Mama just keeps swimming around adult son
Everybody loves “Finding Nemo,” am I right?
You do remember “Finding Nemo”? Sure, you do. Who could forget the animated fish tale of the little mischievous Nemo and his neurotic Pop, Marlin, the overprotective clown fish?
Poor Marlin — possibly the most humorless clown fish in history, by the by, real or reel.
For those of you who might have been sleeping or distracted or otherwise cinematically challenged in 2003, here’s recap of the Oscar-winning cartoon movie about the tiny little lost fishy with one flap-impaired fin and one hugely overprotective daddy:
Marlin loses his beloved bride, Coral, and their, like, 8 gagillion fish egg babies in a barracuda attack. When the bubbles clear, Coral and the kids are kaput (cursed Disney movies and their history of offing moms in their opening sequences!).
As a result, Marlin is left distraught, with a single, tiny little dented egg … which becomes his only child, Nemo.
See? I knew you’d remember “Finding Nemo.”
Well, I mean, unless you’re Dory. She doesn’t remember anything. At all. Ever.
Dory is the royal blue tang Marlin happens upon in his search for a missing Nemo, who defies his father’s warnings to be cautious and wanders out too far into the sea alone. This, of course, leads to him being scooped up by dentist fishing for rare-looking specimens for his office aquarium.
The remainder of the film is Marlin searching, Nemo plotting to get home and Marlin’s friend Dory keeping everyone positive with her reminder to “Just keep swimming” when life hands you, you know, a concrete necklace.
Oh, and don’t forget that her reminder is about the only thing Dory retains, since she, herself, while golden-hearted, has the memory of a gnat.
Sadly, the older I get, the more Dory I become.
Here’s the thing — no matter how old your children get, they are still, like, forever 15ish in your mind and heart. It’s not intentional, offspring, so spring off with the attitude.
Look, it isn’t that we feel you’re not capable or independent or possess the skill and intelligence to handle the world on your own. We do — mostly.
But we cannot help trying to, you know, help. All the time. With everything. In every way. It’s not an affront on you. It’s just the way it is.
Yes, I know my son is 21. I am fully aware of his age. I was there when he came into the world and all.
So, sure, I know how grown up he really is.
I understand he can easily shop for groceries … or iron dress shirts … or pick a sinus medication … or even land his own credit card (with a better interest rate than mine — huh???), all without my assistance.
OK, fine, interjection.
Oh whatever, my outright meddlesome butt-in-ski-ness.
And, according to his Dad, my butt kissing-ness. Yeah, yeah, as you know from reading this space, I tend to, well, tend to my kiddo. It’s what Mums do, a’ight?
I don’t know why we always have to defend our defensiveness. Which brings me back to “Finding Nemo,” yo. Our kids are kids, whether they’re 12 or 87. We’re always gonna smother, er, mother them.
And even when they protest, they’re secretly happy we’re there with a safety net, just in case.
Don’t worry, kiddo, mine pretty much spans the entire ocean floor, capisce?
Just keep swimming with Kimerer at www.patricia kimerer.com.