Mommy, Mom, Mother

I am twelve-years-old, on a mission, being thwarted by the consistent delivery of the word, “No.” She is wrong to say no. I know she is wrong to say no. Why doesn’t she see she is wrong to say no. She never says, “Yes.” I might get, “Did you ask your father?” or, “What did your father say?” Why can’t she just answer the question herself? With a yes, no less?

“Please Mommy, please!”

Her noes get even stronger, so my arguments get louder and more persuasive. She finally has enough of my whining, needling, cajoling, and general argumentativeness and explodes with a new finale, one I’ve never heard before. “I hope when you grow up you have a daughter just like you!”

I never expect a curse like this to come from my own dear Mom; it gives me pause. I suck in my breath and seethe for a moment before conceding defeat in this assault to get my way. I wonder if she remembers anything about being a kid. I could give a daughter like me a lot more love than you do. I say aloud, “I hope I do. I’d be proud to have a daughter just like me.”

The car is silent. Why did she say such a thing? “. . . a daughter just like you. . .” Am I not a daughter just like her? Everyone says I look just like her. I guess she thinks I don’t act like her. She is a quiet lover of books. I love books, but I’m not quite quiet. She is sweet and respectful. People say I can be too, when I want to be. She prefers to look natural and let her hair turn silver. I want fancy make-up and will color every gray hair on my head until I die. She is always tidy and remembers where everything is. I am more a hurricane, tossing my effects far and wide, having no idea where any of it lands. She patiently sits hours working on a sewing or embroidery task, even until the early hours of the morning. I say, “Who has time for that? Let’s go for a bike ride!”

After the silence drags on long past my internal deliberations, I repent for being so ornery, though I still hope Mother feels sorry for hurting my feelings. Why can’t I just behave and make her happy, at least for one day of the year?

I glance over at the driver’s seat. She stares straight ahead. Please look into eyes that mirror yours and understand feelings I can’t get out of this knotted voice box.

I love you, Mom. I’m sorry I’m so willful and selfish. I’ll try to do better and make you proud.

Your turn: This year, I’ve had several emails about how difficult Mother’s Day can be. This one is feeling particularly poignant to me since my mother is on hospice. Are you able to reflect with gratitude toward your mom?