Even before she forgot who I was, Mother's Day always presented a challenge. I would comb through card after card: To the Best Mom Ever; To the One Who Was Always There; To the Mom Who Sacrificed for My Happiness--uh, no.
When I was twelve, my mother left me and my siblings for a man she'd met at the bar she used to go to after her night shift as a waitress. He sang in a country-and-western band: The Gadabouts. He made her feel loved in a way that neither we nor my father could.
When my dad discovered their affair, he offered a chance to work things out, but she chose her new lover, her new life. She left all of us: me, my older sister, Debbie, a little sister who was five, and my brother, who was only two-years old.
We were a ragtag bunch. Debbie, who was sixteen, took on the role of raising the little ones. My dad did what he could, but even though the army had prepared him to lead during a crisis, my mother's departure waylaid him like war had not.
I spent a lot of time avoiding home, trying to work my way through puberty and adolescence. Trying, at least during those early years, to keep a relationship with my mom. I sent birthday and Christmas cards. Later, when I was more grown up, I'd send a Honey-Baked Ham for the holidays, and she always wrote beautiful thank-you notes in response.
But Mother's Day was tricky.
She was not a good mother. Her fleeting contributions would never be captured by Hallmark.
And yet, there were many years in her middle age when she waited on those cards I'd send, the funny ones, saying how I was the best kid she could expect. It hurt her feelings that my younger siblings never sent an acknowledgement. But then they'd never known her when she could, and did, throw great birthday parties while Debbie and I were growing up. She was a generous person who'd been raised in poverty, so she always said yes to a cheap Chinese toy or a Snickers bar at the grocery store.
Luckily, my mother now has severe dementia. From what I hear, she doesn't remember having a family. So I don't send cards anymore.
But, come Sunday, I will still think about the way she laughed, about the soup she fixed that year I had the measles. I will still remember.
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ReplyDeleteWhat a poignant reminder that not everyone has a Rockwellesque childhood and that it's okay to accept the mixed bag we were given. I think those with perfect childhoods are the minority. Thanks for sharing with honesty.
ReplyDeleteExactly. One cannot easily state for all the world to see on social media that mom was, well, mean. My mom died two years ago and it was the only funeral I have ever been to where the minister mildly chastised the dearly departed! He said, "Let us not dwell on the negative memories, but rather let them just float away." I almost laughed. When I thanked him afterwards for his honesty, he looked me straight in the eye and told me he had a difficult mother, too. I've cried some since she passed, but mostly the tears are for the mother I never had. Bless you, Vickie. Happy Mother's Day to you
ReplyDeleteI wish that I had seen this on mother's day, which is a tricky holiday for me, too. But even at this later date in the month, I appreciate your words. Thank you for sharing this poignant and relatable meditation on mother's day.
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