I've come to the conclusion that my mother's mouth is incapable of remaining idle.
When she's talking, she's talking. When she's not talking, she's whispering to herself. And when she's finally doing neither, she's sucking on her teeth.
Apparently, silence is simply not an option.
Now, I realize everyone has little habits. Some people tap their fingers, bounce their knees, twirl their hair, or click their pens. Most of us probably do something without realizing it.
But my mother has taken repetitive mouth noises to an entirely different level.
And unfortunately, I happen to be someone who experiences certain sounds as intensely irritating.
Not mildly annoying. Not something I can simply tune out.
I'm talking about the kind of irritation that makes you want to climb the walls.
And the worst part? My mother apparently has no idea what I'm talking about when I ask her to stop.
Or at least that's what she tells me.
The Sound That Sets My Teeth on Edge
Of all my mother's habits, there's one that particularly drives me crazy: sucking on her teeth.
And yes, the irony of that sound setting my own teeth on edge hasn't escaped me.
She does it mostly when she's watching television or lying in bed before falling asleep.
There she'll be, perfectly relaxed, enjoying her program or contemplating whatever she's done that day and what she plans to do tomorrow.
And then it starts.
That little sucking noise.
It's barely audible, but to me, it might as well be coming through a loudspeaker.
I don't know how to explain it to someone who doesn't have a similar reaction to certain sounds. It's almost as though my brain has developed a special radar for detecting my mother's mouth.
I could probably sit through a rock concert without noticing someone whispering beside me. But let my mother make that tiny sucking sound, and suddenly my attention is completely focused on it.
I can't unhear it.
I can't ignore it.
And once I notice it, I start anticipating the next one.
That's when the irritation really begins.
What makes it especially frustrating is that she doesn't seem to be doing anything in particular. She's not eating, and as far as I can tell, she's not trying to remove something from between her teeth.
She's just sitting there, mindlessly sucking on them.
My mother actually has remarkably strong, healthy teeth. So did my father. Between the two of them, they seem to have won some kind of genetic dental lottery that my sister and I apparently weren't invited to participate in.
So I don't have any obvious dental problem to point to as an explanation.
It seems to be a habit she's developed, one she may not even realize she's performing.
Unfortunately, knowing that doesn't make it any easier to listen to.
What Noise? I'm Scratching My Head!
Here's where things get particularly aggravating.
I'll hear the teeth sucking and ask my mother to please stop because the sound is bothering me.
You'd think the conversation could end there.
It never does.
"What noise?" she'll ask.
"The sucking noise you're making with your teeth."
"I'm not making any noise!"
Now, I know what I heard.
I've been listening to it for years.
But instead of acknowledging that she might be doing something automatically, she'll offer an entirely different explanation.
"I'm rubbing my eye."
Or:
"I'm scratching my head."
Really, Ma?
Since when does scratching your head make a sucking sound?
And how exactly does rubbing your eye produce a noise that clearly comes from your mouth?
Before I know it, we're having another ridiculous argument about something that should've required about five seconds of consideration.
I'm explaining that I know the difference between someone scratching their head and someone sucking on their teeth.
She's insisting she wasn't doing anything.
I'm getting increasingly frustrated.
And the original request, which was simply to stop making the sound, has completely disappeared from the conversation.
Sometimes she'll tell me I'm nervous. Sometimes she'll suggest I'm imagining things.
And that's when my irritation turns into anger.
Because now I'm not just dealing with a sound that bothers me. I'm defending my ability to recognize a sound I've heard thousands of times.
Is she genuinely unaware of what she's doing? Is she embarrassed? Does she automatically deny anything she thinks sounds like criticism?
Or is she deliberately refusing to admit it?
I honestly don't know.
Given my mother's lifelong habit of insisting she's right and telling me I've misunderstood things, it's difficult not to become suspicious.
But I also recognize that people can perform repetitive habits without consciously noticing them.
I suppose it's possible that when I interrupt her, she genuinely doesn't remember making the sound.
What I wish she'd understand is that I don't need her to confess to some terrible dental crime. I just need a little quiet.
The Dental Floss That Travels More Than I Do
Now, if the teeth sucking were my mother's only dental habit, perhaps I'd have a little more patience.
Unfortunately, there's also the flossing.
Oh, the flossing.
My mother has an extraordinary relationship with dental floss.
I've never seen anyone devote so much time, attention, and apparently emotional commitment to a tiny piece of string.
She can spend an hour fussing with her teeth using one little piece of floss.
And she doesn't always glide it gently between her teeth the way dentists generally recommend.
She'll yank it out.
Watching her do that is almost as nerve-racking as listening to the noises.
But the really astonishing part is what happens to the floss afterward.
It travels.
I've found dental floss all over the house.
I've found it in places where no reasonable person would expect dental floss to be.
I've even found it in the refrigerator.
THE REFRIGERATOR.
What was it doing there? Keeping the lettuce company?
I've also had the delightful experience of sitting down on the toilet and discovering that my mother's dental floss had apparently arrived before me.
Nothing quite prepares you for that particular surprise.
And then there was her habit of leaving a piece of floss dangling from her mouth.
For years, she'd actually walk out of the house like that.
I'd ask her why on earth she was walking around with dental floss hanging from her mouth.
Her explanation?
She might need it later.
Apparently, dental floss is now an emergency supply that must remain immediately accessible at all times.
Forget keeping it in a purse or carrying a fresh piece in a little container.
Why bother when you can simply leave it hanging from your mouth until the next dental emergency strikes?
I've also seen her flossing in bed, which makes me nervous because I worry she'll eventually fall asleep with that little piece of string still in her mouth.
Naturally, when I point this out, I get another explanation.
There's always an explanation.
When a Fork Becomes a Toothpick
And because apparently conventional dental floss isn't always enough, my mother has occasionally improvised with household utensils.
I've watched her scrape at her teeth with a dirty knife while washing dishes.
A dirty knife.
Let that image settle in for a moment.
I've also seen her use her fork as a toothpick after dinner.
Now, I'm all for good dental hygiene. I believe in brushing, flossing, and taking care of your teeth.
But there's a difference between maintaining good oral health and turning every available utensil into a dental instrument.
A knife isn't a dental pick, and aggressively scraping at teeth with sharp or dirty utensils can cause injury.
And while I admire my mother's commitment to keeping her teeth clean, I'm not particularly enthusiastic about sharing a dining table with someone who's using her fork to conduct a post-dinner excavation.
It isn't only the sound that bothers me in situations like these.
There's also the hygiene aspect.
Used dental floss belongs in the trash, not on the toilet, in the refrigerator, or scattered throughout a shared home.
I don't think that's an unreasonable expectation.
Yet when I complain, the conversation somehow becomes about my reaction instead of the behavior itself.
And there we go again.
When Menopause Made Everything Louder
I've always been sensitive to certain noises, but since menopause, that sensitivity has become much more intense.
I call it sound rage.
The whispering is bad enough, but the teeth sucking may actually be worse.
It's a very particular sound, and something about it seems to trigger an immediate reaction in me.
There's a term called misophonia, which describes unusually strong negative reactions to specific sounds.
Common triggers include repetitive mouth noises, chewing, breathing, and other sounds that many people barely notice.
People who experience misophonia often describe intense irritation, anger, disgust, or an urgent need to escape the sound.
I don't know whether I'd meet the criteria for misophonia, but the descriptions certainly sound familiar.
And I don't know whether menopause directly caused my heightened sensitivity. I only know that my tolerance for noise has become noticeably worse during this stage of my life.
The strange thing is that volume doesn't necessarily matter.
I can tolerate some loud sounds much better than certain quiet ones.
Which brings me to my brilliant investment in earplugs and noise-canceling headphones.
I've actually worn both at the same time.
Earplugs in my ears, noise-canceling headphones over them.
You'd think that would be enough to shut out practically anything.
And to be fair, they do an impressive job of reducing certain sounds.
My mother's footsteps, for example, become barely audible.
But her whispering?
Still there.
And those particular mouth noises can still manage to capture my attention.
I spent money trying to buy myself a little peace and quiet, and apparently the technology wasn't designed with my mother in mind.
I want my money back.
When Bedtime Becomes Another Battle
The worst time for the teeth sucking is when I'm trying to sleep.
During the day, at least I might be distracted by something else. I can move around, occupy myself, or try to focus on another activity.
But when I'm lying there trying to fall asleep, the house is quieter, and I'm already tired, every little sound seems more noticeable.
My mother will be lying there, apparently lost in thought, making that familiar sucking noise.
And I'm trying desperately not to react.
Because I know what happens if I say something.
I'll ask her to stop.
She'll insist she's not doing anything.
I'll explain what I'm hearing.
She'll tell me I'm nervous or offer another explanation about what she was supposedly doing instead.
And suddenly, instead of falling asleep, we're having an argument.
An argument that involves considerably more noise than the sound I originally complained about.
That's the irony of living with someone whose habits bother you but who refuses to acknowledge the problem.
Sometimes asking for silence creates an even louder situation.
And when you're already exhausted, the prospect of another disagreement can feel almost as unpleasant as the sound itself.
There are nights when I wish I could simply turn off my hearing for a little while.
Not forever.
Just long enough to get some sleep.
Is It a Compulsion, an Automatic Habit, or Something Else?
I've often described my mother's dental habits as compulsive because of how repetitive and persistent they are.
But I also recognize that the word compulsive has a specific meaning in psychology.
Not every repeated behavior is a clinical compulsion, and repetitive teeth sucking doesn't automatically mean someone has obsessive-compulsive disorder.
Sometimes people develop automatic habits that occur when they're distracted, relaxed, or concentrating on something else.
Think about someone who repeatedly taps a foot while reading or twists their hair while watching television.
They may not realize they're doing it until someone points it out.
My mother's teeth sucking seems to happen most often during those quiet moments when her attention is elsewhere.
That makes me wonder whether the behavior has become so automatic that she genuinely doesn't notice it.
But there's another possibility I can't entirely dismiss.
My mother has always had difficulty acknowledging mistakes or accepting criticism. If I tell her something she's doing is bothering me, she's often more interested in explaining why I shouldn't be bothered than considering whether she could change it.
So the teeth sucking may involve an automatic habit, defensiveness when it's mentioned, or some combination of the two.
I don't know.
And I've realized that trying to determine whether she's consciously aware of every sound isn't necessarily helping either of us.
What matters to me is that I experience genuine distress when I hear it.
And I'd like that distress to be taken seriously.
The Part That Hurts More Than the Noise
Here's something I've been thinking about.
My mother and I have lived with these communication difficulties for decades.
She talks excessively, interrupts, asks repetitive questions, whispers her thoughts aloud, and often seems unable to appreciate how her behavior affects the people around her.
When I complain, she frequently tells me I'm nervous or too sensitive.
And now, even something as small as a repetitive mouth noise becomes another argument about whether I'm imagining things.
I can acknowledge that my reaction to the sound may be unusually intense.
I can recognize that my mother may not be consciously making the noise.
I can even accept that what seems unbearable to me might be completely unremarkable to someone else.
But why does that mean my discomfort shouldn't matter?
I've reached the point where I'll sometimes tell her, "You know what, Ma? Pretend I'm the crazy one and just do me a favor and stop."
Think about that.
I'm willing to surrender the entire argument.
Fine. I'm nervous. I'm overly sensitive. I'm the problem.
Can we please just have some quiet?
But even that doesn't necessarily end the conversation.
And that's what makes the situation more painful than a simple disagreement about an annoying habit.
I don't need my mother to agree that her behavior is abnormal. I need her to recognize that something she's doing is causing me distress.
Those are two very different things.
And after a lifetime of trying to make myself understood, sometimes I wonder whether I'm more exhausted by the sounds themselves or by the constant struggle to have my feelings acknowledged.
Living With Someone Who Doesn't Hear What You Hear
One thing this experience has taught me is that two people can occupy the same room and have completely different experiences of it.
My mother may be watching television, feeling perfectly comfortable, and barely noticing the little sounds she's making.
Meanwhile, I'm sitting nearby feeling increasingly tense, irritated, and desperate for quiet.
From her perspective, nothing significant is happening.
From mine, the environment has become almost unbearable.
That doesn't mean one of us is necessarily lying about our experience.
It means we experience the same situation differently.
And ideally, that difference would lead to some mutual consideration.
I wouldn't expect my mother to change every habit she's developed over 74 years. I understand that deeply ingrained behaviors can be difficult to control.
But I also don't think my desire for peace and quiet should automatically be dismissed as evidence that I'm nervous, unreasonable, or crazy.
I'd like us to be able to acknowledge that something can be harmless to one person and genuinely distressing to another.
I'd like to ask for quiet without having to prove that a sound exists.
And I'd really like to sit down in my own bathroom without discovering another piece of dental floss.
Surely that last request isn't asking too much.
My Last Remaining Nerve
So here we are.
My mother continues to whisper, suck her teeth, and maintain what may be the world's most extensive collection of misplaced dental floss.
I continue trying to find a little peace and quiet.
And somewhere in the middle, we're still arguing about whether the noises I'm hearing are actually happening.
I love my mother, despite all the habits that drive me crazy.
I know she's lived through difficult experiences, and I recognize that not everything she does is necessarily intentional.
But loving someone doesn't automatically make their habits easier to tolerate.
And having compassion for someone doesn't mean your own discomfort disappears.
Perhaps the greatest challenge in our relationship isn't figuring out why my mother makes these sounds.
It's figuring out how we can live together when those sounds barely register for her and provoke such a powerful reaction in me.
I don't have the answer yet.
What I do know is that I'd love to experience an entire evening without whispering, excessive talking, or teeth sucking.
Just one peaceful evening.
No explanations.
No arguments.
No dental floss making surprise appearances in the refrigerator.
And if anyone happens to invent a pair of headphones that can eliminate my mother's particular collection of mouth noises, please let me know.
I'll be first in line.
Although at this point, I suspect the only thing capable of silencing my mother's mouth would be a dentist who charges by the word.
And knowing my mother, she'd probably spend the entire appointment explaining why she doesn't need one.
