Safer At Home With Norma Bates
As Colorado transitions from stay at home orders to safer at home, I am like a prison guard being asked to loosen restrictions. I barely remember parenting before these restrictions, back in the glorious times of friends, sports, and school. These middle school prisoners of mine are chomping at the bit for their freedom; is it wise to give them just a taste and not the whole thing?
Taking cues from other parents/prison guards was no help; they didn't know how to act either. My daughter's friend was allowed outdoor play only (and her mom stood at the fence and watched to make sure she didn't enter our house). The parents of my son's friends flung the gates open wide and let their kids stampede the neighborhood. I understood both impulses: I too have been trapped with preteens for weeks on end, but I didn't want them out there licking playground equipment either.
My daughter, being the easy kid that she is, was okay with her restricted, supervised, and short hang out. I knew my son craved freedom more, but I could never have predicted how much freedom would ruin him.
He was invited to a sleepover on the first night. We declined but said he could stay until 11. He was so delighted to leave the house for the first time that he forgot to argue. He forgot to eat dinner. The next day, the pack of smelly boys spent twelve hours riding bikes, jumping houses, and doing whatever middle school boys find fun (which includes throwing golf balls at each other as hard as possible; I will never understand because I have brains and a uterus).
It was late afternoon when my husband and I realized the kid hadn't eaten since lunchtime the day before. A tangent about our meals at home: I don't subscribe to the notion that since I have ovaries, I am the family cook. We aren't winning any parent of the year awards for the fantastic bento boxes we prepare. I'm not a farm to table chef. Love isn't the special ingredient I put into my meals. We do prepare meals, but we've also shifted our parenting a bit. These kids are teenagers. I expect that in between my subpar meals, they can feel hunger and eat a piece of fruit, or a turkey sandwich, or cereal, or something.
The next time the pack of boys wandered through our house, our son asked for a sleepover, because the last twenty hours together wasn't enough golf-ball throwing time. He looked like a happy prisoner of war with his sunken eyes, hungry pallor, and welts. When we said no, we had to argue the whole group of boys, who are all destined to become criminal defense attorneys. After getting rid of the extra kids, forcing our son to shower and eat a real meal, and do the chores he promised, he looked more miserable than ever. The sip of freedom (okay, the keg stand chug-worth of freedom) had made him miserable.
Throughout the night, he still pestered us about the sleepover, but his requests dwindled, repeated every fifteen minutes in between deep bouts of sulk. We settled for a family TV night with the Netflix series, Bates Motel. Yes, an odd choice, but by this point in the quarantine, we've watched everything.
In season 1, episode 1, Norman's father dies, and his mother, Norma, moves them to the rundown property that will become Bates Motel. Norma's neurosis unfolds slowly enough that I was on board with her most of the time. She seemed like the goddamned parent of the year. That’s right, Norma, make that kid do his chores. Yes, Norma! You don't take shit from any kid! Norma, he's sneaking out; punish him!
Late in the episode, when sweet Norman sneaks out to study with a group of girls, I felt my son's gaze on me. He looked a little scared, and I understood that he was comparing me to Norma. I stood at the window, pulled back the curtains, and looked at the kids outside. I wondered, what type of people are Norma and I creating?