My mother was here this past week visiting from Florida. My brother and his wife, their two girls, my hubby and my two, along with a few friends and kids, walked a loop in the woods in the reservation with her. My mother thanked me for this, a walk in the woods, something she referred to as her favorite, something I had no idea was, in fact, her favorite. There are a lot of things that I don't know are my mother's favorite just as there are plenty of things that move me of which she has no inkling. She is so clearly my mother and though we love each other, we are not particularly close. I am distrusting of any energy directed my way from my her, so fearful am I of her rejection, of her withdrawal of love, this maddening aloofness, that I don't seek it out. This weekend I felt something that can only be described as different. It was a release, a letting go of the breath I'd been holding my entire life.
That is not to say that I feel like we are somehow closer, intertwined, connected on some deeper level; I cannot go quite that far. But the intensity of the longing for her, for mothering, nurturing has relaxed. There is still a part of me that aches for a mother that feels me from miles away, wants more for me than she wants for herself, that reaches for me when I am in pain, knows that I am, hurts for me, and wants to fix it, even if that is impossible. At 42 years old, my face still burns and my heart drops into my stomach with the embarrassment of my need, my desire to be nurtured. I know it's not coming. It is what it is.
I am a demonstrative mother, a participant, player, activist, clown for my children. I tell them and show them every day how and why they are important to me so that when they are no longer with me, when they are teenagers, young adults, and finally left on this earth without me they will be able to recall in their hearts how I have loved them, adored them, given to them, shared with them, and saved a place for them. I am imperfect. I yell sometimes. Lots. My frustration, my fatigue, my feeling of doom that the three's will last forever radiating rippling heat from my body. They know that I am all too real, that I am passionate, that I love them emotionally, spiritually, viscerally. I hold them, caress them, squeeze them, talk to them about love and God and dreams and hopes. Who knows? Maybe it is too much.
When a child behaves badly, is a bully, or becomes a serial killer, it's always the mother's fault. Mother love is so, so powerful that giving it can turn anyone into a king and withholding it can turn a star into a falling, burnt out meteorite. I watch in awe at women my age and older weeping in the arms of their mothers. Calling their mothers to recount all the details of their lives, the minutiae and the milestones. Holding hands while walking through the park. Tearing up talking about the strength of their bond. I have many friends who have lost their mothers who long for them and miss them every single day. Miss their mothers in their perfect imperfection. It has all been forgiven.
My mom talks on her phone incessantly, saves audio of lectures from her world travels so that she can save no photos on the device, and couldn't pull them up anyway. She only listens occasionally, and repeats and repeats and repeats. I can tell that long before she knew she was beautiful, if she even believes it now, though everyone will tell you that she truly is, she was a little nerdy and I love that. She flies her freak flag pretty low and tight but she does carry one. Her twinge of kookiness turned into full blown cray with me, but without it I would have had only the straight and narrow and might not have survived the inflexibility of my other parent.
For her life, she cannot read me or my feelings. She cannot, as I have hoped all my life, know just what to say, send me a care package, make it all better but she is a lovely person, well loved and adored by everyone who meets her. She is shyly funny and irreverent, can work the crossword puzzle like a fiend, and is quite a talented photographer. She used to sew our clothes, help us with our dioramas, make pancakes and chicken tenders, and slowly blink away the realization I felt lonely, awkward, and strange. I held tight to that feeling for too much of my life, wanted an apology, an admission of guilt or fault. But the funny thing is, raising the people has shown me in the most incredibly painful and often hysterical ways that almost every mistake I make as a parent would require me to say "I'm sorry" all the time. Maybe she couldn't do that. I say it often because I want them to hear it. I want them to know that I am doing the best that I can and that I know that sometimes, I am just screwing it all up. But that I love them to pieces despite my booming screams across the house.
While visiting my mother made a passing comment about hoping to see Lily and Virginie when they become teenagers, to see the young women they will become. My husband answered immediately, "But you are young. Of course you will see them." Overhearing this conversation, my heart sank before I was able to right myself and return to a more guarded, protected state. Of course she is going to see Lily and Virginie, I thought, why even say something like that. My defensiveness revealed the truth. I would miss my mother too. Regardless of what I longed for, in spite of what was withheld, no matter that she could never see me fully, could never completely understand, I need her. She is my mother.
(c) Copyright 2012. Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.
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