Mom

I feel I have been rather unfair to my mother in these essays. She did pretty well in many areas. And with a very different set of priorities. She made sure I had a roof over my head, food on the table, clothes on my back. I was never physically hurt, and I had an intact family. She took me to the doctor when I was sick, I always had good shoes for my misshapen feet. I was sent to ballet lessons, ice skating, even flute and violin for a while, despite a lack of talent. I had a pottery class from my grade school. I went on all the class trips.

She never lost her temper at me, but that she explained and apologized for her anger after. She let me take my time, and did not berate me for my shyness, when I was small and fearful. She pampered me when I was ill, held my hand, bandaged my scrapes, fed me soothing food. With the flu, she would set me up on the couch with all the family pillows for a soft bed during the day. She bathed me through chicken pox and fevers. She fed me chicken dumpling soup when I came home from lunch in kindergarden. She read me Doctor Doolittle, and sang me lullabies at night. She took me to the library and opened a world of reading to me. She was warm and always had a hug or a kiss for me. She was generous with time and money with me, in as much as she had it to give. She sent me to Catholic school, and prayed for me to have her faith. She applauded my academic achievements, without making a fuss of it. She went ice skating with me, even though she cracked some ribs when she did it, at 54.

She taught me how to drive, despite my deep disinterest. Then got me into a driver's ed class. She taught me about sewing, and cooking- although I had talent for neither, and she had none for cooking. But I can feed myself and do minor repairs because she showed me how. I can spackle and paint, because I was included as a capable worker. We would play scrabble many days between when I came home from school and she went to pick up dad from work. A love of words and an impressive vocabulary stays with me because of her.

She sewed clothes for me, at a time when store clothes were difficult to fit and expensive. Some of it was unlikable, but there was a wonderful pale yellow jumper that felt so soft and flattered me. And an extraordinary blue wool uniform jumper - long- at my preference. I would love to have it's equal today. I wore it even when I was out of school, lovely deep pockets, pleats, very comfortable.

She was a great mom before I hit puberty. My sexuality unnerved her, and I knew it. She was not aware of how much I drew away from her in her bewilderment. She would not find out how much until ... well. She does not know. Except that something is terribly wrong, and she is alone. She did her job as well as she possibly could when I was small, and I am grateful for that. I expressed my gratitude for many years, directly to her and by pretending respect for her husband- largely at her request. Twenty years of family peace- I did my part to repay her. And would have continued to some extent, had she simply acknowledged I was doing it for her. Or if she'd changed her life from all that she complained about. Or if she appreciated her inability to protect me from my father. If, even now, she showed some interest in me as an independent adult. The silence weighs on us, but those are her rules. She forgets. She says 'the less said the better', so I will say no more. I do remember what she did well.