I envy you, if you have a good relationship with your mother. I’ve caught myself wishing things were different for me, though oddly, it’s tough for me to envision the sort of mom I think I want. But here goes: She’d be kind and funny, patient. Understanding. Soothing. Generous with her wisdom. Supportive of my endeavors.
A little voice tells me I’m being too hard on my mom, so I always exercise compassion. She’s had a few bumps in her life that wounded her deeply. Those things aren’t excuses, and I can see how they might have made being a parent difficult some days. And honestly, she has been some of the things on my list, off and on throughout the years, yet - it’s tough to describe it - there’s always been a wall. Built by both of us, stone by heavy stone.
I’m not sure I’d actually change anything now. I see how the pain and disappointment have shaped my life. In good and bad ways, yes, but it’s made me who I am. Would I like a different me?
Lately, I’ve realized I’ve allowed this wound to blind me. Why do hurtful moments stick sometimes? Are they lessons? Or do we simply feel like we should keep punishing ourselves for not measuring up? I don’t know. The answers are all tangled up in feelings I want to resolve – for myself and for my mom. I don’t want to forget the tough moments, though. They’ve fueled my writing life, and they’ve made me a kinder person.
Running through my files, I found the following bit of writing about my mom from earlier this summer. I’d forgotten all about it. I’m reminded to make the most of what I have and to keep pushing even when things get painful because there’s often something good hiding in the weeds of that hurt.
/./././
We stood in the shade along the side of the garage. Mom weeding her flower bed, me asking to go on a trip with a friend. I didn’t like her answer. I don’t remember what exactly I said to her. It must have been a doozy. All that really stands out is that she called me evil. That part hasn’t eroded. Nor has the vitriol dripping from her words. My mother was always good at weaponizing her feelings. She knew right where to strike. Still does.
I called her last week. Or I attempted to make contact. She lives in a care home now, so I time my calls around meals and naps. I rang the phone in her room twice. Once wasn’t answered. The next was picked up but no one spoke. I could hear background noise, so I said hello and told the open line who I was. Loudly and repeatedly, so she’d know I wasn’t one of the telemarketers she hates. Someone was there. Listening. I could hear them breathing. I hung up after more than a minute of this. I called the front desk for assistance. I wasn’t giving up that easily. The girl happily agreed to help me connect with my mom. Then she inadvertently stabbed me with my mother’s words. My mom had told the staffer that she was okay but she didn’t want to talk to me. The girl’s voice faltered a little. I wonder if she caught a drop of that familiar venom. She apologized. This struck me. It wasn’t her fault, I assured her. I thanked her for trying to help, and we ended the now awkward conversation.
/./././
It’s months later. I can still feel the rejection in my bones. The sting lingers in my heart. My parents aren’t easy. Hell, I know I’m not easy. There are times, though, that I feel like a little kid who simply wants their mom. This admission makes me tear up a little. Because there really isn’t a mom to be had. Not the soft kind who hugs you or encourages you. There never was. What I chase sometimes is a phantom. Like something from an old TV show or a fantasy sold by a commercial.
One positive thing came of my attempt to talk to my mom.
I called my father-in-law.
I was crying from my mother’s rebuke. I’ve never done this. Called my father-in-law crying that is. I’ve cried because of my mom more times than I can count.
I’m so happy I called him. He immediately put me at ease. I’m crying now because of his kindness and love.
Now, if I need a parent, I know to call him. And to treasure him while he’s still here.
In pushing me away, my mom made me realize what I’ve had all along.
Why is it that we can get stuck thinking about what we don’t have, or what we’ve lost, rather than focusing on what we have?
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