Nag vs Nurture: Which Do You Do?

by J. Courtney Sullivan

For some reason, I can’t help trying to run Colin’s life a little. OK, a lot. Once I started spending more than the occasional night at his place, I began to realize that his cleanliness routine was just an act, and that the odds of him keeping it up were pretty slim. At some point, I started complaining about how he needed to change his sheets more often, go to bed earlier, quit using my toothbrush, and eat some leafy, green vegetables once in a while. On occasion, I tried to cook him well-balanced meals, and convince him that even if Cheetos are orange, they do not necessarily contain vitamin C.

After I moved in, my motherly instincts only grew stronger. I realized that Colin hadn’t run out of hand soap, as I’d once imagined; he never knew he needed to buy it in the first place. And those matching bath towels I thought he owned?Well, they turned out to be the same towel that he used over and over again, pressing the boundaries of sanitary. Needless to say, I remedied both these situations immediately.

Most of my mothering follows a similar trajectory. I believe I’m actually improving the quality of Colin’s life by de-germing the bathroom or making sure he still knows what broccoli looks like. But I’ll admit that sometimes, my maternal tendencies can border on nagging. Case in point: our typical Sunday ritual. Colin lies on the couch simultaneously doing work, watching football, and yelling at Meet the Press. I stand somewhere in the general vicinity, delivering my weekly monologue on just how amazing it is that he could live in New York City, and is perfectly content to waste an entire day every weekend indoors.

I’ve occasionally heard himutter those two sarcastic, bitter words that no girlfriend wants directed at her: “Thanks, Mom.”

I know there’s something creepy and entirely unsexy about playing a maternal role with the man you love. And unlike some men, Colin really, truly does not want me to mother him. In fact, the more I pressure him to do something, the less likely he is to do it. When I try to sell him on the wonders of Centrum, he grumbles back in his Southern drawl: “I’m not takin’ your damn vitamins unless you wrap them in bacon first.” My ongoing battle to get him to go to the doctor, which once seemed winnable, is now met with a simple “Hell, no.” Each time I mention it, I can practically feel him refusing to budge, no matter what. Colin’s actual mother has aptly dubbed this trait of his “digging in.” She once took my hand and whispered, “He came out of the womb that stubborn. Good luck.”