Gratitude, occasional sadness, ambivalence.
These are some of the emotions that one day of the year, set aside for celebrating all things maternal, stirs in me.
It’s always been a strange and bittersweet holiday, and I’ve never been comfortable with too much celebrating of myself. At this point in my life, I am fortunate to feel appreciated as the mom of three incredible kids most days of the year.
I see the flowers and the cards, the brunches and lunches, families gathered around to shower moms with love and affection and appreciation. Some feel the heavy loss of their beloved mothers, posting sweet memories and reverent remembrances.
Often, on this day in May, I observe all of it and can’t help but feel a pang of misplaced resentment. And then I remind myself that you can’t truly miss a thing you never had.
Mom and I haven’t spoken in over a decade now. In reality, we’ve been fundamentally estranged since the day I was born.
From the beginning, when Mom couldn’t, there was Gram. I was born to an already emotionally fragile person who, through no fault of her own, had a breakdown shortly after my arrival. Gram took me home, and that was the start.
Gram and me.
Around age 4 there was a brief Mom #2. In short, it didn’t work out.
Thank goodness for Gram.
A few years later came Mom #3. I was transplanted from living in a bubble of middle-aged utopia in Gram’s fifty-five and older apartment complex where I listened happily to her and her girlfriends playing pinochle on Tuesday nights and hopping the occasional flight to San Francisco to watch my wild grandpa’s horses race, to living with my father’s fiance, her roommate and their combined four or five kids. I went from being an only child to having three siblings, which was equal parts exciting and scary.
I was sent alone to live with them because Mom #3 was a devout Catholic who wouldn’t live with my father until they were married.
One of my first memories of Mom #3 is of her explaining to me, with confidence, that my mother had abandoned me and did not love me. She was my mom now and I should call her Mom from then on.
This was a pivotal moment in my almost 8-year-old life. I clearly remember thinking, I know this lady is wrong. I know my mom loves me, but she just couldn’t because she was sick. The people-pleaser switch was flipped and I adapted quickly and instinctively, out of self-preservation. I’d like to believe that Mom #3 meant well and was dealing with her own issues along with the complicated feelings and challenges of being my stepmother.
As the years went by, I subconsciously sought out and was fascinated by other people’s mothers. As a young adult, I always had a few close ‘older’ friends.
There was Weekender Mom (“Weekenders” were people who owned vacation houses in the ski town I grew up in) who, when I was around twelve or thirteen told me I was beautiful and let me hang around and ask lots of questions while she was cooking.
As a teenager, there were Friend’s Moms. My best friend’s mom knew I wasn’t allowed to have any kind of junk food and never said anything when I definitely ate more Oreo’s than what would be considered polite after having dinner at their house during a sleepover. I marveled at how my friend and her sisters laughed together and joked around with their mom. Their house felt warm and happy and relaxed. It felt normal.
I had a boy best friend too, and his mom was one of my favorites. The one time we decided to ditch school and got caught because I wrote everyone’s notes and then four of us geniuses stood in line- one right behind the other to check back into school the next day, she was the one who tried to talk to Mom #3. She told her what a good kid I was and that maybe she could give me a bit of a break. I’m sure she was careful because she wasn’t the Meddling-Mom type, she just really liked me.
At seventeen, there was my Boyfriend’s Mom- soon to be, albeit briefly, Mother-In-Law. She was like an angel from heaven after I’d left home and landed at her home. The feelings of relief that washed over me as I sat in her living room that first night were overwhelming. She made me one of her famous hot fudge sundaes. She made me feel like I could relax. I could finally breathe.
Before I knew it, I was going to be a mom. I was eighteen and ill-prepared for anything resembling motherhood. Thank goodness for grandparents.
Reflecting on this point in my life I was really on the lookout for moms. I became closer with my Aunt who, next to Gram, has been and is the closest thing I have to a mom. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She believes in me and tells me she’s proud of me. She’s always had my back, which is all any kid- no matter their age needs.
As a young adult, I looked up to my female bosses who taught me things they never realized. I was always listening and wanting to learn, wanting to be better and do better.
I made close friends with older women who became unofficial surrogate mothers. At the age of 30, my boss told me I should buy a house. He instructed me to call a specific realtor, a woman he’d never met in person but had done a lot of business with. I called, and the rest is history. She’s one of those people that really sees others and she saw something in me. Realtor Mom not only sold me a house- there’s a story there too, but she also took me under her wing and became a wonderful mentor. She also called me out on my bullshit and knew how to kick me in the ass in the most productive, motherly manner. We remain close despite living on opposite coasts.
Each of these moms has impacted my life for the better. They taught me valuable lessons and gave me tough love too. As a young adult, I was adrift and making foolish choices, mostly with men. I was a sucker for the down-on-your-luck bad-boy types. One friend told me, “You know Jennifer, just because they choose you, doesn’t mean you have to choose them.” Words to live by.
In my early twenties, it occurred to me that nothing was stopping me from having a relationship with my actual mom (who had, as I was growing up, stayed away in part due to Mom #3’s insecurities). I began calling her regularly to talk about all of the things and tried to spend more time with her. We were going to be besties.
One day Mom said, “You know Jennifer, we’re not going to have this mother-daughter thing like you think we are.” I didn’t hear her.
It took many years to finally understand that I couldn’t fix her and that mental illness is confusing and cruel. Also, therapy is good.
When I finally met and married my person, my best friend, in 2001, I was wildly happy followed by overwhelming feelings of dread. I didn’t deserve this happily-ever-after.
When I found out I was pregnant (planned) with a little girl, I began to panic and thought back to Gram saying perhaps I wasn’t meant to be a mother. Maybe I was a little too much like my own mother.
When my first daughter was born in 2003, all those feelings melted into a giant bucket of love and understanding. I could feel Gram, who had passed away in 1996, reassuring me in my second lifetime of motherhood.
It was bliss and I felt a bittersweet vindication.
At the end of the day, isn’t every day Mother’s Day? There are good and bad days, days filled with fun and frustration, and sometimes wonder, at what our children reflect back to us. There are the rare best-day moments when I see my three babes, now 38, 20 & 18, together laughing, often at my expense, but I don’t care.
Of course, there’s a mountain of things I’d give anything to do over, but in that parallel universe, Sliding Doors kind of way, we might not be where we are now, and I love it here.
The sum of all of these maternal parts is a perfectly imperfect mom who’s tried her best.
Much the same way every single mom along my way tried for me.
Thanks for stopping by,
xo Jen