so what are YOU going to do about it?

Another Mother’s Day has come and gone, but history is always there. Sometimes the memories are so painful it’s hard to catch my breath, for the growing up throwing up years were anything but kind. Chaos reigned supreme in that house where there was no mother’s knee to sit on, no hugs of encouragement, no for-no-reason kisses, because emotions were not to be publicly displayed. If you hurt, suck it up, tamp it down, bury it deep, no tears, just be glad for what you have and get on with the day. And if you were happy about something, anything, better not show it, because sure as shootin’ there’d lightning fast be a way to bring you down. Not a lot of mirrors in our house, because to look in a mirror for more than the couple of seconds needed to check your teeth was vanity. And, OMG, don’t even think about glancing at your reflection in a shop window. Jewelry? Not until you have a wedding ring. Makeup? Forget about it. Don’t expect to hear the words “I’m proud of you,” for pride was a sin. If you did something good it was because you were supposed to, if you did something bad you just confirmed her fears of who you really were deep down inside. And never, never, never ask if you were loved. Because you would not like the answer. And, no, not just me and my childhood. The sister I knew swore for years that she had been adopted. Oldest brother ran away from home every chance he got until the day he and the Marine Recruiter sat in the living room while Dad signed the papers and Mom refused, trying with all her might not to let him escape her clutches. It was the only time I ever saw her cry; tears of frustration rather than grief. And then a short time later youngest brother was ripped from friends and shipped off for his senior high year, no reason given other than because she was afraid he would turn out like his brother We were, for the most part, kept at home except for brief stints of school and church, and away from other people, besides the few and far between she deemed acceptable. It wasn’t until I was in high school that I realized not all families were like ours, and only when I went to college that I learned there was a 13-letter word to describe our situation. But, then, I learned too much, and so after one semester of freedom was pulled back home and married with five day’s notice to someone from a family they had “checked out” and found better than the alternative. When friends asked why the wedding was so quick she told them I was pregnant. Not true, but, oh, well, women in that era were still little more than chattel, and while it’s true that those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it, for me, there were no options. I didn’t have the guts to say “no.” And when a few months later my first pregnancy ended in miscarriage, it somehow seemed like only what I deserved. It was only after she died that I began to have an inkling of why she was the way she was. Orphaned at two, she grew up with no one to teach her parenting skills, no person to encourage her with anything besides slaps and kicks, raised by a series of “cousins” and working for a meager living by the age of ten, totally on her own at fourteen when she fled the Ouchita. I think the first time in her life she experienced love from another person was when she met Dad. And even then the people in her life tried to sell her into marriage with a moneyed friend. Hence, the elopement to another county, a justice of the peace and witness wife roused from their bed in the dead of night, and marriage vows read under a street lamp. The middle of the Depression, the only thing they had was each other and the refurbished chicken coop they called home. And then the oldest child died the day before the fourth was born. Lord, lord, it’s a wonder she had any sanity about her at all. I think it was only after the grandchildren arrived that she felt comfortable receiving a hug from anyone. Years of therapy did not bring me self-esteem, for you cannot restore what has never been. One counselor said, “OK, so, they screwed up your life, what are YOU going to do about it?” And so, a year after she died, I found a modicum of closure when I left a letter on her grave, asking forgiveness for not being the daughter she wanted, for being the daughter who lived instead of the two she loved and lost, telling her it was okay that she was not the kind of mother I thought I needed, but expressing gratitude that she had given me life. But the acorn does not fall far from the tree, reasons are not excuses, and I am too soon old and too late schmart. My own children have suffered dearly for my lack. I can only hope that someday they might leave a letter on my grave, forgiving me for not being the mother they deserved.