Mom Knows Best - Not
What is cool about maintaining a blog is the topic is mine alone, and essays can range from (A)ging to (B)aby Food to (C)ountry Roads. I’ve written about my dad, the younger husband and the adopted barn cat. You’ve seen in print a story about my grandmother, my cranberry hair and my feelings about thong bikinis. There’s been an article about wild turkeys, the dentist, and how I love a good face cream. But I’ve never sat down to write about mothers and daughters. I cannot tell you if this essay will serve as a tribute or a trashing. I can tell you, in all honesty, that the article will not be easy to write.
I love my mother… but she’s never been a role model for me. There, I’ve said it. My mom is blonde with blue eyes; my eyes are hazel and my roots dark brown mingled with gray. She married once at seventeen; I married at age nineteen, twenty three and thirty nine. She was lucky enough to give birth to a girl and a boy; I have one daughter whom I love more than the world. Mom worked part time for thirty two years; I worked full time for twenty seven. My mother defers - acquiesces - plain gives in to her husband of fifty eight years. Her needs come second or third or fourth on any given day; any given list. I stand up to my husband; flatly refuse to back down; telling him my need of quiet enjoyment is critical to my well being. I’m a little more selfish than she.
I’m certain that my mom occasionally dreams of a condo, a convertible, a trip to Hawaii, a cruise to Mexico. I’ve been there; done that. She walks five miles a day; I ride a stationary bike in the privacy of our guest room. Mom has savings bonds and dabbles in Disney and Boeing stock. I rely on my Prudential IRA and dabble with nothing. In California she buys scratch-off tickets and Lotto. I play quarters at the local casino and purchase Power Ball. We are miles away from one another; and sadly enough, we are worlds apart. I think of her often as I enjoy my first cup of morning coffee. I know she got up hours earlier; has watched the weather report; made her “To Do List” for the day; fed both cats and prepared a hot breakfast for the master mister. On her list are the many things she needs to do for the husband.
My early childhood looked happy to relatives, neighbors and the casual bystander. In actuality, my formative years and puberty were challenging to say the least. I think this is why my editor describes Volume I of the memoir as a Hero’s Journal where I shout the truth. It’s no wonder I fled at nineteen and attempted never to look back. Although I did miss mom’s peanut butter and lettuce sandwiches, bacon pancakes, and warm lemon pudding cake.
I wanted to be free of parental control; I needed to dance to my own drum; fall down and get up without assistance. I told myself I would never place my heart, hopes and future into anyone’s hands except my own. I knew instinctively that I was bright enough, strong enough to do it on my own. I stumbled through growing pains; I was a single mom and career woman who found time to take my little girl to Brownies; Girl Scouts; art lessons; riding lessons; birthday parties at Burger King; sleep over’s and Jamborees. I wish I could say the same for my own mother. She worked outside of the home; took care of her husband; the family dog and she tried hard to be a mom in the little time she had left at the end of the day. I struggled and survived, and know my mom would say the same of her own life.
I love my mother… but she’s never been a role model for me. There, I’ve said it.
I love my mother… but she’s never been a role model for me. There, I’ve said it. My mom is blonde with blue eyes; my eyes are hazel and my roots dark brown mingled with gray. She married once at seventeen; I married at age nineteen, twenty three and thirty nine. She was lucky enough to give birth to a girl and a boy; I have one daughter whom I love more than the world. Mom worked part time for thirty two years; I worked full time for twenty seven. My mother defers - acquiesces - plain gives in to her husband of fifty eight years. Her needs come second or third or fourth on any given day; any given list. I stand up to my husband; flatly refuse to back down; telling him my need of quiet enjoyment is critical to my well being. I’m a little more selfish than she.
I’m certain that my mom occasionally dreams of a condo, a convertible, a trip to Hawaii, a cruise to Mexico. I’ve been there; done that. She walks five miles a day; I ride a stationary bike in the privacy of our guest room. Mom has savings bonds and dabbles in Disney and Boeing stock. I rely on my Prudential IRA and dabble with nothing. In California she buys scratch-off tickets and Lotto. I play quarters at the local casino and purchase Power Ball. We are miles away from one another; and sadly enough, we are worlds apart. I think of her often as I enjoy my first cup of morning coffee. I know she got up hours earlier; has watched the weather report; made her “To Do List” for the day; fed both cats and prepared a hot breakfast for the master mister. On her list are the many things she needs to do for the husband.
My early childhood looked happy to relatives, neighbors and the casual bystander. In actuality, my formative years and puberty were challenging to say the least. I think this is why my editor describes Volume I of the memoir as a Hero’s Journal where I shout the truth. It’s no wonder I fled at nineteen and attempted never to look back. Although I did miss mom’s peanut butter and lettuce sandwiches, bacon pancakes, and warm lemon pudding cake.
I wanted to be free of parental control; I needed to dance to my own drum; fall down and get up without assistance. I told myself I would never place my heart, hopes and future into anyone’s hands except my own. I knew instinctively that I was bright enough, strong enough to do it on my own. I stumbled through growing pains; I was a single mom and career woman who found time to take my little girl to Brownies; Girl Scouts; art lessons; riding lessons; birthday parties at Burger King; sleep over’s and Jamborees. I wish I could say the same for my own mother. She worked outside of the home; took care of her husband; the family dog and she tried hard to be a mom in the little time she had left at the end of the day. I struggled and survived, and know my mom would say the same of her own life.
I love my mother… but she’s never been a role model for me. There, I’ve said it.