My Mom

It's one of those posts. My mom.

I've been thinking about how I treat people, how I manage problems and issues, where I take out my frustration. And it all stems from mom. If I am not beating her up in my head for all the "bad" things she did to me as a kid (like not giving me ice cream, watching my weight like a hawk, giving me different meals than my brother), I am assaulting her verbally in phone calls.

So hears the truce and the truth. We all have mom issues to work out. I get so upset when a victory for me is clouded by her pessimism. And yet, she'll turn around and give me something great-- a very small way of saying "Good job" by handing me my favorite thing, or being so incredibly thoughtful, giving me the smartest piece of advice, or bailing me out of yet another situation. She is always going to be that person who no matter how blue the sky is and how perfect the day is-- storm clouds are in the forecast and on the horizon. She doesn't throw herself wholeheartedly into things, really getting behind them or excited by them-- instead steps back and judges to make sure it is a good product, an interesting and safe endeavor, or a worthwhile cause.

I wonder if that has to do with her own disappointment. Because she is guarded, and in the moments she is not, it's beautiful to have mom there, soft, loving , gorgeous. But as guarded, she is showing her vulnerable side without showing it-- the years of upset or disappointment. I want to scream sometimes "It is okay to let other people love you. You don't have to do this all on your own. You can make friends and be with people just because you want to. There is no conspiracy that we are all out to get you." But that's her wall.

I've got my own wall (walls) too. I trust no one, but pretend like I do. C'mon, it's fun-- it's like trying to live everyone else's life for them. Because only I know what's best. Hmmphsnark.

Back to mom. I realize if I stop blaming her for everything, my life gets less complicated, and I get to grow up to be an adult. I take responsibility for my actions and inactions. So what if she says something that triggers me-- it's in my genetic makeup to get triggered. She's not doing it to hurt me intentionally. She is protecting herself and by default, me, from anything out there. Even if she is making up stories about monsters under the bed, it's her way of keeping me in my bed and not in hers.

Because when it comes down to it, I fiercely love this woman. She is so powerful, with her tiny tiny hands and her bitty bitty feet. And her perfect hair and gorgeous face (I am so lucky to look like her), and her charming sparkling personality. My favorite moments of me and my mom are singing in the car-- my whole life we have had music as our shared joy, singing along with the radio-- so much so that my brother can't stand it. Which of course, makes me laugh. And her too.

I loved summertime with mom. She would get on her suit and go in the pool. She would let me hang on to her and she would wade in the water bouncing me up and down, singing songs to me in her soft voice. I would tell her, "Mommy you are so beautiful. Your skin is so soft and you smell so good." My little blonde head would find a spot right where her collarbone should be, and I would hold on, and fall asleep as she would walk around the shallow end of the pool, just me and her. I'm not sure where my brother would be, but those are my best memories, just me and her, in the sun, in the pool, my little hand in her wet hair, bouncing up and down in the water.

I know now that for her putting on a bathing suit was not easy, and she didn't like to, because of the weight. But when she did, like when my gramma did, it was magical-- because we were mermaids together.

So mom, if you are reading, know that I love you. And that this life that I have is because of everything you have taught me-- to question, to second guess, to keep plodding through, to forgive, to love, to be the one that makes the difference, to lead, to follow. You have encouraged me to be a woman, when I have wanted to be a girl, you have led me to be silly when I have wanted to be significant, and you teach me every day that it's not easy but it sure is worth it.

I love you mommy. A lot. And in this blog I will sometimes say things because I am angry and upset at you, but it passes. So don't think that I am writing the "Mommy Dearest" story-- because I am not. I am just writing my story, it's not dirty laundry, it's just life-- and we all have something to learn from it.

Now, stop reading my blog.