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May 11, 2009What woman hasn’t said, in horror,Oh my God, I’ve become my mother!BUT IS THAT SUCH A BAD THING?One may be tempted to reject and eschew certain attitudes and habits one’s mother has, to never repeat the mistakes she made with you and your siblings—but if you look hard enough, there are good things, too, about turning into your mother. My own mother worked full-time, out of necessity, as did my father, when my sister and I were growing up. Our maternal grandmother was on hand to care for us. Perhaps Mom wasn’t around as much as we’d have liked, but she did what she had to do, out of love. My parents never failed to provide for us. They failed us in many other ways, but my father is dead and my mother is old, and it is pointless to want to rewrite the past. Sooner or later, you have to own your own life and make it what you want it to be. MOM IS PLEASEDwith the two dozen roses I sent her, the Hallmark schmaltz card and the phone calls. When I think of her now in my hometown of Philadelphia, I have only compassion for the trials and tribulations of her life. She lost her first husband and infant son to World War II, and her country (Lithuania), spending five years in a German displaced persons camp before getting on a boat, pregnant with my sister, with her mother and two brothers. They all forged a new life in the U.S., and did the best they could, buying a house in the Logan district of Philly, where they had a sponsor to bring them to the states. My uncles brought my father-to-be home from work. The resulting marriage was unhappy, and so, too, my childhood, but I never experienced anything like the hardships and losses she faced and surmounted. And then she lost me, too. In 1981 I moved to Portland and have stayed away these many years. Perhaps I just wish we had more in common, but it is futile to want to make her over according to my specifications. She doesn’t like to travel, to take risks; she feels safe and secure at home and that’s the way it is. I’ll never forget my shock when I admitted to myself that, as much as I want my mother to acknowledge everything I am besides being her daughter, that I too have to accept her the way she is. She’s not just my mother. I love my domestic bliss, but when I find myself feeling too comfortable and cozy and lazy, it is then that I fear turning into her. She’s had enough adventure for one lifetime, and would rather I not have any myself, because she wants me, too, to be safe and secure. But I cannot go untouched by the outside world, that world that is so threatening to my mother’s peace of mind. I INHERITED HER LOVEof entertaining guests with an abundance of food and merriment. The rule was it’s better to have too much than not enough. My mom taught me to sew and bought me the Singer I still use, as a housewarming gift for my first apartment in 1977. She is an expert crocheter and knitter and churns out tablecloths, bedspreads, throws, curtains and clothes while watching TV. I never had any interest in learning myself, perhaps because of the “old world” style of doilies, antimacassars and the like. Nor did I, save for a smattering of Lithuanian, pick up any of many languages she speaks—German, Russian, Lithuanian, Ukranian and Polish. After 60 years in the states, English is still her worst language, but she does love to read. I too have her love of books. I may be reading Kerouac and she, Agatha Christie, but we need to be surrounded by shelves of books as if by old friends. I even suspect, from her letters (disregarding her broken English), that I may have come by my writing talent through her. What a shocker that was! MY MOTHERhas never failed to help me when my head has been under water. That’s what a mother’s for, she tells me. It’s a blessing and a curse that I have always had that support to count on, because I expect the floor will drop out from under me when it’s gone. Life will become something else, because I don’t believe anyone will ever love me as much as my mother does. Whether or not I have my own family, I know what a mother’s love is, and I’m grateful to have had it, and have it still. Happy Mother’s Day, mamyte.
The author and her mother share a hug. ------------------------------------------------------------ My Mamyte -
Surprise her and call her again today copyright Alexandra Jones 2009 |
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