Sunday, May 8, 2005
When I was in the fourth grade...
...I went through a period of telling my mother, every night at bedtime, in a childish voice nasty with fright, "I hate you!" after which I'd pull the covers over my head.
My mother would respond, "That's all right. I love you," kiss my head through my hastily fashioned shroud and finish me off with a gentle, "Good night, Gail." I'd simmer in confused fury for several minutes after she left the room.
Many years later I received a frantic call from a friend whose young daughter acted out the need for separation from parental protection in the very same way and scared the living shit out of her. "What have I done?!?" my friend cried. "Have I been a terrible mother? How could she hate me?"
I couldn't help it. I laughed. "No," I assured her, suddenly remembering my own childhood, "you haven't been a terrible mother. It's a sign that you're an excellent mother. She doesn't hate you, she's growing up, crawling out of her need for protection. It isn't you she hates, it's herself, for sensing her growing autonomy but knowing that she still wants some of the protection she thinks she should no longer need. Just tell her you love her anyway. It'll drive her crazy at the time but it'll also reassure her that you're looking out for her and no matter how far she decides to explore outside the boundaries of your protection you'll be there for her when she needs you, whether or not she can tell you she needs you."
When the conversation with my friend ended I realized I would never have remembered my own awkward episode in the necessary serial of childhood separation from parents, nor would I have become consciously aware of its meaning and been able to use it to diagnose, prescribe and prognosticate my friend back into parental confidence if my mother hadn't had the wit and wisdom, when I was a child, to know exactly what I'd told my friend.
My mother nurtured with a light, easy touch. She still does. She is the world's most unobtrusive mother-in-law: Not only her married daughters gratefully acknowledge this but so do her sons-in-law. When I think of her style of mothering I think of animal mothers; wolves, bears, cougars, who, without nonsense or unnecessary sentimentality, take the neophyte beings in their charge along with them as they live their lives, show them the world, carefully, at first, then less protectively as time passes, and finally release them into the world to add to its bounty under their own steam.
She was and remains incapable of playing favorites. Each of her daughters was a wonder unto themselves. I remember her responding to our occasional questions about who she loved best by telling us, with absolute veracity which we all understood, that the love of one's children isn't apportioned, it expands and differentiates to include everyone.
I remember times when I've thought she made mistakes:
Only a person with a fundamental sense of and thirst for existence as a magnificent, beckoning, ultimately unifying mystery could have passed this quality on to me. That person, I am pleased and grateful to say, is my mother.
My mother would respond, "That's all right. I love you," kiss my head through my hastily fashioned shroud and finish me off with a gentle, "Good night, Gail." I'd simmer in confused fury for several minutes after she left the room.
Many years later I received a frantic call from a friend whose young daughter acted out the need for separation from parental protection in the very same way and scared the living shit out of her. "What have I done?!?" my friend cried. "Have I been a terrible mother? How could she hate me?"
I couldn't help it. I laughed. "No," I assured her, suddenly remembering my own childhood, "you haven't been a terrible mother. It's a sign that you're an excellent mother. She doesn't hate you, she's growing up, crawling out of her need for protection. It isn't you she hates, it's herself, for sensing her growing autonomy but knowing that she still wants some of the protection she thinks she should no longer need. Just tell her you love her anyway. It'll drive her crazy at the time but it'll also reassure her that you're looking out for her and no matter how far she decides to explore outside the boundaries of your protection you'll be there for her when she needs you, whether or not she can tell you she needs you."
When the conversation with my friend ended I realized I would never have remembered my own awkward episode in the necessary serial of childhood separation from parents, nor would I have become consciously aware of its meaning and been able to use it to diagnose, prescribe and prognosticate my friend back into parental confidence if my mother hadn't had the wit and wisdom, when I was a child, to know exactly what I'd told my friend.
My mother nurtured with a light, easy touch. She still does. She is the world's most unobtrusive mother-in-law: Not only her married daughters gratefully acknowledge this but so do her sons-in-law. When I think of her style of mothering I think of animal mothers; wolves, bears, cougars, who, without nonsense or unnecessary sentimentality, take the neophyte beings in their charge along with them as they live their lives, show them the world, carefully, at first, then less protectively as time passes, and finally release them into the world to add to its bounty under their own steam.
She was and remains incapable of playing favorites. Each of her daughters was a wonder unto themselves. I remember her responding to our occasional questions about who she loved best by telling us, with absolute veracity which we all understood, that the love of one's children isn't apportioned, it expands and differentiates to include everyone.
I remember times when I've thought she made mistakes:
- When I discovered in junior high that I'd been recommended for skipping in elementary school and my parents held me back for social reasons I believed that was a mistake.
- In high school I believed it was a mistake that she did not divorce my father when his alcoholism and his feelings of insecurity raged out of control and caused injury, sometimes insidious and long term injury, to one or another of the rest of us (including her).
- I believed, as a young adult female setting out on my own, that considering what I knew of her adventurous streak that lead her into the Navy she'd made a mistake when she married; I believed that she had subsumed a vital part of herself to marriage and having a family.
- As an older adult I believed that her mild mannered acceptance of everything that came her way and her refusal to turn her back when circumstances became messy and were clearly not her fault marked all of her daughters with a tragic "If it's happening to me, I must have asked for it so I've got to deal with it on my own" flaw.
- Rather than expecting anything in particular from us other than civilized, sympathetic behavior among other humans, by standing back and marveling at how we unfolded she encouraged us to design our own lives and make up our own minds about what we are willing to put up with and what we reject;
- By patiently allowing us to stumble around until we found our footing she allowed us to realize that we can find our own footing even if it takes a lot of stumbling time and even in the midst of personal or circumstantial disaster;
- By silently encouraging values, not only by living her own values but expecting us to live ours, she taught us that values aren't expressed in words, but in actions;
- By refusing to surrender her sense of herself to what those around her think of her and her choices, she allowed each of us to realize that at the end of the day, regardless of who you bring to your bed, you are the only one with whom you must sleep, thus, you are the only one who can disturb your sleep.
Only a person with a fundamental sense of and thirst for existence as a magnificent, beckoning, ultimately unifying mystery could have passed this quality on to me. That person, I am pleased and grateful to say, is my mother.
