"I'll just shut my eyes"

By: Anne Stockwell

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April 7, 2009

I grew up with a single mom. She worked every day to provide for us, and she did a great job. Things were never easy. We always knew there wouldn't be enough money: being a woman, my mom didn't get paid as much as the men she worked with. But when I got my heart set on something, she'd get her heart set on getting it for me.

Those times, she'd open her purse and smile. "I'll just shut my eyes," she'd say. And she'd write a check while the salesperson rang up the sale.

It was always the same when it came to something big. The purse would open, and my mother would say, "I'll just shut my eyes."

The things I wanted never bankrupted us. We kept right on having Sunday dinner and inviting the pastor over. A lot of the time, it was spaghetti and meatballs, and he'd eat with a paper towel tucked in his clerical collar. Was it spaghetti because we didn't have money for a roast? I never found out, because I never asked.

My mother always promised we could talk to her about anything, that she'd never try to hide things from us. She knew I worried about money — not just whether we had enough, but whether I was asking for too much. She'd tell me stories to reassure me. She said it was hard for her to spend money because she'd been a little girl in the Great Depression, when there was no money at all. She told me stories of families chugging up to my grandparents' farm with all their possessions loaded on their Model A Fords, and about her own mother feeding hobos out on the back porch. She'd tell me about being fifteen years old, alone in the old Chevy, driving her papa's payroll to the bank with a pistol in her lap.

My mom didn't lack for spunk, is what I'm saying. Looking back, I know she was tough enough to tell me we couldn't afford the fancy winter coat and I'd have to get the plain one. I shouldn't worry when she said "I'll just shut my eyes," she'd explain. She was really just talking to that little farm girl she'd once been. But I did worry about money. I wanted to grow up and make a lot of it, so my mom wouldn't have to shut her eyes — so we could buy the things we wanted and keep our eyes open.

That might've set me up for a career as a CPA, or a stockbroker, except that I tended to misplace the decimals in my multiplication problems. No, I grew up to be just like my mother — an artist who doesn't really like to think about money. And to this day, when I see something I want, I hear a little voice that says, "I'll just shut my eyes."

This is bad, but not always for the reason you'd think. Sure, sometimes I don't have the money to buy that thing I want. But sometimes I do have the money, only when I "just shut my eyes," I don't know it. With my eyes shut, every purchase is one I can't afford. Every purchase is scary. And I know my mom wouldn't want that for me.

I've got access now to a lot of tools my mom never had. I can check my balance online. I can pay bills on the telephone. I don't have to worry about misplacing my decimals; I've got a pocket calculator that multiplies better than I ever could.

Best of all, I can keep a record of what I spend every day — the money that just seems to vanish. The money for the groceries and the dry cleaner and the car wash. Instead of making me feel pinched and deprived, this makes me feel rich and relaxed. When I make a note of what I spent, I feel more in control. If I spent $30 on cat food this week, then I can see that I might spend $30 next week. I'm relieved, because I know I can afford $30. It's the opposite of "I'll just shut my eyes."

Here's what I think. What the money pros grandly call a "financial projection" is not much more than bunching up a raft of $30 cat food bills and figuring you'll spend the same next year, plus a couple bucks for catnip. Looking clearly at what you spend today will show you what you can spend tomorrow.

If you see something you want, you don't have to "just shut your eyes" in order to buy it. You can open your eyes instead, and keep them open.

Yes, my mom grew up to be somebody who didn't like to deal with money. Yes, she worried about what we could afford. But she was also that blue-eyed teenager in the days of Bonnie and Clyde, driving alone on a gravel road with the payroll on the floorboards and a pistol in her skirt. Even when she was scared, my mom was ready for anything. When it comes to money, that's how she'd want me to be.

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