Lion and Magic Boy

It hasn’t escaped me that there is an incredible generational and multi-directional sense to the day, a day which has been arbitrarily assigned as one honoring mothers (but which began as a war protest, how about that!). I am a mother; my child is going to be a mother; and of course, I have a mother.

My day began much like many others: Eric’s singing and growling awoke me, ignorable for only so long. Then I made breakfast and cleaned up after breakfast. Pretty much a regular day: no breakfasts in bed at this house!

Not that I would want that, necessarily. The relationships I have with my children are unlike any other I have with anyone: intense and demanding maybe, but sweet and incredibly rewarding at the same time. I wouldn’t change a thing, except perhaps to clone myself because there’s just not enough of me to go around. Being a mother and being a person at the same time sometimes seems mutually exclusive. But my relationships with them are are too precious to worry about meeting someone else’s idea of proper motherhood or fitting into boxes that are easily definable.

It turns out that my mom likely struggled with some of the same issues, though I was largely ignorant of it at the time. I remember standing next to her in a department store when I was about 13, trying to appear that I was randomly in the area instead of related by blood: me in the studied disdain of bershon, her beaming because someone told her that they thought we were sisters. When I was 18, she surprised everyone by announcing that she had had enough of her marriage and was instead in a relationship that pretty much everyone in the universe considered to be highly inappropriate. The fact that he was about 15 years her junior was the least of its inappropriateness, at least in my view. Sad to say, I was one of those who judged her and her situation, seeing the face of it rather than its heart. For many years it kept our conversations rather to a minimum. I reflected for a long time as to how much closer I was to my father than my mother, and avoided any attempts at intimacy with her.

After I became, at 20, a mother myself and continued to grow older, I also continued to push away what I regarded as the unwelcome approach of the “I’m turning into my mother!” wail. I tried to be different, tried to be what I thought was myself, but at every turn there she was, silently (in my mind) mocking me, coming closer while I pushed her away.

There was no judgment, however. It’s interesting to note that after all this time.

After Nathaniel was born, my mom seemed to take to the Grandma business with new energy. I’m sure she was a little taken aback by having Grandmahood thrust on her at what must have seemed to her to be a prematurely young age for that sort of thing, and her relationship with Jess had to grow from that uneasy beginning. With Nathaniel, and then later Serena and then Eric, she had already moved into the energy of the relationship and so it was likely easier for everyone. She began visiting us about once a year, making the trek to Pennsylvania from California, a long travel day that probably seemed longer to her than it did me.

Along this time she began having trouble with joints, specifically her hip. Eventually she had hip replacement surgery, and later another. She bore these events with a stoicism that I find admirable. Having few people on whom to rely, she simply did what she had to do, did it and got over it and went on. I saw this process even more clearly last fall when she had her third major surgery, a knee replacement. Could I do the same without a lot of whining? I hardly think so.

At the same time, I was processing a lot of issues from my childhood that kept rising at odd times, unbidden and unwelcome. It turns out that there’s a good chance I was sexually abused by a babysitter’s husband, and I’ve carried with me feelings of abandonment relating to that. My memories of this are of course hazy and unclear, but the related feelings were there, asking to be looked at. So I looked at them. Now they are gone. Whatever may have happened to me wasn’t my mother’s fault. I need to say this out loud, in print. It wasn’t her fault.

Somehow, with all this processing, the inner work that I was doing without a lot of conscious intent, with all this, things cleared between me and my mom. I finally saw her for herself, not as simply the person I call my mother. It was amazing.

Her name is Jane.

Jane grew up in a loving household in the midwest, attended by a large extended family. She has lots of wonderful memories of this time, which she is preserving in writing to be available for future generations. At 72, Jane knows her mortality.

Jane was immensely talented both as a concert pianist and a singer. She likely could have gone on to study either and have become fairly successful professionally. Instead, she chose to marry my father and to go into education. She was a pretty good teacher (speaking from the perspective of a kid who had her for a teacher in the 4th grade) and enjoyed watching the children blossom under her tutelage. She got out of the teaching biz after more than 20 years, though. That divorce changed a lot of lives.

Jane continues to work at a job she mostly likes. It gives her the opportunity to interact with people on a quiet one-on-one basis, which is where she shines. What people don’t realize about her overtly is that she leads simply by example. And she no longer cares a damn about what people think about her. After 25 years of maintaining her “inappropriate” relationship, she’s done worrying about what other people think. Jane pleases herself, but in a quiet unassuming way and without thrusting her values in anyone’s face. If anything, she’s incredibly respectful of what others feel, but at the same time she simply continues to lead a life that pleases her.

I want to be more like her.

She’s one of a very small handful of people I know who are living their lives mindfully and with love, holding themselves to their own inner highest ideals. I don’t think it gets any better than that.

Happy Mother’s Day, mom. I love you.