Do Different

It was my first mother's day since my mom died. My first without the sinking feeling that I really “ought” to call my mom. The first without the awkward telephone conversation that makes it patently obvious that we don't have anything to say to each other.

Having her gone is a relief.

There, I said it. Will I burn in hell now? Will she haunt me for being a bad daughter? Would she care enough to bother?

Mother's day comes around every year and the media lays it on thick. “Show her how special she is!” “Your Mom, no-one loves you more.” “Doesn't your Mom deserve the best?” Facebook feels even worse.  So many friends change their profile photos to their mother's. Everything is pink flowers and gushing happiness. If your mom is still alive – she is your greatest support. If she is gone – she will always be an inspiration. Mom – always there for you. That's great. I'm really happy for you.

But what about those of us who didn't have a warm, supportive mommy-daughter relationship? What about those of us who dreaded the obligatory phone calls and visits to keep up the pretense? I'm not talking about abusive relationships. There's no excuse for abusing your kids, but there's a whole 'nother grey area of women that yearned for nurturing but didn't get it. Wanted support, but didn't receive it.

I have a few friends who feel the same way. We meet at women's camping trips or over coffee. We talk in hushed tones, in case someone should overhear us. Once we find each other, it's like having a long lost sister. Someone who shares your secret. Someone to help fill that gap inside that mom didn't. Someone who “gets it” too.

We had mothers who were not particularily affectionate. They were not interested in our academic or social successes. They didn't notice when we were upset. There were no hugs and kisses when you got home from school. She wasn't in the audience at every school concert bursting with pride. She didn't take photos of you and your best friend when you tried makeup for the first time, or a movie of you riding a two-wheeler successfully. She didn't keep track of your boyfriends or braid your hair. She didn't . . . she just didn't.

****

My mom was particularily relieved when I got married – there was no longer any risk of me being a financial (or emotional) burden on her and dad – though I had moved out on my own when I was 18. She didn't seem to care who I married, just as long as I did. She and dad didn't encourage a college bound career path for me. Typing lessons and a secretarial job was their best advice.  If I wanted more, I was on my own.

A doting grandmother, she was not.  I had such fond memories of my grandmother (her mother!) – she was loving and supportive, affectionate, genuinely interested in my life. My mom, however, spent more time talking about the stock market and the weather than asking about her grandchildren. I'd try to fill her in on their activities, but my efforts were always one sided. On the rare occaisions when there were visits, she would greet them politely – in a vague manner – and return back to her perusal of the Wall Street Journal or reading Harlequin romances.

When I was a teenager, I was embarrassed by her – she looked so old – grey hair in pincurls, housecoats and ankle socks. I had friends whose moms listened to Elvis, wore polyester pants and snapped their gum. I knew girls with cool moms. Someone once remarked that she saw me at the mall with my grandmother. I was mortified.

****

Now, the irony here is that mom was really just a child herself. It took me years to realize it. It took having children of my own to understand what a self-absorbed petulant child looks like. I don't think she ever grew up and learned how to gracefully put other people first. She never found joy in self-sacrifice and giving to others.

Like other women with “mother issues,” we compensate by doing different. Some of us are a little more permissive, some a little stricter. Some of us are deeply affectionate while others give their kids alotta space. We try to be what we think our kids need.

My mom didn't like to attend my band concerts. She didn't “care” for the music and eventually stopped going. By the time I got to junior high, she refused to drive me, expecting me to hitch a ride with the girl up the street that I hadn't spoken to in years. I ended up walking, in the dark, by myself. Those experiences resonate. No matter what the music is, I am there for my kids, always. Good moms don't attend soccer games, music concerts and plays expecting professional quality entertainment. We go because we care.

Which is what I thought it came down to. She didn't care. She didn't care enough to put her children's needs ahead of her own. She didn't care enough to see that it hurt me. In turn, I became an angry, resentful teenager. My sarcastic tongue became my offence and defense. Her poor hearing was my target as I'd hurl all manner of insults at her under my breath. My father and brother would catch my comments and I would feel their dissaproval, but it didn't stop me. My mom was so stupid and ignorant, and I thought I was so smart and cunning.

****

It's taken me years to come to grips with her. I wonder why she was the way she was. Her cousin, who had known her since forever, thought she'd lacked oxygen at birth. It was pure speculation, but plausible. She had bad hearing – chronic tinnitus – and that may have had a lot to do with her poor communication skills and her lack of appreciation for really good music. She'd only listen to classical music, mainly baroque (no high or low registers). She didn't enjoy Gershwin or Bernstien. She didn't like jazz or big band. 

She had low self-esteem. Being a C average student with two older sisters, one extremely intelligent and the other beautiful and talented, didn't help. Yet, she could add and multiply columns of figures in her head. She was an aggressive board game player but couldn't divide fractions when making a recipe. She was socially awkward yet financially brilliant.

Much has been made, recently, of diagnosing children with autism and asperger's syndrome and it's certainly possible that if mom were born today, she might neatly fit into one of these conditions. She would have had counseling and social skills classes. She could learn how to converse appropriately and understand how to be affectionate with children. A medical diagnosis could explain a lot, and might even ease the ache inside me when I wonder why my mother didn't care more.  Maybe she couldn't.

****

Mom entered the hospital a week before Christmas. My brother and I dropped everything to be there. The congestive heart failure that she'd lived with for the past 15 years had finally taken its toll and it was time to put her in hospice. We cleared out her apartment, sorting through over 25 years of accumulation in those two rooms, discarding thousands of pages of carefully kept financial records and saving just a coulple of shoe boxes that held grandchildrens' photos, undisplayed. I shipped home odds and ends of kitchen utensils that I remember from my childhood but gave away every stitch of her clothing. We were interviewd by hospice nurses who wanted to know her habits, favorite foods, TV shows, and nearby friends. I didn't know. I hadn't kept track. I was as guilty as her.

****

I flew home on the last flight Christmas Eve to be with my own family, leaving her to die alone. In the dark of the plane, under the roar of the engines, I cried. In the days following her death on Christmas day, I cried some more. My husband didn't quite understand why I was grieving for a woman who had never bonded with me. I didn't miss her. I wasn't desperately sad that she was gone. I was relieved.

****

A friend of mine was wondering how she was going handle it when her “uncaring” mother was gone. My advice to her was this:

Grieve for the mother you needed but never had.

Grieve for the relationship that should have been but never was.

Let people see you cry, even if they don't understand the truth behind it.

Be a different mom.