Nag Vs Nurture: Which Do You Do?

I've occasionally heard himutter those two sarcastic, bitter words that no girlfriend wants directed at her: "Thanks, Mom." He Thinks Your Feedback Is Nagging

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."

When it comes to mothering Colin, I rarely get the results I want. This makes the fact that I do it anyway all the more perplexing. I have always thought that trying to change another person's behavior is a little bit sick, and entirely pointless. (As my dad once told me, "Some people change, but most people don't.") Yet I can't help genuinely agonizing over whether Colin keeps a doctor's appointment or stays up until 4 a.m. on a school night. I could stop nagging him about it, I suppose, but I know I'll never stop thinking about it.

When I worry about all this, I have to remind myself that Colin nurtures me, too—though he does it without any of the guilt or the nagging or the vain attempts at behavior modification that I employ. He makes sure I get out of bed in the morning, and occasionally reads aloud to me at night. He proofreads every story I write, and makes me stick to a deadline when I'd rather procrastinate by watching reruns of Will & Grace. In some ways, he could be accused of mothering me, I guess—although Colin would be a different sort of mom than I. I'd be the kind with brussels sprouts and bedtimes; he'd give Pixy Stix to all the kids in the neighborhood and allow his own children to watch cable TV when they should be playing outside.

I've often wondered if the mothering instinct is just part of being a woman in love—or if it's an annoying urge that we must ignore if we want to keep romance alive and our dignity intact. But maybe trying to resist is just a waste of time. Maybe this is what happens when you share everything with another person—your hopes for the future, your worries and weaknesses. And sometimes, regrettably, your toothbrush.
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J. Courtney Sullivan is the author of Dating Up: Dump the Schlump and Find a Quality Man (Warner Books).