I Was Born With a Resting Bitch Face – Chapter 3 – Our Moms

I gave the wrong chapter the title Under Control.

Because if we’re talking about keeping things under control, we need to talk about our mothers. Grandmothers.

Actually, the women I grew up around.

Remember I told you I was born in a city by the sea?

Well, that’s the short version.

The full version is a city by the sea with one of the oldest maritime colleges, a technical maritime college, a maritime university, and another university with maritime programs.

A bit much for one city, don’t you think?

At least five out of eleven of my classmates went into maritime careers.

Not exactly a scientific study, I know.

All my father’s friends were seafarers. Most of their sons followed the same path.

And my father?

Also a seafarer.

Not helping my statistics here.

If you want to know which city, Google it.

Anyway.

I grew up surrounded by men who worked far away from home for months.

They’d come back for a while, then leave again.

And while they were gone?

Their women kept everything under control.

Kids. House. Bills. Vacations. Appointments. School. Groceries.

All those little things nobody notices until somebody stops doing them.

And when the men came home, everything was supposed to keep running.

Have you ever looked at your face when you’re concentrating on seventeen things at once?

Are you smiling?

Because if you are, I’m doomed.

My mother once had surgery.

When she woke up, still not fully recovered from the anesthesia, she had questions.

Was everything done the way she’d discussed with the doctors?

Had my father eaten dinner?

And why hadn’t I washed my hair?

Yes.

My mother had just come out of surgery, and my dirty hair was apparently still on her list of responsibilities.

I don’t remember her smiling.

I remember her checking.

Because that’s what the women around me did.

They checked. They remembered. They planned. They made sure things happened.

And they did it whether somebody was home to help or not.

So when people talk about my resting bitch face, I sometimes wonder what they expect.

A smile?

While I’m trying to remember whether I’ve paid the electricity bill, what we’re having for dinner, and why somebody hasn’t washed their hair?

Please.

I didn’t inherit a bad attitude.

I grew up watching women keep entire households running while their husbands were somewhere in the middle of an ocean.

And apparently, we all forgot to smile for the occasion.

Under control.

Including the face.