Mother

I didn’t always love my mother. There were times when I thought she was the meanest, most insipid person in the world. Surely no woman who gave birth to a child could possibly treat that child with the uncaring attitude that she did. I was surely not her child. That was all there was to it.

Fortunately, those times were few and short. Or at least they seem short to me as I consider the whole of my life. In retrospect, of course, I realize also that it was not her who was behaving badly, but myself. I knew, even back then, that it was not her but me that was being a jerk, but in the years of early teens, most of us didn’t have the developed ability to think like a human being, only like a teenager.

In those days I simply thought my mother was the worst at times. Of course, those times more or less alternated with times that my father was my enemy, depending on the mood, the situation, and other common factors at any given time. But my angst with my mother at that time was simply greater and more frequent than was my conflict with my dad.

Now days, that all makes sense to me because I understand that I was in the process of separating from my mother, “individuating,” and the professionals would call it. I was pushing away, finding my own person, learning to be who I was to become. But I didn’t know that or understand that when I was 14. I just knew that my mother was an unreasonable, wretched person who clearly seemed to want to make my life miserable.

We both survived those years. And with the exception of about three years in those early teens, my mom was one of my best friends, my champion in many ways, and my protector. When I was small, I thought she was great, and as an adult, I loved her immensely, admired her and felt a close, loving relationship with her. No, she wasn’t perfect. No, I didn’t always agree with her. No, I didn’t always like what she said or did, but our love for each other was strong and forgiving.

I miss my mother. She has been gone for eight years now, slipping to the other side just after Mother’s Day, 2000. I had already lost her to the tangled web of Alzheimer’s several years before that, but as long as I could still touch her, it seemed less lonely. I still have times when I think of her without really realizing she is gone, When the truth hits me, it is the prelude to a sinking sadness. These days it doesn’t last long, but it still gives me a few moments of deep sadness that I can’t have her hold me and make it better. Nor can I hold her as I did in those final years, making it better for her as she regressed into a far away world where she was young and frightened.

The years between my teenaged snit and my mom’s drifting away from me were good ones. I enjoyed my mom most of the time, had fun with her in many ways from the telling and retelling of family stories to working side by side at many tasks. We understood each other well. Again, we didn’t always agree, but we understood and tolerated and loved each other as if it would never end. As if it would never end.

Sadly, it does end for us all at some time. But if we take time to stop and rejoice in the love, the commonalities, and even in the differences, we are creating “a forever.” I still have my mom. She is in my heart. She is in my name, for my middle name, Grace, is also hers. She is in the eyes of my children. She is in the curve of my grandson’s ear, and my granddaughter bears her name, as well. The other granddaughter has her great sensitivity, the propensity of crying at a sad story. She is in every tiger lily or bearded iris I see, and behind the wheel of every Volkswagen bug on the road. There are many small things that keep her present with me. She will be with me forever in more ways that I can count.

As hard as I worked to "individuate" from her as a teenager, I now realize that as just one step of making us permanently one. What an amazing thing!

I will miss her this Mother’s Day, just as I have for the last seven. But I won’t forget her and how deeply imprinted are her love and her values on me. It wouldn’t be possible. She will always be my mother.

~ ~ ~ ~

Happy Mother's Day to each of you,
to your mothers and your daughters.

~ ~ ~ ~

PS added later - -

I just wanted to share this picture. It came from a tender email about "mothers," sent to me by Daisy. This was the final picture in it, and brought nostalgia big time for me. The picture is circa 1940s, judging by the woman's swimsuit. I remember my mom wearing similar ones. Notice that the woman is wearing shoes with a small high heel, even standing at water's edge. It was common for women to wear heels .... with everything, going anywhere, because that's what ladies did in that day. And, of course, flip flops hadn't been invented yet! My mother wore high heels almost all the time until the last few years of her life. I remember her gardening in heels, and I never understood why since they sunk in the soil. But that is who she was, dressing as was "right" and comfortable for her. That child could well be me with that curly mop, too. Yeah, I probably had a wedgie most of the time, too!



I was thinking of going to see the iris extravaganza at an iris farm about 20 miles away today, in honor of Mom and her love for irises. I decided that it might be too much today as there will be lots of people there for Mother's Day. I'm going to go on Tuesday, when I can have some quieter moments. Yeah, that will be better.