My Mother...Myself? Yikes!

[AkashicWreckage]

I recall wanting anything but the nurturing of my mother. I don't really understand why, yet. For a good part of my life, I consciously chose to be her opposite. I wanted to be anything BUT like her, her thoughts and opinions actually didn't much matter to me. There was no way she could possibly understand, even remotely, what was important to me, what I liked to do, how I felt about myself. And that was just fine, thank you very much! I viewed her as pretty much distant from me, like from another place and time...

I remember when I was in I think it was 6th grade, it was the beginning of the summer and a girlfriend of mine was going to take sewing lessons at the local Singer Store. I begged and begged to go, and my mother signed me up, but with one caveat---I had to choose as a garment, something which would teach me the hard stuff. No, I couldn't make a nice, simple mini skirt and vest, or a simple shift dress which was quite stylish back then. She made me choose a suit pattern, one with a vest---ha! Well, the suit had all of the complicated stuff that she wanted me to learn: a corduroy plaid fabric, which meant the plaid had to be matched, the jacket and vest had to be lined, a notched collar, a zipper and some kind of weird buttonholes, I had to learn.

I think it was right around that time that I practiced saying a bunch of curse words under my breath, while I learned about the incredible joys of sewing...courtesy of my mother. She used to sew, you know, and made some really cool stuff, but that's another issue altogether.

By the end of that long, insufferable summer, I knew how to sew like no one's business. And, I continued to sew and sew, for years and years; it was an easy way to make sure that I had a great wardrobe and it served me well until finally I began to make decent money and could shop the better stores.

As the following summer began, summer of 7th grade, my mom did the unthinkable---she gave birth to my youngest brother. And she was very tired that entire summer, and it was a very warm summer, and I spent my entire summer, taking care of my brother. I can tell you that it wasn't the most fun I ever had that summer, I was learning about infant care. Then, when school began and I thought I'd have a reprieve, after school I learned about toddler care. And, the rest of those junior high into high school years were predicable.

Fast forward to the years when I absolutely knew that I had it more together than my mom ever could. How could she have a clue? What did she do anyway---stayed home, didn't even keep such a clean house, and I wasn't too crazy about most of her cooking, although she made a mean meatloaf and potato salad. Oh, and she made the most delicious snowball like cookies around Christmas, Russian teacakes. Yum!

Oh, there's more, but it wasn't until years and years later---actually more than a few decades----that I began to revisit the perceptions I had brought along for the ride with me--about my mom.

I am aware that the clock is winding down now with my mom. She's becoming more frail in body, and I can feel a vulnerability to her voice that hasn't been there too often. You know, my perceptions about my mom began to change right around the time I was diagnosed with cancer. One of my sons actually broke the news to my family, viaIM no less...so when I got home from surgery and called her, there was this weird kind of catch in her voice. At that very surreal point in time, I could feel that a blow hat hit her---her daughter had cancer, and I began to realize that she really loved me. Oh, I knew all along she loved me, I was her daughter and she's supposed to love her kids. Those are the rules. This felt different and I put that feeling in a safe little place inside me for future thought.

It took another 2 years to go back to those feelings, but brought back to them I was. I realized very slowly over those 2 years that there was something going on with my awareness, my consciousness---and my place in the scheme of things. I began to understand and think about the pieces of me that made me, me---weren't accidental. As I struggled to make sense of who I was, post cancer, I had to revisit where I came from, who contributed to the me-ness of myself. As I began to dig and delve, and peel away what I covered myself in---and--- as I began to retrieve what I had put into safe little places within me, I came face to face with my mother and myself, as nurturers, as givers of nourishment---and a continuum of energy. The mother of mine that was so a part of me, and the catch in her voice, when I was so cavalier even about my own cancer, began to be understood. There always was a connection, even when I closed my eyes and pretended it wasn't there.

She is now, and was, always, my best cheerleader; she even sent video tapes to me to watch while I was dealing with chemotherapy. Little did I know that she had kept captured in her memory, from that long ago summer of 7th grade---you know--- the one when I was learning about nurturing a baby, my brother--- well, tucked away there was the memory of the Fred Astaire & Ginger Rogers Movie Week on Channel 9 that summer that I had watched, non stop. One day, probably a day or two before my second round of chemotherapy, arrived a package from my mom.

In that box were little things--- snapshots, in the form of objects, perceptions from my mother's heart and memory---snapshots of me through the years. And, one of those snapshots came in the form of my favorite Fred Astaire & Ginger Rogers movie, Top Hat. Another snapshot was a little resin thing---it had several girls sitting on a bench, one had fallen over backwards---I think I was the one who had fallen over backwards...

I make those snowball cookies every year, and have for the past 30 or so years...everyone loves them.

I passed on a bit of advice to my son a few weeks ago, advice that served me well since it was first given to me by my mom---don't go rushing out to buy new furniture when you move into your first apartment. Live in the space, feel the space, and then let the space tell YOU what it needs.

And, I find myself talking about her the way she used to talk about her mother---fondly and with great love and laughter---nostalgia--flipping back in time to memories of her more lively self.

And, as I see my sons growing and maturing, the way they should, I feel a catch in my heart that I hope I can keep from my voice (until I'm my mom's age) as I encourage them to spread their wings...

Good granny panties, I think I should end this before I start talking like her!