All About My Mother

Is there a creature in this world more simultaneously worthy of our love and hate than our mother? My mother is at once the object of my utmost adoration and admiration, and the most problematic relationship in my life. I love her because of who she is, but also because she is an echo and reminder of all good the things I am and want to be. At the same time, I hate her because she is a mirror of all the bad things I am and am afraid to be.

My mother is smart, talented, beautiful, strong. She was always the prettiest and most graceful one. She was always top of her class. She is surrounded by people that love her and would never fail her. She is brave. She is loyal. She makes no apologies, for better or for worse. She loves intensely and is loved intensely in return.

My mother thinks life is a raspberry soufflé only she knows the recipe to. The recipe is to be beautiful, rich, thin, smart, and marry well. Of course, she is much deeper than this last statement suggests, but if you asked her what she wanted in life for her daughters, her honest answer would probably be just that. Not happiness or inner peace or self-fulfillment. Just that. There is no possibility that the recipe might just be different for different people, or that one might be allowed to burn a soufflé or two before getting one just right. Mother knows best. She is perfect, but perfection is inevitably simulated, and therefore becomes repulsive.

My mother is not the type to tell you things will be okay after you’ve made a mistake. She’s the type to rub your face in it hoping that the lesson will stick. She wants to be sure you’ll never make that mistake again. So why do I still come to her every time I mess up? Because she is my compass, even if she’s tough as nails. Because I know she means well, even if it hurts.

I hate myself the most when I remind myself of my mother. When I catch myself being overcritical, controlling or self-involved, I see her in me and I am terrified. There are worst things to be in this life than my mother, I know, but she is the most powerful force I have seen up close.

I tell myself that I will be a better mother. I tell myself that I will be more flexible, I will not have such ridiculously rigid expectations, I will encourage my children to develop their own true sense of self. But even as I think that, I acknowledge that my mother did a damn good job. I always felt loved and I always knew I had a home. My best memories are with my family, with my mom as our charming commander-in-chief. She gives me a kind of comfort that only she can give.

And after all, I became everything I am because of her as much as it was in spite of her. I did make my own mistakes and choices in spite of her. I like to think that I became my own person, a traveler and warrior, because of her too. In the end, I love her deeply and that love trumps everything else. I experience a huge sense of pride whenever I see myself through her eyes.

Maybe we are destined to imprint on our child some kind of expectation of who they should be, even if we have the best intentions. That means that, as much as I am aware of the fact that I want to avoid this (probably much more than my mother was when she had me at twenty-three), I’ll end up telling my child that he or she should be a certain way. Even when all I want is for my child to be happy, I might end up sending some message about where the road to happiness starts. Maybe it is unavoidable that my children will hate me like I hate my mother. I only hope and pray that they love me as fiercely as I love her too.