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Surviving Mother’s Day
Today, I’m going to send my mom the briefest of texts: “Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.”
She isn’t going to respond.
The reason is very complicated. Suffice it to say that my parents are 88, and sorting through the facts of an abusive act by one of their children is beyond them at this stage of their lives. They’d rather avoid the whole thing, and to blame the victim.
There is great irony in this stance. When my mom was seven, her ten-year-old sister stayed home from school one day with a cold. She died that day. My mom wasn’t allowed to attend her funeral. Her father made it a rule that no one could even say her name. It wasn’t until my mom was 25 that she learned that her sister was born with a brain tumor.
As a result of this dysfunction, my mom went overboard in personal honesty with us. I happily exploited her openness to absurd lengths. I sat in the kitchen with her as she worked, “interviewing” her with inappropriate questions that she always answered. Will you rate the four of us kids by looks? (I came in second). Which one of us would you grieve the most if we died? (One of my twin brothers, because “he needs me most”). Were you and Dad virgins when you married? (Mom: yes, Dad: no). She never told me I was out of bounds, even when I clearly was.
I wore the shirt in the photo every day for I’m not sure how long when I was three. I asked her once why she let me wear it so often. She responded, “You have so little control over things at that age. I couldn’t see any harm in it.” She was amazingly intuitive as a mom, following her own instincts instead of the prevailing cultural norms of the time. We went barefoot instead of wearing the recommended stiff white shoes. She didn’t buy a playpen so that we could roam freely. In my baby book is an essay about how children are cherished guests of their parents, not belongings.
My mom didn’t have the same instincts for raising teens, though. And she declared that she wouldn’t suffer any Empty Nest Syndrome. She was happy when we moved out, and she detached emotionally from us. I started a career and family without having her once ask how I was doing. I have grown kids now, and I can’t imagine treating our bond so carelessly.
Yet. She saved my shirt. And blessedly, the shirt survived our house fire. When I look at it, I see the woman I adore, the one so in tune with my feelings, who would answer my ridiculous questions. I can still feed off her warmth, her gentleness, the way her stomach rose and fell as she breathed more deeply than anyone I’ve ever known. For me, a child with anxiety that was off the charts, her quiet peace was an oasis for my troubled soul.
So today, I will celebrate my mom without her participation or recognition. I will let go of what she won’t give me, and be glad for what she did. I’ll never stop being a concerned, involved mom to my own kids. Most of all, I won’t underestimate those precious early days of tender connection.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.
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