A Birthday Gift.

I once tried to paint a picture of my Mom. My idea was to paint her as she was as a girl. Before life had really begun to mess with her. For some reason, I just couldn't make the painting work. I built the structure of the painting around her image, the place she grew up, and an old sundial that now rusts peacefully on the back patio of my parent's house. I looked at the few pictures that remain of her as a girl, school pictures, mostly. But even those photos were taken too late. Because Mom grew up early.

Identity is a malleable thing. I am shaped by my perceptions of my own mother, and she, in turn, was shaped through her perceptions of hers. She was shaped by what she perceived her mother thought of her. Which is devastating, because my grandmother did the one thing a mother can do that is unforgivable. She abandoned her children. My mother was all of eight years old.

I have been strangely detached from this eight year old child who would become my mother. I could never imagine my mother as a child. She was “just mother”. Mother, for me, was either completely inaccessible or stiflingly needy. I don't remember any easy moments of just hanging out together, comfortable in each others company. My mother was acutely uncomfortable in herself, and now I know that some of that discomfort was the strangeness of being a mother with such an invisible role model. More than most people, she really was winging it. Add to her parental equation a father who used Henry the 8^th as his role model for marriage, (with, yes, 8 wives *edit: I know, Henry only had 6, but Grandpa didn't let that stop him), and a tendency to physically abuse his children, Mom had a childhood verging on the Dickensian.

For us, this meant a mother who was prone to explosive fits of temper at seemingly random moments. She would make herself scarce at these times. And we were made to understand what a huge gift this was. We were never PHYSICALLY abused. This of course, made all the difference.

And there is a big difference, though in the midst of childhood, the threat of harm was ever present. Never intentional harm to us, but accidents. Situations. Self destructive behavior. Suicide attempts. Roles were reversed, and I found myself my mother's mother by the time I was, well, eight years old. I had to be careful not to upset her, or be angry, or frustrated with her. She was delicate. She didn't mean what she said. I found myself responsible for her feelings. It was up to me at times to convince her that life was worth living. These were the times I knew I had to talk. It was vital for me to talk to her. But most days, everyday days, we didn't really talk. We didn't know how.

It would be too easy, though, to start writing about everything my mother didn't do as a mother, as a result of her own lack of a childhood. It seems we are wired to remember the most hideous and unpleasant moments of our lives. The normal, everyday moments of living and being are just a background. The love was there, but muted, restrained in a way common to New England households. Love is taken for granted. It's not something to say aloud.

So I am going to break with New England tradition and talk about what my mother did do, in her own drastic break with family “tradition”.

She cooked for us. Almost every day and afternoon and night. She spent 12 years changing our diapers (3 children 4 years apart) and cleaning up after our messes. She sewed our clothes, made our Halloween costumes, brought us to dancing and gymnastic lessons, music and art lessons when we were older. She baked every one of our birthday cakes, (except for the times we went to the Red Coach Inn for a special birthday supper) and decorated them with whimsical themes we came up with. She kept the household finances in order. She budgeted carefully, and she and Dad always managed to have a magical Christmas tree loaded with gifts for us when that time of year came around.

Now. Here is my mother...a woman who has gone through hell and come out the other side. Who finally realized she has things to offer, and time to give that does not sacrifice who she is as a person. Mom tutors. She's learning Tai Chi. Mom teaches me some moves when she comes weekly to play with the Impling. She is able to talk with me now, well, like my mother, and not like my daughter. About books she's enjoyed reading. Recipes she loves. Her teaching. She can complement me, and accept the complements I give her. She has found herself, at long last. It took her almost 65 years, but she is here, now. Her own person.

But I find myself trying to be the mother I wished I had when I was a child, by doing things with the Impling I want to remember my mother doing with me. Snuggling on the couch and singing songs to her on request. Playing “tent”. Letting her climb on my back as I scrape the morning oatmeal off the floor. Gazing at the moon and stars together, her little cheek next to mine, listening to her murmur “millyons of myalls awee”. Saying “sweet dreams, sweetie, I love you” in the dark after we read her bedtime stories.

Of course, she will never remember this time, these moments. They will change as we all grow, and if I'm lucky, the snuggling will continue for a while, and she will never feel like she can't come and curl up beside me to read or sing silly songs. And maybe, at some point, she will remember. More than that, she will know. Without a doubt, with a perfect consciousness, that I love her. Because I tell her I do. Every night.

I have one memory of my mother being truly happy. Like most emotions, she didn't go by halves. So when I looked towards the shore of our campsite from me and my sister's canoe, my body sore and aching, our voices raw from singing songs at the top of our lungs to keep our spirits up, and saw Mom, running across the stretch of beach in the golden light of the setting sun, stopping to jump up and down, throwing sand in the air like confetti, and yelling out to me “...it's so BEAUTIFUL!”, I knew with a tired sympathetic sadness that I would remember the moment forever. Now I know what a gift it was, to me. A yell of glee to give me the energy to paddle that last 100 yards, so I would be safe. On shore. She wanted me to be safe, to take care of me. It really was “sweetie, I love you” echoing across those deep, quiet waters. I just didn't hear it until now.

Happy Birthday, my beautiful, wonderful Mother. I love you.
Happy Birthday, my beautiful, wonderful Daughter.
I love you, sweetie.