I know I’m not the only one whose heart aches on Mother’s
Day; everyone had a mother and not everyone has one today. I have just read all the Facebook posts about
wonderful mothers who were the best role models, teachers and caregivers
forever and ever. It is especially easy
to say these things posthumously. That
sounds so cold and cynical, doesn’t it?
Not all mothers are that good. Not all even were sure they wanted to be
mothers and many would have given up the job if they could. My mother definitely was not the mother in “Dick
and Jane” (in fact, no one or nothing was like that in my world growing
up). Yes, I loved my mother and I never
doubted her love for me. But she wasn’t
easy to get along with.
My mother had a temper.
She was loud and sometimes inappropriate. She worked hard and suffered through some
very hard times, with health and finances.
She also let you know when she was unhappy and didn’t hesitate to let us
know what a martyr she was. She was a
student of the Jewish Mother Guilt School of parenting and it seemed to work
pretty well. I’d say it’s taken me 60+ years
to recover from that education.
I have a lot of regrets about things I did and didn’t
do. Mostly that I wasn’t there for her
at the end. I desperately needed to be
away from New York City in my 20s and beyond.
I didn’t understand the price I would pay for that in years to
come. Realistically, nothing would have
turned out differently if I stayed, but still, the thought causes my heart to
hurt anytime I allow myself to think of it.
Living in a rural area, most families native to this area
stay together forever. Even when it’s
torturous, they keep the elderly in their homes and care for them. On the one hand I can see what a loving thing
it is to do; on the other hand, I know I could never do that and remain even
slightly sane. I don’t think that means
I love less; I just have a different way of coping.
I am my mother’s daughter, both in appearance and temperament. She had a temper, but she also loved fiercely
as well. Two sides of the same coin that
easily and frequently flipped. I spent years trying to
please her but always seemed to fail.
Gifts were never the right thing; I hold on to a memory of her 50th
birthday when I decided to go all out and give her a surprise birthday
party. Amazingly, I pulled it off and
when my mother entered, she just sat down and cried. That was an exception.
The guys I dated were majorly imperfect in her eyes. I honestly think I stopped dating I guy I
really cared for because of her disapproval; her primary reason? He didn’t wear socks. Ed was 6’5” with a huge beard and wild hair;
he lived in a tiny apartment in the east Village and I thought he was way
beyond cool. I hunted him online
recently and he said he never understood why I lost interest in him; and all
this time I thought it was him losing interest in me. You know what they say about hindsight.
My mother had some art skills that she never used. She always said that when she retired she
would take classes; when she retired she spent all of her time in doctor’s
offices and hospitals. She wanted to
travel; she did a little. Her long
dreamed of trip to Russia did happen and I’m glad of that. It was her parent’s homeland and in earlier
years she had been quite a fan of the Soviet Union. She was not disappointed. The things she didn't do are a primary reason I do as much as I can now to feed and practice my passions.
Probably the last thing I ever did for her that she
appreciated was bringing her a kosher corned beef sandwich to the nursing home
in the Bronx. Although frail and wasted
by then, she was able to eat half of it with gusto.
It’s now my turn to get sappy. I
learned so much from my mother. At her
funeral, my father said things he had never said during her life. He said my mother never knew any strangers;
she spoke to everyone with genuine caring and concern. She believed everyone could do
better. One of my favorite stories is
one she told me; I wasn’t there but I can see it as clearly as if I was. On one of her regular trips to the local
bakery, a man was begging on the street.
She brought him a Danish and coffee in the bakery and delivered it with
a lecture. She would not give him money
to buy a bottle with, but she informed him of all the programs that were available
to help him recover and get back on his feet.
Is it any wonder I have been a Social Worker my whole life?
I’m not sure I believe there is an afterlife; but my mother
is the reason I hope there is.
