Yes, a mother's job is serious stuff, and a lot of hard, often thankless work. But being a mom, especially one from earlier generations before support groups and online forums, doesn't come with instructions, and not every woman is inherently good at it.
First, I'm not a mother, unless you count cats or a brief foray into step-parenting 20-some years ago. Second, I'm not very sentimental about Mother's Day. Reading the
history of mom's day makes me feel better about that. There's nothing like seeing 500 Facebook posts about people's moms to induce guilt.
I loved my mother.
She left this mortal coil on May 19, 14 years ago. And 14 years ago, we shared our last Mother's Day together. But she'd be one of the first to tell you it's a Hallmark holiday. Still, it was a lovely, sunny Sunday. She was feeling good and in good spirits. It was one of the few times she'd been back to the house, her childhood home, after moving to an assisted living apartment. Forrest's brother Clay and his family joined us for a backyard picnic. Just 64, mom's health was failing, but she'd been doing better lately and I thought there would be several more mom's days to come.
But just one week later, she was gone.
My mom and I had our challenges. She admitted one day not long before she died that she hadn't always been a good mother. I was a little surprised to hear her say that, so I asked what she meant. She didn't elaborate. But I knew. I also know she did her best. She didn't have a lot to work with. Her mom, my grandmother, was mean, and even meaner after a stroke. She was a martyr whose favorite tool was manipulation through guilt, and she treated my mom, her youngest, badly. Shit flows downhill, and I felt the brunt of that when, in her final years, we moved in to take care of her. Those were tough times for all of us.
I know my mom loved me.
At least, she did to the best of her ability. There's an adage that says you can't truly love someone else until you love yourself, and my mom, for the most part, didn't like nor love herself. She spent most of her life fighting depression. And she did fight. From lots of self-medicating with the popular pills of the day, to a seven-year stint with a psychiatrist. She even took me to a session when we were having a particularly hard time. Mostly, she hid behind her weight, her caustic wit, TV, and cigarettes.
Co-dependent.
That's a good word to describe our relationship. My earliest years were spent with my grandparents and an aunt while mom worked, but we'd always go home together. Just the two of us.
During those earlier years, we did things together. She was a good sport. She'd camp with my Girl Scout troop. She'd help me with badges, even if we did everything wrong (which we'd laugh about). She took me to see Fantasia. We went to ceramics classes. She made sure I had birthday parties and separate birthday and Christmas presents (I arrived just before Christmas). She fed me well and dressing me nicely was one way she showed she loved me. I honestly think she was both thrilled to have me in her life, and greatly burdened by me.
As a teen, she took in all my wayward friends, but at some point she abdicated any parental authority. She wanted what was best for me but didn't know how to guide me. She couldn't keep me safe. She especially didn't know how to deal with my hormones or emotions. My mom didn't have much love in her life, and though she and my dad were together only a short time, I believe she mourned him for the rest of her life.
My mother was social and loved family gatherings, but as family and friends died or slipped away, she became more reclusive and detached. From my earliest days, I remember her anger. She yelled. Slammed things. Threw things. Her frustration was easily triggered - a characteristic I adopted and only unlearned during my own self-analysis. I shared her anger, too, although I didn't realize this until a lifelong friend told me that as teens, she was afraid of my anger. That was a big a-ha for me.
I loved my mother. And I know she loved me.
And I'm not sentimental about Mother's Day.
By that last Mother's Day together, we'd largely made peace with each other, and ourselves. She once asked, "How'd you get so smart?" I told her I had good genes. My mom was wicked smart but had rare outlets to express it. Late in her life, she shared with me the dreams she'd had of doing something more. But fear, self-loathing and the responsibilities of being a single mom kept those dreams safely tucked away. Her fear spilled over on me; she discouraged my dreams, always suggesting the safe, familiar path.
Not everyone is fit to be a parent. I tried my best to be a step-mom. I didn't have a lot to work with. And my step-daughter triggered fears I didn't know I had. She came to live with her dad and me when she was 14. By 14, I had already cracked open the Pandora's box of drugs, sex and rock-and-roll. She was on a similar path, and it scared me. For her and for me. Step-parenting ushered in the end of my marriage - and drove me to see myself in a way I hadn't ever viewed myself previously. I had already done some inner work and made some changes, yet this was a real crossroads. I felt both proud and shamed by some of my own behavior.
Not all moms should be moms. I don't have children of my own, and I don't think that's just an accident. I put my mom through hell during my teen years. And, as she graciously owned, she wasn't a very good mom. I don't blame her. She didn't have anything to go on. From a young age, she shut herself off emotionally, did everything she could to protect herself from her own childhood pain.
Blood connections don't mean you owe each other anything. A friend is now caretaking her mom - a mom who's life was spent in festering resentment, never gaining emotional maturity, despite her advanced age. My friend is a compassionate woman; she left home at 16 for good reason, but she's doing what needs to be done, not because her mom earned her care, but because it's the right thing to do. And she's heartbroken, watching her mom suffer in her final days, still angry, resentful, and full of blame.
Yes, I miss my mom.
I miss her humor and creativity, her insightful perceptions, her flashes of wisdom, her hugs. And I believe I was there for her in the best possible ways for both of us those last few years of her life. Her care was my priority; despite our continued challenges, I so badly wanted her to experience ease in those final years. She had done
her best, given her circumstances. We had weathered a lot.
Despite it all, I didn't need a holiday - a day that began with good intentions (but even the founder was appalled at what it quickly became) - to do the right thing for my mom.
Not every mom knows how to be a mom. My mom tried, when she could. I'm grateful to her for much: she brought me into this world, she tried hard to do things differently with me, and she passed along some priceless gifts, in part, unwittingly. I honor her by doing things differently, still.
I applaud all those moms who made it through, do good jobs, and have wonderful relationships with their children. And I applaud those who were able to mend difficult relationships. And, I acknowledge all those who had a different experience.
Yes, I miss my mom. In many ways. But sometimes I just feel sadness when I think of her, and can't imagine anything else.
For me, as it is for many, Mother's Day is bittersweet.
