Mother's Day

You know how painful it is for me to be around boys these days, when every cute little guy in our town seems to be getting a spring haircut, wearing a baseball uniform, or walking through the town green?

Well, there's that.
And at church on Mother's Day, when I was trying to sing and not cry, Tim whispered, "How come every family in here seems to have a little boy climbing all over the dad?" So it's hard for him, too.

After a short mental health nap, I worked on painting the kitchen then got ready for Margaret's big outing that night. And, in an unplanned stroke of genius, it turned out to be THE place to go if you are trying to avoid seeing any preteen or teenage boys-- a Taylor Swift concert!

We, along with 13,998 other screaming moms and daughters (and a few intrepid dads) had an awesome time singing along to Taylor's hits, enjoying Ed Sheeran's opening act, and counting Taylor's costume changes (13?). It was a very positive Mother's Day activity.

Here's a funny story about when we gave Margaret the concert tickets last Christmas. We did our traditional poem scavenger hunt that took her all over the house to find her last "big" present. When she found it, it was just a large Fed-Ex envelope, and her face fell. As I filmed her, she looked up, at me: "An envelope? An envelope? You guys didn't name a star after me, did you?"

No Honey, but we do love you to the moon and back!

Merry Christmas and I Hate You Mom

Okay, I know I’ve written a lot about my mother on this blog.

In short, she rocked.

I had a conversation with one of my oldest and dearest friends last week and she was saying how when we were growing up our friends loved my mother and were envious of how great our relationship was. This is a balm to my soul, because as you know, I only got to have her around for 18 years. My friends and their mothers got to develop rich adult relationships that are still evolving today.

My friend suggested that maybe my mother’s and my great relationship was a GIFT, since we wouldn’t have the chance to grow apart and then grow back together the way most of our friends and their mothers would. Makes sense, but there is more to the story.

Not 24 hours after that conversation, I found this lovely note I had written my mom. I’m guessing I was 12 or 13 in 8th grade. Please don’t confuse this with my first grade hate note (preserved in my mother’s jewelry box) or the 16-year-old’s diatribe when I go off on her for not buying me a car.

Good times.

Scrawled on notebook paper with permanent marker and poor spelling we have:

"You always feel the need to irratate (sp) and to fight and dampen people’s hopes. John will say, “Can I go here can I go here and of course you say “sure” me (double underline) no way and I wait all week for tonight and you have to either say I cant (sp) watch something because they want to watch something else or to start a fight over nothing!

And when I have a new room planned you say “sure” with till Jan—sure wait till Feb—What next? You put in a yellow rug without asking about all the hours I’ve spent planning and paint the woodwork your color and there go my plans… think about it!

You don’t delay (underline) to get John something for sports—talk about 2 pair of cleats in 2 weeks?? But when we do go shopping you act like were (sp) being mean if we don’t like something OR YOU SAY before I get a chance to comment you say: YOU HATE IT!!

You are a great mother but have a lot to learn to be a friend.

And for Christmas, sure you read my list…

FOR LAUGHS."

Sheesh. There are a lot of directions we could go in when analyzing this letter. You may be wondering why you even read the blog of such an ungrateful wench. I know. Me too.

You may be pitying my mom who only got to live for 46 years on this earth, yet had to deal with this kind of shit with surprising regularity.

If you haven’t already unfollowed or de-friended me, let’s ask what can be gleaned from this letter.

That a caring mother surprised her daughter by installing new wall to wall yellow carpet (shag, even??) and spent hours painting the room for her, only to be berated for not consulting her daughter’s color palette (seafoam green and dusty rose, natch?)

That this daughter is so jealous of her siblings she even begrudges her brother’s necessary sports equipment purchases?

That a dateless, awkward, hormonal Friday night was “ruined” by the daughter not getting to watch Falcon Crest?

And as a mom myself who knows how much effort women put into making Christmas special, I can barely read the part about the Christmas list.

Ugh.

I share this letter for several reasons:

One is to tell you that even though I know I acted like a loser and I really miss my mom, this letter does not kill me. Why? Because of the kind of person she was. She wouldn’t want it to kill me. She would want me to get a grip and move on from a bad day, which is probably what ended up happening.

Another is a heads-up that THIS relationship, that looked enviable to outsiders, must have had its rocky points. Rocky points need not define or destroy a relationship.

Another is to help me brace myself for this kind of thing with my own kids. And if you have read the rest of this blog, you know I need to brace myself. While I’ve been typing this post my daughter tried to cut a tag off her shirt but cut a hole in the shirt instead. This was somehow my fault even though I never left this spot.

In dealing with my kids, I want to think about what my own response could be/can be.

This note helps me remember that how my kids feel about me on a given moment or day does not define my self worth. Neither does a note from the principal or a snippy remark from a friend, or my husband not wanting to discuss remodeling ideas.

It helps me remember that even though I said I hated her, I loved her. More than anyone or anything. I loved her so much that this insecure wreck of people pleaser and honor student felt safe enough to be a truly hateful and miserable wretch to her. Makes sense, right?

And her reaction, or lack thereof, made me feel even safer and more secure and even more wretched but less wretched at the same time.

You see, instead of telling me how this kind of behavior hurt her, lecturing me about respect, or withholding love, intimacy, or shag carpet, my mother let me get myself worked up into a lather.
This allowed me to keep the focus on ME, which hello, where does any self-loathing yet narcissistic 8th grader want the focus anyway? Before long I would cool down, stew, and realize what an idiot I was while my mother still maintained her dignity. Her lightly pursed lips, quiet humming, quizzical smile and perhaps a raised eyebrow were all it took for me to realize I was an idiot and my mom was still my mom.

I’m sure the “perfect” relationship my friends envisioned wasn’t perfect from either of our perspectives. But you’ve probably already read about how my mother and I think/thought perfection was overrated.

What was special, or notable, was a mom who was a great mom, who loved this ingrate unconditionally, who didn’t stoop to my level, and who did not try too hard to be a “friend” to someone who had plenty of friends, but only one mom.

I guess that’s what I get from this letter.

not Love, anna

For those of you who, upon seeing this photo, pitied me and acknowledged how I have my hands full with my daughter, I accepted your sympathy graciously. Some of you had been there yourselves, as a mother or a daughter. Others recommended I sleep with my bedroom door locked, in case she ever went all Menendez on me.

If you want more details about this picture, check it out here

Today I’ve dug into the archives—my late mother’s jewelry box— to show you that I don't deserve sympathy, I deserve (and am getting!) payback. Here’s a pseudo-Valentine from me to my mother, circa 1977 or so, in which I let her know how I felt about her on a given day. I remember sliding it under her bedroom door, thoroughly pissed about something.

Since apparently my scanner stinks, I'll type it for you here:

Just fur you

Po Po

not Love,

anna

I can’t say much for my spelling—po po should be “poo poo,” but I will say that this note gives me hope. My anger burned white hot over whatever she had done to me.

Who knows what it was? Making me go to piano lessons? Telling me to clean my room? Or the time when she wouldn’t let me go with a friend to the White House to MEET AMY CARTER!!!!!!?????? I had a strange feeling at the time that she thought maybe I was too high-strung to keep it together on a 10 hour outing with another family. This is right before I locked myself in the bathroom for 4 hours decrying the cruelty of humanity. Hmmm.

This note gives me hope because I know it did not sum up how I really felt about my mom, just as Molly’s picture can’t negate the good times, such as the down-right awesome day we spent together today. I can picture my mom shaking her head and laughing as she tucked it in her jewelry box, just as I laughed when I saw the curlicue mustache Molly gave me. Payback can be heck.

I just need to keep telling myself that a daughter’s love for her mom goes way beyond hate notes. Lather, rinse, repeat as needed.

Aaah, the Joy!

After a homework-induced meltdown, and a trip to time out, Molly left this little gem for me on my bedside table. The photo is from our church's Mother-Daughter Tea, which I thought provided a nice added touch.

Later, I found this note in its place:





I think my husband made her write it. Let me know if you think a curlicue mustache is a good look for me.

Like Mother, Like Daughter?

I drove my kids to school in my pj’s today. Actually, in a pair of velour sweats and the long sleeved t-shirt that I slept in last night and wore all day yesterday. I feel as if I have finally arrived!

People always talk and write about becoming their mothers, but I wasn’t sure it would happen to me. My mom died suddenly when I was 18 and she was just 46. For almost 20 years, there has been a gaping hole in my heart and in my life felt most acutely on important days, but ever present in the mundane as well. I was never sure if I would turn into my mother, having only been with her for 18 years, especially since I realized I have now lived longer without her than with her.

I won’t try to describe my mom too much in this entry—there is no way to capture her in so few words—but I will tell you that she was the center of my life. A perfect blend of security (a mom who acted like a mom), zaniness, and strength that allowed me to love and respect her, even while rolling my eyes at her during those teenage years. She had a strong faith in God and a warm acceptance of others that drew others toward her.

Since becoming a mother, I have heard “mom-isms” come out of my mouth numerous times. “Goodness gracious” and “sweet potato” are two of the most common. When I pull out of our neighborhood onto a busy street every morning, I tell the kids we need to “goose it!” to get the car up the hill. In the most pleasant voice I can muster, I tell the kids to “hop up!” every morning even though those were the two most dreaded words of my childhood. I also use the phrase, “the other day” liberally, much to the annoyance of my six-year-old daughter. “It wasn’t the other day, mom! It was like two months ago!” This morning, when I told the kids to “hustle their bustles, I knew I was indeed, my mom.

My school drop-off attire just cinched the deal. I remember being mortified when my mother would wear the same clothes two days in a row. As a teen I changed clothes multiple times a day, from my matching headbands and earrings down to my colorful flats, so I couldn’t see why she couldn’t dig a little deeper into her closet for some variety. One year, after she broke her toe, she added wooden clogs to the look because she found them quite comfortable. Yikes. We may be used to seeing clogs today, but in the color-drenched, shoulder-padded, big-haired 1980’s, I thought my mom looked like a hippie throwback in her clogs and socks—bent on embarrassing me. Little did I know I’d feel the same way about my brown velour sweat pants as she did about her teal ones. I didn’t know how comfy it would be to drive the kids to school in my slippers (clogs, of course).

One of the most mortifying phrases she used was to “feel someone out.” Of course I understood she was using the phrase differently than my middle school peers, but I found it embarrassing to say the least. “Lunch on Tuesday? Let’s feel her out about that.” Eeek. I swore I would never, ever let that phrase pass through these superior, dignified lips! Well, the other day, while I was hustling my bustle, I told someone I needed to “feel something out.” Much as I love my mom, I need to wipe that one out of my vocabulary completely before the kids reach middle school. Any suggestions?

I’d like to think that if these phrases and clothing choices wore off on me in those all too short years, some of the important stuff about my mom did, too. I don’t know whether I got her humor, compassion, strength, and acceptance of people where they are, but if I did, I know that my kids, whether I live to 46 or 96, will be better because of it.



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