Things I Wish I Could Ask My Mother
Sunday would mark my mother's 64th birthday, if she had lived past 56. Hers was a slow and miserable decline. While I would never wish to prolong her suffering, I do wish her sicknesses could have loosened their grasp long enough for her to meet my child(ren). But more than that, I wish I could have gotten to know her as an adult. There are bits and pieces I recall of her between the mental and physical illness, but they are viewed through the cloudy eyes of a child. It would be completely differently to know her as an adult, and that's one of the many things her death took from me.
It is difficult to be a mother without a mother. There are long stretches of blankness in my childhood,
things I can't remember because I was too young or too inexperienced to know what to hold on to. That's one of the things I miss most about talking to her -- there are so many questions I wish I could ask about who I was as a child, and how I am like (or unlike) her as a parent. I have no one else to ask; at best, my father is an unreliable narrator who has a casual relationship with the truth.
So here's what I would ask her, if I could:
What was I like as a young child, Momma? Was my default setting happy, like my little guy seems to be, or was I as pensive and emotional as I am an adult? I have vague memories of being a very sensitive child. For example, I once slapped my Cabbage Patch doll across the face and shoved her in the oven of my pretend kitchen for agreeing with my mother when my mom accused me of being an ungrateful little girl. I don't even remember the context, only my reaction. Then again, I also remember doing typical carefree childhood things, like singing into the handle of my mother's ancient Eureka upright vacuum to an adoring audience of stuffed animals. So I wasn't all emotion and no fun. I wish I could get glimpses of myself through your eyes.
How did you do it, Momma? How did you keep your balance on that high-wire poverty line while raising two children and dragging the dead weight of an erratic, chronically unemployed husband? I live a comfortable lifestyle with an incredibly loving, helpful husband and only one child (so far), and some days I can hardly keep my balance, much less dance. It took an unnameable toll on you, to be certain. The stress ate at your body and drew lines on your face. I don't remember you ever being really, truly happy for more than a few days at a stretch. What made you continue to push forward for as long as you did, until you finally fell apart in so many ways? I wish I could harness your strength.
Did you like being a mother, Momma? I know we're all supposed to say yes, it's the best job in the world, but what did you really think? Were you born to be a mom, or just passing through? Because I'm not even two years in, and I've got to be honest -- most days I fall more on the side of "dislike parenting, but enjoying having parented." It's a lonely place to be, and I wish I knew that you stood in this same place once upon a time, too, and lived. That we were here together at different times. Just like that time I went to the redwood forest in California and stood under the same trees and had my picture taken, like you did when you were about my age. If you could press those two negatives together into one picture, we'd be standing side by side. I wish I could feel your support and understanding now.
Of course, if I could call her one last time, it would be a desperate conversation of far more import than how often I sported pigtails and whether she minded dirty diapers. In fact, there is so much to say that I'm not even sure where I'd start.
I know for sure, though, how it would end: I love you, Momma. Wish you were here.
 |
| circa 1981 |
things I can't remember because I was too young or too inexperienced to know what to hold on to. That's one of the things I miss most about talking to her -- there are so many questions I wish I could ask about who I was as a child, and how I am like (or unlike) her as a parent. I have no one else to ask; at best, my father is an unreliable narrator who has a casual relationship with the truth.
So here's what I would ask her, if I could:
What was I like as a young child, Momma? Was my default setting happy, like my little guy seems to be, or was I as pensive and emotional as I am an adult? I have vague memories of being a very sensitive child. For example, I once slapped my Cabbage Patch doll across the face and shoved her in the oven of my pretend kitchen for agreeing with my mother when my mom accused me of being an ungrateful little girl. I don't even remember the context, only my reaction. Then again, I also remember doing typical carefree childhood things, like singing into the handle of my mother's ancient Eureka upright vacuum to an adoring audience of stuffed animals. So I wasn't all emotion and no fun. I wish I could get glimpses of myself through your eyes.
How did you do it, Momma? How did you keep your balance on that high-wire poverty line while raising two children and dragging the dead weight of an erratic, chronically unemployed husband? I live a comfortable lifestyle with an incredibly loving, helpful husband and only one child (so far), and some days I can hardly keep my balance, much less dance. It took an unnameable toll on you, to be certain. The stress ate at your body and drew lines on your face. I don't remember you ever being really, truly happy for more than a few days at a stretch. What made you continue to push forward for as long as you did, until you finally fell apart in so many ways? I wish I could harness your strength.
Did you like being a mother, Momma? I know we're all supposed to say yes, it's the best job in the world, but what did you really think? Were you born to be a mom, or just passing through? Because I'm not even two years in, and I've got to be honest -- most days I fall more on the side of "dislike parenting, but enjoying having parented." It's a lonely place to be, and I wish I knew that you stood in this same place once upon a time, too, and lived. That we were here together at different times. Just like that time I went to the redwood forest in California and stood under the same trees and had my picture taken, like you did when you were about my age. If you could press those two negatives together into one picture, we'd be standing side by side. I wish I could feel your support and understanding now.
Of course, if I could call her one last time, it would be a desperate conversation of far more import than how often I sported pigtails and whether she minded dirty diapers. In fact, there is so much to say that I'm not even sure where I'd start.
I know for sure, though, how it would end: I love you, Momma. Wish you were here.
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