Mothers and Mothering
Mon., February 24, 09:19 AM
I had thought about saving this entry for Mother’s Day, but, believe me, my mother never fit on a Mother’s Day card. We were at odds about so many things. My sister suggests that “it’s not that she didn’t love you, but you’re not like her; you’re more like Daddy.” True – that’s one of the best things about me. And yet I believe I was fortunate in the mother I had.
Once I was discussing mothers with someone, and my friend said, “what did they know? No one ever told them. They did the best they could.” That’s absolutely right; in the context of what she knew, my mother did the best she could. If it was less than perfect, if it wasn’t good enough from my point of view, it certainly didn’t stop me from growing into the kind of person I wanted to be.
Mom was the second oldest of six children (plus two who died in infancy). When she was in her mid-teens, her mother died. The two oldest girls became “the mother” until my grandfather married again, but her sister had less patience with little kids. The fact that her mother was either sick or pregnant most of her childhood affected the kind of mother Mom would be. Nevertheless, what comes to mind when I think of my grandmother is strength. She – somehow – managed to bring five little seasick kids (one more was born in the U.S.) from Scotland to America to follow her husband. And she worked hard to make them a home here.
It always seemed that my mother was hypercritical. I have a hard time remembering any time she gave simple praise. (“twenty-five A’s and two B’s – why did you get two B’s?”) It took me years to follow her reasoning, which may have been entirely subconscious. As her child, I was supposed to be perfect. If I was not perfect, it must have been something I did, and it was my job to correct it.
Girls wore dresses or skirts at that time; shorts or slacks were for playtime only. No ready-to-wear skirt ever fit me. So Mom would sit on the floor and pin up the skirt so I could hem it. Pinning up my skirts was hard work because they never hung evenly. “Why can’t you stand up straight? Why is your tochis so big?” It wasn’t my fault, y’know, eventually I was diagnosed with a spinal curvature. (All things pass – it’s been years since I had to hem a skirt, though I even did some for pay, because I knew how.)
What Mom never understood is that kids believe what a parent tells them – because it’s their parent. It takes a long time to unlearn what you heard when you were little. So I was too short, too fat, too shy (“afraid of your own shadow!”), a bookworm… Whatever.
When I began reading about psychology, in an era when psychotherapy was holding parents accountable for anything that could go wrong, I suggested that maybe she had made me feel inadequate. And she said, “don’t blame your troubles on me.” Whether or not my mother was answerable for my personality, she had no intention of taking credit or blame. It was to be my responsibility to take charge of my own life. For better or worse, I had to learn independence. So I did, and if you had ever asked my mother, she would have called it “benign neglect” and told you that obviously it worked.
She was such an overpowering presence that I never discovered some of my own strengths until I went out into the world and eventually had my own home. If a teacher or someone from work – whatever job – told her something good about me, it was because “they don’t know you as well as I do.” (Heaven forbid I should get a swelled head! That’s part of the “Jewish mother” syndrome – and you don’t have to be Jewish to suffer from it.)
I look a lot like her, and I carry a lot of her personality into my own life – her sense of responsibility, her belief in educating all children, including girls – and especially her sense of humor. It was sharp, occasionally it hurt, but it was darned funny. Somebody in her department said, “your mom’s always got a joke.” “I know,” I answered, “I was the first one.” And my mother said, “I was there. That wasn’t so funny.”
I also learned from her about what not to do. Husband and I made a practice of valuing our kids for what they were, and telling them so. I think she believed that I was a better mother, though of course she’d never tell me that. If I ever have grandchildren, I don’t think they’ll ever ask their parents, “why doesn’t Grandma like you?” There was a little edge under all the joking, and my kids sensed it.
She taught me to read – an enormous contribution – but my priorities were different from hers, and I learned a lot more. (“Trivia,” y’know.) Being studious was something to ridicule, not praise. So I learned a lot of things she couldn’t even imagine and, in her later years, occasionally she’d even take my advice.
Last month was fifteen years since her death but, stings and barbs notwithstanding, she’s still here. What she was is background to what I am, and she will appear again and again through my discourses; so it’s only fitting that I give her a page all to herself.
