I never write on Mother’s Day: it seems often contrived, everyone else has too much to say--it’s either forced or expected, rehashed and rehearsed, reheard a hundred thousand times. Nothing is original. We all know how special and unique we’re supposed to formulate cherished remembrances of mom.
Truth is, for the majority of women ensconced in dynamic mother-daughter relationships, it’s just not that easy.
And every Mother’s day for the last nine years has made me sick to death. Because something inside me, grown up or not, doesn’t quite know how to survive without my own mom. I don’t discuss the details of watching her wither from cancer just as her own mother did…a nightmarish legacy I relived twice, and haunted by the memories of a turbulent but incredibly close relationship I could never quite correct: can you please a best friend that co-dependently entwines her identity with yours, yet still governs you from an angle of expectation you can never complete? Can a true human bond be established when a child is forever held in the wrong? I adore my mother…I always will, and yet, thank God more adept writers than I can share their memories from a point of soul and readiness that others are still so hungry to hear: that more daughters than just one can both awe and depreciate certain familiar characteristics that make our mothers human.
I suppose this is the business of learning on Mother’s Day, and doing better for our own children where we can:
Many blessings to you Albuquerque and New Mexico women wielding the hardest job in the world.