Mother’s Day has come and gone, another Hallmark holiday meant to guilt-trip the neglectful - perhaps spoken like a person whose mother (and mother-in-law) is long gone. It’s nice to be recognized throughout the year, not just on major or minor holidays. Do we really need sappy commercials to remind us that somewhere, sometime, someone was there to push the slimy being you once were out into the brave new world?
I’m sometimes annoyed when I hear people talking about their mothers in disparaging terms. They may have their problems, be eccentric, weird, dysfunctional, heartless, or abusive. They may wear miniskirts and push-up bras when you might wish they would choose something more demure. God forbid, they might like your bands, your sports, and your movies. They may drone on and on and on, repeating the same stories you’ve heard forever until you think the muscles in your face could cringe no more. They may be physically unwell or emotionally crippling.
Or they could be like mine, taking up space under a shady tree in a Fountain, Colorado cemetery. Or like my mother-in-law, whose ashes are on a shelf in my basement.
Though I have no mothers left in my life, I happen to be one, blessed with two children of my own. While they would describe me as a “mean” mom (or clueless, embarrassing, stupid, or hopelessly out of date, among other descriptors), they won’t know the depth of my feelings toward them until they become parents themselves.
That’s how it was for me.
Mothers aren’t perfect humans, although many of them strive to be. My own mother was the least perfect person I knew. If my husband’s mother had known her, she would have thought her to be incredibly selfish and mentally unbalanced. Her life was hers, and never once did it revolve around her children. My mother-in-law was the exact opposite; she lived and breathed through her children and mine. She bent over backward in the opposite direction in an attempt to be the perfect mother and grandmother.
Article comments
1 - Nicole Pulliam
Thank you for writing this, I to have 'wounds' from my past and I often fall so short with my own children. This was refreshingly honest and respectful.
2 - Bliffle
Good article.
I still think your picture is a little sunshine among the glowering republicans on BC.
My own mother was not very good. Not in the least warm. We all knew that Dad was the warm one. I don't miss my mother at all. I remember my dad fondly every week.
So I repeated the pattern: my wives were not very good mothers for my children. Except, maybe, in small ways, like they quit smoking and drinking when pregnant.
My grandfather rescued his kids from the crazy mother, but my dad and I both failed to rescue our kids. It was hard to do in the 20th century, but I understand that it is easier now.
3 - Dr. Juliann Mitchell, PhD
Thanks Joanne. I think I am going to call my Mom and say thank you again.