The Discontented Dreamer

Remember summer camp? Remember hearing your name at mail call and the excitement when you'd receive a care package from you parents. Maybe it was just a letter and maybe and extra pair of socks, but sometimes you'd score big time because they had included some candy or gum! Those are the care packages childhood stories are made of. Those are the kind of packages I want back.

My mom started bringing me care packages when I was in college. She would show up at my door with a bag full of food. My college town house's cupboards were teeming with instant noodle, pudding mixes, and all kinds of random foodstuffs that either ended up getting donated to a food drive or thrown away. A lot of the food was off brands, usually from the dollar store that looked hokey. It's not that I wasn't grateful for the gesture, mind you, and I've never been a brand snob. I just didn't like what she was bringing, that, and I didn't need the food because I was supporting myself and buying my own groceries.

You would think the gift giving would stop when I moved halfway across the country. Nope. I started getting packages in the mail from her almost immediately. It was all the same stuff; Lipton noodles, cans of red beans, more pudding packages, shipped from the Heartland to the Pacific Northwest for my pleasure. What to do? What...to...do?

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Why the hell didn't you just tell her to stop?" I wish I could have. It would have saved me a lot of headaches and her a lot of money, but it's not that easy. Never has been. I don't have a great relationship with my mother, as you may have suspected. Actually, I know few people who claim to have great relationships with their parents these days. I don't know if it's the times that we grew up in, the changing societal values, or what? All I know is, my mother and I have never really had a good relationship for as long as I can remember. There are zero lines of communication when it comes to my mother, and it's nearly impossible to talk anything serious with her. As I got older, I started to feel bad for her. It started to feel like these care packages were her attempt to make up for lost parenting when I was little, so I let it go and created a monster.

Now, I'm 29 years old, and the packages still come. I've tried to curb the sending by explaining that I can no longer eat certain foods (ie I'm now gluten intolerant) and that we are choosy when it comes to health and beauty type of stuff. The result is that the packages stop for about six months and then low and behold a package shows up at my door chocked full of sewing kits, Bic razors, a sample box of Cheerios, and generic maxi pads. A hodgepodge of inept, catch up parenting, packed in a box and sent halfway across the country.