Maybe I can cut you an apple?
Of all the species of human love, the love we have for our own child is one of the most beautiful. Regardless of character, beauty or mannerisms, a being in whom your blood flows, whose bottom you powder, whose you take to kindergarten, whose you help before a test, who confides in you about their first loves, in whose gestures, facial features and behavior you see yourself, it is impossible not to love with an unconditional and boundless love.
Sometimes this love becomes possessive and overprotective. In the case of love for a partner, this is always unhealthy and toxic, but in the case of a child, the matter becomes more complicated.
We had a playground right under the windows of our first-floor apartment, which gave our parents a perfect overview of the situation. How I embarrassed myself in front of my friends when, in the middle of a game of bottle caps or while kicking a ball, I had to respond to Mom's "didn't you sweat?" throwing from the window.
For some unknown reason, my mother had a preference for a red beret with an antenna for me. On colder days, before leaving for school, she would always put it on my head, checking that both ears were completely covered. I hated that beret. To this day, I often see the beret with the antenna in my nightmares.
When, during family gatherings at the table, an aunt would ask me that cliched name-day question, "How are you doing at school, son?", before I opened my mouth, my mother was always the first to give a comprehensive answer, flowery and proudly talking about my achievements at school.
She had to know and control everything. If I called someone, she had to know who it was and what we were talking about. If I went out somewhere, she had to know who they were, what their phone number was, and what we were going to do.
She was terrified by even the slightest symptoms of illness that she noticed in me. A simple runny nose or cough always ended with a break from school and a visit from a friendly doctor. Once, in the middle of a frosty winter, we were playing football in the snow with the boys. When I returned home, Mom diagnosed that I had frostbitten ears and immediately took me to the hospital emergency room. However, the doctor on duty did not agree with her diagnosis.
She believed that the main task of a parent is to ensure that the child is well-fed, takes care of their health, and creates ideal conditions for learning. Any duties would only unnecessarily distract them from learning. Taking out the trash, filling the basket with dirty laundry, running to the store for small purchases – these are activities that my childhood did not know.
When we ate dinner together every day, she always put a portion on the plate dedicated individually to each household member. I was always the first to get the largest cutlet, then my brother, who was three years younger, then Dad, and finally she prepared a plate for herself with the least perfect cutlet. During holiday meals, when the platters were placed on the table, at the first turn, she did not allow anyone to help themselves. She herself decided what, in what quantity and in what order would be on the plates. And then, every now and then, often furtively, regardless of my objections, saying "take another pierogi", she would throw more helpings on my plate.
In the days of rationing, she wouldn’t let Father eat ham or sirloin – they were reserved for children only. Dad seemed to understand and share this approach, contenting himself with the fattier ham or bacon.
Several times a day she would bring fruit, tea or sweets to my room. Apples or grapefruits always stripped of inedible parts, ready to eat. Raspberries and currants always squeezed, in the form of thick juice. She stood over me until I drank the entire glass. She never knocked when she came in with these delicacies, which was especially depressing when a classmate was visiting me – then she appeared in the room much more often.
For as long as I can remember and for as long as I can remember, she has always hugged and kissed me when I greeted her, regardless of whether I was returning from summer camp, picking me up from school, or waking me up in the morning.
She always showed that she loved her two sons with the same love. However, both my younger brother and I felt that the older one, the firstborn, took up a little more space in her heart. My brother, when he was almost an adult, shouted it at her once during some minor argument.
Somewhere in the late eighties or early nineties, after my father died, when I was an adult, I went to Bulgaria with a friend and our girls for a few days, by plane. My mother was against the trip, she tried to dissuade me in every possible way, claiming that it was far, an unknown country, expensive and dangerous. I didn't give up, I promised that I would call every day and we flew out. After returning to Warsaw, we wanted to spend a few more days at my friend's house. I had to sort this out with my mother somehow. I called her and in a changed voice said into the receiver: "Eta Sofia. Gavaricje", then I handed the receiver to my friend, who explained to my mother that we were stuck at the Sofia airport and would probably return in a few days. I later found out that my mother immediately after this conversation went to Okęcie, found some crew from Bulgarian Airlines, and ordered the pilot to bring her son to Poland immediately.
The girls I brought home, whether they were pretty or a little less so, graceful or a little less, clever or a little less - they never pleased my Mother, and she always said so openly, suggesting that they were not for me. I never agreed with her opinion, although I always, more or less subconsciously, felt the need to accept it.
As a mother-in-law, she was unbearable. She could never truly appreciate her daughter-in-law. She would look into the fridge, read the label on the first jar she came across, and then say rhetorically, "Who buys that?", implying that her son certainly wouldn't buy something like that.
When she passed away, exhausted by a long illness and semi-conscious, she waited to die until I finished work on the Friday before the weekend. When I arrived, she opened her eyes for a moment, said, "My dear son has arrived," and died.
I believe that what we are is shaped primarily by our parents. The effect of possessive and overprotective love is often a lifelong loser who cannot cope with his own life or a frustrated person surprised that the world has not put him in the spotlight. But just as often, it can be a strong personality with a high sense of self-worth, perfectly prepared to lead his own life in the direction he has set. The line is very thin. What does it depend on? I don't know. However, I know that I would give a lot for sliced apples, a hug for breakfast, the knowledge that you are very, very important to someone, or just for them to be there, I would give a lot.
