Family Obligations Mold Us

Mom and I had an Often Adversarial Relationship

Sometimes Dad would intervene. He would gently say, “Now, Mary…” when she was yet again deliberately pushing my buttons. There were times I would look at him with great sincerity and sigh. I’d ask, “Dad, isn’t it legal to slap your mom just once?” I don’t think I ever really meant it.

Lest you think I’m a terrible, unloving beast, there were times I hugged Mom so tightly with love that I’d worry about hurting her. In her defense, I don’t think anything about me was easy as a child. 

The worse thing older sister Jackie did was eat cigarette butts from ashtrays. Between hand-smacking and stomach aches the correlation sunk in that this wasn’t the smartest thing to do. She went back to eating Oreos and wafer cookies. As a tot, Jackie rather looked like an Oreo and a wafer cookie smashed together. She was tiny, fair complexioned, with the unruliest, curliest, solid black hair ever to be seen.

It was Jackie’s only area of imperfection. Hair that could not be combed, bobby-pinned or barrette’d into place. Did I relish the agony Mom put her through each morning as she tried to tame the springy curls. I’m positive my mother would have killed for mousse.

For Two Years Mom had the (almost) Perfect Daughter

There was Jackie. Then there was me.

My first problem is that I was born with a radiant head of red hair. Listen, I mean, red hair. Not orange, strawberry blonde or auburn. I mean red and it was bright. By the time I was five or six, my hair mellowed to an old-lady-in-the-stores-stopping shade of auburn. They’d lean down, but not to pinch “Leave it to Beaver” fat cheeks. Wrinkled fingers caressed my board straight, flaming auburn tresses. I heard, wherever did you get such beautiful hair?

Being the only redhead in a sea of brunettes, I was obstinate and had a fiery hot attitude. Compared to perfect Jackie (except for the crazy hair) and golden-child Joey (except for his monkey arms), I challenged Mom on a regular basis.

Moving Home after Twenty Years

When I moved back to Western Pennsylvania I spent a lot of time at my parents. Sometimes it was every other weekend, sometimes once a month. Rarely did I go longer than four weeks without seeing them. I began to understand the family obligations I had ignored for decades.

Many times Dad and I would sneak off for coffee at his favorite greasy spoon. Those were among my favorite-in-all-my-life-times. Since Mom was not a morning person it didn’t seem we were doing anything wrong by leaving her at home.

There were times I’d take her shopping. In the early days, she would trudge along, carrying her portable oxygen tank. Eventually, I’d have to get one of the store wheelchairs and push her here and there. I’d do everything I could to make these happy trips, from posing like a mannequin until she was laughing so hard it hurt, to donning hats and scarfs and doing the runway model walk.

Mom and I had Our Moments

But still, she would be a brat sometimes. Like holding her forty-something daughter accountable (again and again) for breaking her nun-clothed doll when I was a toddler. I mean, seriously, how many times could I apologize? Did I mean to break it? Who knows? Even if I did, I sure felt bad for it when she told me about it (again and again) as a grown up.

One day, she brought it up as I was leaving. Looking her dead in the eye, hugged her and said if she ever mentioned it again I was leaving and never coming back. 

I. Was. Dead. Serious.

She hugged me and whispered in my ear, “You broke my doll.” I broke our hug, walked out, told dad what happened and it took a whole lot of him before I went home again.

Not sure, sometimes, where Mom’s family obligation to me was.

Do you get it? We had a weird, odd relationship.

Loss Doesn’t Dim Over the Years

It was nine years last August that she died and I miss her. I miss the woman Dad fell in love with—that little imp she could be, playing practical jokes on us. That woman—the one my siblings and family cared for in the last days of her life—I miss her.

Mom, that woman, was amazing.

Jackie told me once that if someone is in pain, maybe on medication, that their true personality comes through. That resonated as Mom’s body fought the cancer inside. She was sweet and kind and appreciative.

Mom wore down every wall I had built up over forty-nine years of our life together and made me fall in love with her.

I thank God repeatedly for that.

There were times during Mom’s agitated sleep that I would drag my blankets in from the living room and sleep on the floor of my parent’s room. Mom’s restlessness broke Dad’s heart. I’d climb into bed with her and hold on. Just hold on until she calmed down and could sleep again.

Loving Mom Beyond Family Obligations

I have regrets that I didn’t take my family obligations more to heart.

And yes, I wished with all my heart that this woman who clung to me with obvious love had been the same woman I’d grown up with. Of course, I wish that. As it was, I grew to acknowledge and understand the pain that she caused—that I’m sure I caused her—and moved from it to unconditional love.

Familial love can be the best thing and the worst thing in our lives. It can encourage us, beat us down, help our dreams soar or crush them to pieces. We have the power to choose which parts of those roller coaster ups and downs we want to savor and cling to.

God gave me a chance to re-learn my Mom, to step back from the challenges and re-think—no, scratch that—to re-love her as I would have from the moment a child learns love. This is the Mom I choose to remember and miss with my adult heart.

 

Mom & Me, 1992, yes, the hair color is real

Read: Going forward

 

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