“Darn, we’re out of butter,” said the mother of two, as she bustled about making dinner.
She called over her shoulder to her older daughter, who had not only a sweet and docile temperament but also a driver’s license, “Sweetie, could you run out and buy more?”
“Why can’t you do it?” came the rude reply.
“What?”
“I said, why can’t you do it?”
The woman stood there, nonplussed. For 18 years, their mother-daughter relationship had been nothing but pleasant and reasonable — more pleasant and reasonable than any woman had a right to expect. She’d heard the horror stories; she knew she was blessed.
Still, 18 years of unmitigated pleasantness made it no nicer to experience the recent hostility the girl had been showing. Each time it came as a surprise. Each time it hurt.
“Why can’t I do it?” she repeated slowly, and for the fraction of a second hesitated between laughing off the remark and getting mad about it. Then she saw red, and lashed out.
The girl lashed back, grabbed her keys, and stormed out of the house yelling that she would go and get the $#!%& butter, already, if it was so $#!%& important.
As the car roared out of the driveway, a phrase seemed to fall from nowhere into the woman’s mind: “Fouling the nest.”
Oh my gosh, she thought. Of course!
It was the spring of her daughter’s last year in high school. In a few months, the girl would be heading off to college and to the joys and anxieties of proto-adult life.
With the college applications finished and most of the pressure of senior year off, the mother had blithely assumed that it would be a calm and happy time. She had not expected the sudden onset of stroppiness and eye rolling, the rude tones of voice, the unprecedented aggression.
Yet now it seemed almost comically clear that these were symptoms of the girl’s need to separate psychologically from her home and family before she left. It was, she realized, a textbook example of “fouling the nest,” wherein a fledgling mucks things up so thoroughly that both it and its parents are relieved rather than sad when the time for separation comes.
Still looking out the window, she felt a wave of forgiving tenderness toward her eldest. She couldn’t wait for the girl to come back. They would reconcile, and probably laugh together in the old way. Now that she understood the larger dynamics that had been poisoning relations, surely she’d be able to finesse the transition.
A short time later, the girl returned (with the butter). Her mother intercepted her at the door.
“Honey, I think I’ve figured it out.” She proceeded to explain her theory. The girl listened coolly, and then burst into a huge and ever-so-lightly-patronizing smile.
“Mom, that’s all fine,” she said, “But, you know, not everything is part of a grand, cosmic psychological pattern. I wasn’t fouling the nest, I was just cranky because I have a ton of homework and I didn’t feel like running an errand.”
Hmm, thought the mother. Maybe.
Meghan Cox Gurdon’s column appears on Sunday and Thursday. She can be contacted at [email protected].
