
This picture is from my Mother's wedding day. No white gown and veil.

My mother and I had a dreadful relationship. I imagine this is true for many people. I suspect the tender scenes between mothers and daughters that we see in movies or read in books are mostly fiction, or wishful thinking. There is nothing easy about being a mother, or a parent. And being a child is no easier. I spent years trying to placate and please someone who would not be pleased, trying to avoid the storms of unpredictable rage, and struggling to understand how and why I was to blame. When she was 66 years old she told me, with great bitterness, that her father had sexually abused her. She had never told anyone, not her sisters, not her husband, not a friend, not her own mother. I realize that the pain and grief and fear and helplessness she had buried inside for all those years was responsible at least in part for how she was. I know in my head that she had done the best she could as a parent, but the child in my heart still feels unloved and unlovable.
I didn't learn to cook or sew from her, though she was an extraordinary seamstress, a perfectionist and true artist. She also designed and made incredibly beautiful hats. She was a gracious and charming hostess, executing elegant parties as part of her social responsibilities as an officer's wife. I know she got occasional migraines, and she told me that her grandmother had terrible sick headaches. This matrilineal line of migraines, which sadly I have passed on to two of my own children, came down through this great-grandmother of mine, Emma Muckleston:

These threads of family and experience are woven deep, clear down into our mitochondria and our neurons; I am still learning myself how to be a mother, as well as dealing with this, my own mothering, whatever it was. We can't undo these rows of knitting, nor pick up the dropped stitches. There was no happy ending or reconciliation between us at the end. When my mother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in 1999, she told the doctor "Well, guess I get my wish now," and predicted she would not live to see her birthday. She died two days before her 81st birthday. I hope she is free at last.
3 comments:
A touching tribute. As we reflect and assimilate our past, it frees us continue our growth. May you find comfort in the love you give and receive from family and friends!
Mercy.
I am so sorry and sad for your mum, her childhood, and thinking at least she had that time with her grandparents where she felt loved and part of a family. Life in general was very hard then but she had way more than her fair share of terrible.
I also wonder about her unpredictable rages... and consider that they were in part due to the abuse but perhaps in part also to a hormonal imbalance, and the migraines.
Your mother's photos, she could have been my Aunt Amy's near twin, I kid you not...
You're right, there's no tinking that can be done, no picking up of dropped stitches... just a continuation of the fabric and attention to detail as best one can do....learning from what has already been laid down... and striving to improve.
It takes a Brave Heart.
I was very moved by your post on your relationship with your mother. Do you find, as I do, that you recognise traits in yourself which infuriated you about your parents? My mother had different relationships with each of her four children, but all were based on her own loss of her mother at fourteen.
Thank you for visiting my blog. Was there something specific that you need help with? Charity knitting, perhaps?
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