After Mother’s Day

Sunday was Mother’s Day. I had an appropriate celebration: breakfast in bed (Nutella crêpes, coffee, a banana, a glass of freshly-cut lilacs), gifts, cards, and dinner with the family at a nice restaurant. We ended the day by sporting goofy faces, of course, for a family selfie.

Some days, it is hard to believe I am a mother. Our daughters are teenagers now, more independent than I  was at that age. Sometimes, I feel as if they could live just fine without me, but that isn’t true. They need me for large notions: moodiness and friendship struggles, college plans, identity approval, and character building. (I don’t tolerate diminishment. This is the singular area where I am quick to scold.)

My mother and I shared texts on Mother’s Day, wishing each other a happy day, telling each other I love you. It was an appropriate interaction. Except my mother sent it as a group text. On a text that I wanted for myself, she included my sisters, one of whom is not a mother. My older sister doesn’t know the challenges of motherhood, nor the reason it was inappropriate years ago to set her large purse on top of my daughter who, at three months old, slept in the car seat while we ate lunch. How do you explain worth to someone so ignorant?

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My older sister replied to my mother with gushy flowers and hearts. It reminded me why I am uncomfortable around my birth family—they are, in my opinion, still children, perhaps the same emotional age as my daughters, but probably not quite. With family, as a mother and a daughter, I am eternally stuck in the middle. One family is age-appropriate, the other is not. Navigating the polarity of emotional terrain comes either with a reward or a struggle. Flowers and hearts from children has a different meaning than flowers and hearts from adults.

I know now that mature love makes the difference. Timeliness makes a difference. As a teenager, I wanted my mother to tell me I was smart, worthy, special. I wanted her to love me as much as she loved my sisters. Instead, I felt ignored, insignificant, betrayed. She simply wasn’t emotionally situated to give me the love I needed.

But she tried.

Now, I can articulate my needs. My mother is trying to meet them, really trying. I hope when my daughters are adults that I will continue to try to meet their needs. Being heard, feeling heard, is how a woman feels loved. It is so much larger than hearts and flowers.

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Do you agree? How do you feel loved?

 

 

 

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