Borderline, by Martha Thomases – Brilliant Disguise | @MDWorld

March 14, 2015 Victor El-Khouri 1 Comment

So this week, as I pack to go away, I’m thinking about personal boundaries.  And poop.

In my family, growing up, we didn’t have much in the way of boundaries.  No one knocked before entering a bedroom.  No one knocked before entering a bathroom.  My mom read my mail and my diary, even though they were in a drawer in my desk, and I read the books and magazines she got from Evergreen Review, despite the fact that they were hidden in her underwear drawer.

Looking back, it shouldn’t have surprised me that, with this kind of family dynamic, my parents continued to feel entitled to know the details of my life, even after I left home.  They wanted to know if I was dating, and, if so, who, and what did he do and how much money did he make.  These could be tough questions, because sometimes I could go out with a guy for a few months before I knew his last name, much less whether or not he was Jewish.

And so, I vowed, I would treat my chosen family differently.  I would knock on doors.  I would not ask intrusive questions.  This worked okay with my husband, but I had to learn how all over again once I had a kid.

Here’s the thing:  Babies don’t thrive on privacy.  You have to shove your nipple in her mouth when she’s hungry.  You have to stick your hand in his diaper to see if he needs a change.  Even as the kid grows older, you have to stay with her all the time, so he doesn’t wander out into the street to get hit by a car, or fall out an open window.

For the most part, by the time my kid was old enough to take the subway by himself, I was back to knocking on doors and staying out of his mail.  I didn’t look at the browser history on his computer.  I didn’t search his bureau drawers for stuff I didn’t want to see.

Perfect, right?  No one is a better parent than me.  La-di-dah.

Except …

Then he went away to college, and, after college, his adult life.  And I couldn’t believe that this kid, this person whose diapers I changed, was going to be able to get out of bed, get to class, do his homework, drive a car, and do all the other things grown-ups do.

I started asking him the same kinds of questions my parents asked me.  Instead of asking him to his face, which I assumed would drive him crazy, I said them to myself, in my head.  This is not very satisfying, because one never gets a truly credible answer.

Which brings us back to poop.

It’s very difficult to stop worrying about a person whose poop you’ve handled. I’ve had to deal with this situation with both my father and my husband.  In their cases, they were dying, and the poop in question was related to bodies that were falling apart.  It’s a sign of how much I loved them, and how intimately, that this was where our relationships took us.

I’m going to visit my sister, who is younger than me, and while I didn’t ever handle her poop, I do remember when she was being toilet trained.  I don’t have such detailed memories about anyone other than my son.

My sister and I have boundary issues, of a sort.  We don’t see each other much.  When I’m with her, I can easily revert to my five-year-old self, wanting to punch her in the arm and sneer, “Stop following me!” which is kind of stupid, since I’m traveling thousands of miles to visit her.

For a long time, I thought this was unique to our family.  Thanks to Scrubs, I know it’s not.

Media Goddess Martha Thomases, is proud to report that, even though it was on her mind all week, she still didn’t eat any more Cheez Doodles.