Ode to Mother

Her later life must have been full of pain and sorrow. I cannot imagine losing myself so completely that I lose my entire life – my husband, my children, my home – her physical and mental illness must have been so complete and all-encompassing. As I age, and watch my children grow to adults, I mourn for my mother who did not have the luxury, or the ability, or even live long enough to see the evolution of her babies. I spent my entire lifetime feeling her absence, and trying to fill the void with other people’s mothers. It is only now, as a middle-aged mother myself, that I realized that I’ve fulfilled that need for myself. It is a bittersweet revelation.

I’m wandering aimlessly here, I know it. You’re wanting details. My first memory of my mother was when I discovered my birthmark. It is a strange, fat, raised red mark at the base of my left big toe that looks like the lowercase letter i, turned on its side. “Mommy!” I yelled, focused on that red thing on my foot. The heavy front door of our house was open and sun was streaming in, illuminating the birthmark. “Mommy! I’m bleeding! Look at my toe! It’s a boo-boo!” I remember her gently telling me that it was not a boo-boo, but a birthmark. “What’s a birthmark?” I know she explained it but I have no memory of what was said. I was completely fixated on the birthmark, so I presume that once I knew there was no danger of bleeding to death from my big toe, that I naturally lost interest.

I remember that on one of our birthdays (I always remember it as mine, but it doesn’t jibe with the chain of events; it may have been my brother Jimmy’s – his birthday is in the summer), my mother declined a piece of birthday cake. This is another one of those black and white memories, so there must have been a photograph of the moment somewhere that prompted a story that has now become a memory. I recall, though, her response to my offer of a piece of cake – “I’m sorry, honey, I don’t want any. Mommy can’t taste it.” I was so confused. I learned many years later that my mother had had an aneurysm that caused damage to the part of her brain that dictates smell and taste. So many consequences of that brain event.

I recall visiting her in her apartment shortly after my father had remarried. This was the memory with bright colors – lots of light and bright yellows and reds. She showed me how to properly apply lipstick (hers was a vivid red, a stark contrast to her dark hair and fair skin; none of which I inherited from her – I am my father’s daughter), shared her fascination with the poems of Joan Walsh Anglund, and the very fancy addition of shaved Parmesan cheese to canned minestrone soup. That visit, my brothers got into it with my mother’s new husband, I think, while she was doting on me. It was the last time I would see her for another ten years.

That visit, ten or so years later, was a heart breaker. I arrived unannounced, with my closest friend in tow. My friend, who is still my friend all these years later, a pretty blonde with green eyes and a turned-up nose, was the teenage version of me when I was a small child. Puberty was unkind to me, turning my golden locks mouse brown and my green eyes more hazel. I arrived at my mother’s doorstep, in a dark and dank apartment building that smelled of old drunks and dirty clothes. When she opened the door, she looked straight at my friend and said, “Sheila, honey, is that you?” Her face lit up until I opened my mousey mouth. “No, mom, I’m over here. That is my friend.” Her expression went from one of delight to one of confusion. I was seventeen. And was embarrassed by her dark, dank appearance that matched the surroundings and cut to the core that she didn’t instinctively know me. I forget what we talked about that day. I have a vague recollection of a vast collection of photographs of her with my father, of her with her children; of a life lived long ago, in another time. Those photos are lost to history, no doubt tossed in a dumpster after her death. When I left that day, it would be the last time I saw my mother.

I think about the swath of years between visits; the time that flowed by, marked by occasions large and small, important and not. As much as I wanted my mother, I did not want that one – the one with the faulty memory, the unkempt home and person, the one that smelled like an old drunk. I wanted the lady that smiles at my dad in those old photos of them. The stylish woman with the devilish grin. The one who, from all reports, was fluent in German and helped my father entertain the Volkswagon executives when they visited the States. The one who, for a brief moment, had enough lucidity to show me how to put on lipstick and fancy up canned soup with freshly grated cheese. The one who gently explained birthmarks and calmed me down. That was the mother I wanted.

Throughout my childhood and adolescence, I searched for that matriarch who would calm my fears, talk me through my awkward phases, celebrate my academic success, encourage my creative expression. I had several “mothers” over the years: my foster mother, who was wonderful until it was time for me to leave her home; my best friend’s mother, whose hands were full with her own children but made sure I felt welcome and loved; my aunt, who financially supported all my endeavors; my college roommate’s mother, who taught me about manners, style and class; and finally, my mother-in-law, who treats me as though I were her own child – who conveys, as much as can be done with my rudimentary understanding of her language, how she cherishes me.

I vowed that I would be the mom who explained why things were the way they were to my children. I would support their intellectual and artistic pursuits. I would encourage them in their relationships. I would stand by them when they needed me, and even when they didn’t. I’d allow them to question my decisions even as I stood firm. I would let them grow up at their own pace, not clinging or rushing. I would be for them the mother I most wanted. I think of what my mother would have wished she could have done with me, and tried to be that mother for my children. I don’t know if I have done a good job or not. Only time will tell.