I never meant to be that mom. You know her; you don’t like her. Nobody does. Poor-me mom wrings her hands, looks at her children with big teary eyes, and whines, “You never call me. You ignore my birthday and Mother’s Day. You don’t give me presents. What have I done to deserve such children who don’t love their mother? Where did I go wrong? Did I not love you enough? Please let me love you more! How can I make up for what I did wrong if you won’t let me love you now!”

She twists every conversation until it becomes about her; she pulls strings of guilt, she makes the kids feel like crap to be around her. That’s a big part of why they don’t call. 

And she’s not as helpless and pathetic as she pretends, for looming behind her, only half in shadow, is her other self, angry mother with teeth and claws, who snarls, “Why you ungrateful wretches, I gave you life itself, I gave you everything, and this is the thanks I get? You owe me! You owe me your very existence! Everything you are, I made!” She’s scary. Man. She scares even me.

There are two days of the year when I turn into psycho mom. On those two days, I find myself torn between pathetic poor-me tears and rage demanding to be given my rightful due as Mother.

These two days are my birthday and Mother’s Day. At these times, the emotions I so responsibly process the rest of the year slither and worm their way to the surface and slip out without my conscious supervision. I lose my communication skills.

Okay, being honest now. I have so far developed no real interpersonal communications skills when it comes to my kids. Other people get the best part of me. My children get my guilt-ridden angst, my fear of hurting them, my hurt about their lack of care. It’s a minefield in here. We see each other seldom, and normally when we do, I suck it up in the name of making nice, which makes all these feelings the elephant in the living room.

And none of this is their fault. It’s okay that I have these feelings, but it’s not okay that I dump my issues on them. Okay, so they don’t love me, or at least, they don’t show it to me if they do. They seldom call, they don’t send me gifts, they don’t express sentimental feelings toward me. They don’t say ‘I love you’ and when I say it to them, they do not respond, with oh so rare exceptions.

But they didn’t sign a contract promising to love and honour me when they were born. They don’t owe me anything. I don’t want them to be obliged to me, or to love me because they ‘have to’. Love can’t be love unless it is offered freely. And my root, heart and highest desire for them is that they be free.

Granted, such a contract is assumed in this society, and that’s part of the problem and why it’s so damn hard to release this inner conflict, no matter how much I process it with myself. Society pulls the strings. Society is that mom.

I don’t believe in being born into debt and obligation, especially to one’s mother. Not even if the mother is me. But being so freakin enlightened about it the rest of the year costs me on Mother’s Day. I freak out. I turn psycho.

Deep down, I can’t help wanting my kids to play the game everybody else plays on Mother’s Day. I look at my facebook page and it’s covered with other people’s appreciation, love and honour for their mothers, and for mothers in general.

And I share their sentiment. I believe in honouring the Mother principle. I honour my own mother on Mother’s Day, not with flowers and gifts, but with my attention and care. I’d be talking with her right now, if the phone lines were clear. I’ve been trying to get through all day.

And poor-me mom (the mom I try so hard not to be) whines how unfair it is that my own children fail to see fit to gift me with their own care and attention. And demanding, angry mom screams, “I want sentiment, dammit! I want my Hallmark moment! I want to be repaid for how hard it was to carry, birth, nurture and care for those poopy-bummed brats! I want a refund! I want a return on my investment!”

I don’t want to be either of those moms. But I am them. They are me. I had children so that there would be somebody in the world who would have to love me. It’s true. I was only twenty. What did I know? I wanted love, so I had babies. They were supposed to love me forever, that’s the story I was told.

Somehow I never reconciled that story with the fact that I didn’t feel much in the way of love for my own Mom. That’s had to grow over time, with experience, with healing. Oh, the blind spots, the problem of being human! 

My kids are allowed to grow up, to change, to become different than I expected or wanted them to be. Why shouldn’t they? I did. I’m not the same mom they were born to either. I reneged on my contract. I stopped baking bread and making their blue jeans in order to become a phoenix, and they can only have felt abandoned by that. I went crazy on them. I changed. They don’t owe me a damn thing, except their freedom, empowerment and happiness. That’s all any generation owes the previous one.

And they’re doing their level best. I respect who they are as people, I like them, and I think they like me when I’m being my true self and not reacting out of a thwarted child’s hurt that her dolls didn’t love her as they were supposed to. That’s going to have to be good enough. I’ve gotten good at navigating around the elephant when we see each other, because I do enjoy their company and there are plenty of ’safe’ topics to talk about.

We are very different people, with very different lives and values, and they are grownup people with lives of their own.

I can’t help it, I still have these feelings, though I’m working on taking responsibility for them as I can. And I’m still likely to be a bit psycho about this on Mother’s Day and my birthday until I’m not, and at the same time as I despair that that’s ever going to happen, I have faith that it will. They’re not the ones who need to change, I am. I hope they know that I know that.

Until then, kids, don’t call me on Mother’s Day unless you are willing to ask me about my life and act as though you are interested! Don’t call me on Mother’s Day unless you are willing to give me a hint that you might harbour some sentiment toward me as your mother!

I’ll still love you, that’s the upside. I’ll love you anyway, no matter what. Forever. I have to.

That’s the crux of it, the unfairness, the irony. I had kids so there would be somebody in the world who would have to love me. But I ended up being the one burdened with the biological imperative to love them forever, no matter what. Mother love. It’s a bitch.

I never realized that my own mother was in that position. That she had to love me, being my mother, no matter what. I didn’t think she did love me. I didn’t think anybody did. I was pretty blind.

Mom, I love you. Have I said that lately? I do.

Happy Mother’s Day.

This entry was posted on Sunday, May 10th, 2009 at 5:49 pm and is filed under about me, photos, truth and strangeness. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.