I woke up in the middle of the night thinking about my mom and how much I miss her. I just want to talk to her and I suppose I still can but I'm not sure she can hear me still. The other day when she could still respond, I asked her about the things that kept her up at night with anxiety, she said me. I was one of things she worried about but I assured her she had nothing to worry about for me. Sometimes I think she can't help it.
Last year my mom handed me a letter I had written her when I was in 7th grade. She'd kept it the whole time and I hated that. I had poured out how I didn't like how she had raised me. It was a stupid thing a middle school girl does. We'd talked about that letter so many times and I had asked her to dismiss it a hundred times. She had done a wonderful job mothering me and the letter was just me complaining mainly about one aspect of our lives. Certainly there were things I wanted to make sure I'd do differently -- namely celebrate more. I remember using the word "sacred" in the letter. When my mom gave it back to me, I didn't even want to read it. I threw it away. It had been something that had hurt her, I know. I had criticized her for not making holidays and birthdays special. Now I understand that celebrations stressed her out. She didn't like Christmas because of the strain it caused, not just emotionally but financially. At some point in my childhood, she had decided just to give me money and not celebrate whatever the event was. By the time I could drive I was the one in my family buying the Christmas tree and making the holiday season everything I wanted it to be. I learned to throw my own birthday parties and create my own hallowed events. She always encouraged me to make things the way I wanted them.
Looking back I have a better understanding of how much she sacrificed in order for our family to have a comfortable life. She carried a lot. Since the day she was born with a stillborn twin, she has known sadness, poverty and discomfort. She did her best to make sure I would never experience those things. She was so particular about making sure I had good shoes that fit well and supported my wide feet. She mentioned once not having shoes as a young child. It drove me crazy that she never had ONE of anything, she always had several. I think that happens when you grow up with nothing.
She did not like to talk about the past, her childhood was always a bit of a mystery. She mentioned having one toy as a girl that was a stuffed monkey. My grandfather died when I was very young. Once, at a family gathering I asked why we never talked about him. You would have thought I had just pooped in the middle of the kitchen. Everyone looked at me in horror. I wanted to hear stories about him but there was nothing positive to say. After awkward silence, finally my aunt said out loud, "no one misses him." I have ventured to guess he was abusive by the books I have seen my mom read but she never talked about it.
In general, my mom was a critical person -- not in a negative way. She just expected more. While she never cared about grades, failure wasn't acceptable. While she told me I could do whatever I wanted in life, she expected it to be something "good." Once in college when I was taking an oil painting class, I told her I was painting my brother. Her response was, "oh Teri, make it nice!" It's been a joke of mine and Jim's ever since. She loved my paintings, as long as they were bowls of fruit or mailboxes. She has never been interested in anything experimental or innovative. She once told me that my listening to the B52's was problematic. After creating a self portrait with symbols of the chakra in it, she asked if I had become a Hindu in horror. I could tell she didn't like the portrait but that was okay with me because I hadn't made it for her. She had once asked me never to buy her anything -- she only wanted gifts from me I had made. It was often a bit of pressure to give her anything.
Her faith in Jesus came when I was in 6th grade, after a long battle with depression and discontent. I was old enough to watch her turn her life around and really change. I had heard both my parents share their testimonies at Bible studies and I found it interesting that they would share deep insights about themselves to complete strangers, but not family. That's the way it is, though, isn't it? Both of my parents had become extremely religious as adults. I think I was baptized in my youth 3 or 4 times-- mostly to please my dad. I think a lot of my mom's devotion was to please him as well. It is my hope she will be reunited with him soon.
