Consider the audible sigh and all that it conveys.
Quicker than you can say Jack Robinson, you get the message of impatience, weariness, disappointment. That unmistakable "How many times do I have to tell you...." is in the air, the message of "You ought to know this..." comes across clearly. If there is one thing I remember about my mother above all else, in the kingdom of martyrdom, she was undisputed queen of the audible sigh.
Of course, it's something of an art and improvisation is not only allowed but encouraged. Added touches include a a despairing head shake, a tightening of the mouth, a sideways look that suggests you may be seriously impaired,
but mostly a simple, shoulders up with a deep inhalation then down with an equally deep exhalation will do. The higher the shoulders go, the further they have to come down and this adds to the dramatic effect but any expert sigher will tell you that it's the letting out of breath that wins in the long run. It also helps to be doing something that appears important so that you demonstrate your willingness to sacrifice - my mother favored knitting because she could make such a production of folding it up, rewinding the yarn, and storing the needles. She would then push herself to her feet, repeat the sigh, and wearily say, Never mind....(pause for emphasis)....I'll do it myself.
The more trivial the "it" was, the greater the score - inflicting a small humiliation or causing a quick flash of anger were both opportunities for bonus points.
It's hard to confess that when this happens now, the sting is still powerful - I time travel back and hear my mother's voice all over again, the profound weariness and the resignation, the sense that all her life she has had to do the simplest things for me, the implication that I can't be trusted in the most basic of actions and worse, the certain if unspoken accusation that I could if I would only try. Being put upon suited her immensely and she demonstrated it with unfailing regularity. Her voice is a broken record, replaying the same old message - the same old wrong message, I remind myself - that she taught me as a child. She treated everyone as lesser people, perhaps because she had been treated that way herself, perhaps because it was the only way she knew to feel good about herself.
In the end, the venom caught up with her as it tends to do with us all.
We are all capable of ingesting our own poisons. Better to spit, rinse and move on.
Quicker than you can say Jack Robinson, you get the message of impatience, weariness, disappointment. That unmistakable "How many times do I have to tell you...." is in the air, the message of "You ought to know this..." comes across clearly. If there is one thing I remember about my mother above all else, in the kingdom of martyrdom, she was undisputed queen of the audible sigh.
Of course, it's something of an art and improvisation is not only allowed but encouraged. Added touches include a a despairing head shake, a tightening of the mouth, a sideways look that suggests you may be seriously impaired,
but mostly a simple, shoulders up with a deep inhalation then down with an equally deep exhalation will do. The higher the shoulders go, the further they have to come down and this adds to the dramatic effect but any expert sigher will tell you that it's the letting out of breath that wins in the long run. It also helps to be doing something that appears important so that you demonstrate your willingness to sacrifice - my mother favored knitting because she could make such a production of folding it up, rewinding the yarn, and storing the needles. She would then push herself to her feet, repeat the sigh, and wearily say, Never mind....(pause for emphasis)....I'll do it myself.
The more trivial the "it" was, the greater the score - inflicting a small humiliation or causing a quick flash of anger were both opportunities for bonus points.
It's hard to confess that when this happens now, the sting is still powerful - I time travel back and hear my mother's voice all over again, the profound weariness and the resignation, the sense that all her life she has had to do the simplest things for me, the implication that I can't be trusted in the most basic of actions and worse, the certain if unspoken accusation that I could if I would only try. Being put upon suited her immensely and she demonstrated it with unfailing regularity. Her voice is a broken record, replaying the same old message - the same old wrong message, I remind myself - that she taught me as a child. She treated everyone as lesser people, perhaps because she had been treated that way herself, perhaps because it was the only way she knew to feel good about herself.
In the end, the venom caught up with her as it tends to do with us all.
We are all capable of ingesting our own poisons. Better to spit, rinse and move on.
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