Guilty as Charged

I've been accused of manipulation through guilt and I guess I have to plead guilty. I don't feel real bad about it, though. I'm a mom--it's what we do. And it worked...sort of. Laura posted a delightful grandchildren story and Emily has actually updated her blog AND posted new pictures. I guess I'll have to break out the water boards for my other four.

In my defense, I have to say that I didn't set out to guilt trip everyone and solicit a lot of nice comments. (Although I got some very kind, supportive comments--thank you.) I was experiencing a bit of the "birthday blues" and feeling a little Moroni 8:3-4 ish. In my further defense, I have to confess that guilt-tripping comes naturally to me. I come from a long line of women accomplished in the art. Not on my father's side, mind you. They are straightforward German folk , more likely to cuff you on the side of the head and yell "Snap to it!" than invest a lot of time in mind games.

My mother's people, on the other hand, are Scandinavian. They had those long, dark winters in which to formulate complex psychological strategies, passed on from generation to generation and as closely guarded as the family recipe for potato pudding. (I told you they were complex people.) They not only could get you to do what they wanted, but, at the same time, make you feel profoundly remorseful for any pathetic attempts at willful self-determination.

My Grandma Day, bless her heart, is a case in point. ("Bless her heart" is a universally recognized phrase which translates loosely as "I'm about to say some mean things, but I don't want you to think that I'm a mean person.") My Grandma Day (bhh) chose me as her anointed one. When she gave my three brothers, or any of my cousins, a quarter for ice cream (this was in the old days) she would give me a dollar. While they raked leaves, I watched T.V. While they slept among the canned peaches in her haunted basement, I got to sleep upstairs in Grandma's big double bed, where I was served a cooked-to-order breakfast each morning. I don't know what they ate down in the servants' quarters. Thus, through a combination of fear, genuine love and personal greed, I was transformed into her willing and devoted slave. I don't know why I was the chosen one; maybe it was my innate charm, or maybe I was just more easily bought off. Whatever the reason, this is where the seeds were sewn for my belief that I actually am the center of the universe.

During my childhood, we made frequent trips from our home in Northern California to Provo, where my grandparents lived. Upon saying good-bye at the end of each visit Grandma (bhh) would always say, "I don't suppose we'll see you again until Linda is grown and married." After I was married, and I would visit her and Grandpa with my husband and children in tow, the parting line was changed to, "I don't suppose we'll see you again until we're dead in our coffins." (Which is kind of a disturbing picture...)

When it came to guilt-tripping and manipulation, though, Grandma Day (bhh) couldn't hold a candle to Grandpa Day's great-great grandmother, Cornelia Snook Staker. Cornelia and her husband, Conrad, had eleven children, four of whom joined the Church. Their oldest son, Nathan, and his family emigrated to Utah with the early saints. Cornelia, by then a widow, was left behind in Illinois. Following is a letter that she wrote to Nathan a year after his departure. (I apologize to any who have already heard this.) For those who are untutored in the decoding of guilt-inducing phraseology, I will type in bold the salient points:

"It is through the goodness of God that I am spared and able to communicate with you through the silent medium of the pen; although if it was God's will I would rather it be face to face, but as He has decreed it otherwise I must be content and trust in His holy name, that if we ever meet again on earth may we meet around our Father's throne there to sing and praise His adorable name to all eternity.

Do you ever think of your mother now feeble and old, her locks intermingled with gray, her footsteps once fearless now are feeble and old. It would be a great pleasure to me if I could spend the remainder of my days with you and Elizabeth. I think so long as parents live it is the children's duty to take care of them, especially when they are so old and helpless as I am. I would feel more at home and not so depending if I was with my children for I was once their supporter when they were more helpless than myself. I am now living with one of my grandchildren who saved me from a loathsome and miserable death in the poor house. Her family is large and she has more to do than she is able without me. I have been here over a year and have not been out of the house since I came.

I would like to see all of your family. Give them a grandmother's best love and tell your children to be good children and write to me."

Nathan immediately packed his bags, saddled up his horse and set out to retrieve his mother and bring her west. The interesting part of this story is that at the time she wrote the letter, Cornelia was 90 years old and her dutiful son, Nathan, was 72! Cornelia came to Utah, was baptized at the age of 90 and interfered in the lives of her large posterity until she passed at the age of 101.

So, take heart all of you guilt-tripping grandmas. It doesn't matter that your children may be grown and gone. There is still a great work for you to do.