -- I don't know where to begin this story. Perhaps like this: I still don't know where being a mother and being me intersect or overlap, and when the one has to give way to the other. I still feel guilty when Me wants to take over from The Mother. Last night was a good example of this.
(By the way -- this has all been apologized for and tempers have calmed -- so I am not holding it against anyone. I know that my son has a volatile and very big subterranean lake of rage waiting for anything to drop in so it can erupt. And while I do not enjoy this, I can understand it.)
I got home and found my apartment very unwelcoming. Joe was shouting angrily, the standard fan was lying in pieces on the floor, it was hot and there was food and bags and what-not strewn here and there, and Catt, Joe's girlfriend, was on the couch in tears.
The reason for all this was a contretemps with Joe's bank, in which a deposit he had made, and for which he had the receipt, was being denied to have ever taken place. Several checks had bounced, as a result of this, one of which was his insurance payment check. And he had a court appearance the next day, in which he was supposed to show proof of insurance.
Those are the bones of the situation, but I had to hear over and over the fury that had resulted, the hopelessness of Joe's position, the manner in which he needed to assassinate the bank manager and any other people who might get in the way, and how he was not going to be incarcerated for their incompetence. Why hadn't someone let him know this was happening? Why hadn't anyone at the bank or the insurance agency or any of the other check recipients given him a call? Now he was going to be jailed for 90 days because the bank had stolen $480 from him, and there was nothing he could do about it in time for his court appearance, which was the next morning at 9 am! And so on, and on, and on.
Now, my first, and immediate, and strong reaction was to get him OUT of my house -- out, out, out! I do not like yelling, or threats, or cursing -- if rage is being expressed, it had better be expressed in a reasonable way, and even then, I don't like listening. That is Me. But The Mother -- she has to show sympathy and support and affection and assistance. I mean, right?
So this went on for awhile. Catt calmed down, Joe spiraled up and down and up and down for awhile, but as I was starting to lose my patience, the next thing happened. Joe had begun looking at his court paperwork to make sure of his scheduled time of appearance, and saw that it had been scheduled for that day, not the next day. So he had already missed it, even though he had been behaving himself so well, and planning to attend, and getting ready for it, and all -- because he had been thinking "the sixth" instead of "the fifth" he was now well and truly screwed. A bench warrant had been issued for his arrest, and he was headed for jail.
Merciful Heavens. The uproar. I fled before it, and went to my room, where I sat on the bed with a book, and Catt wept in the living room, and Joe shouted and stormed up and down the hall.
So now, after Joe has calmed down and apologized, and become cheerful, and made some sort of plan, (don't know what it is, and my phone has died, so cannot text him a question) I am still feeling guilty and secretly unfit to be a mother. If I were a decent mother, I would have flown to the defense of my child, and whipped up a plan to smuggle Joe out of the country to my contacts in Mexico, right? Instead of which, I just wanted him to stop yelling.