Merry Christmas and I Hate You Mom

Okay, I know I’ve written a lot about my mother on this blog.

In short, she rocked.

I had a conversation with one of my oldest and dearest friends last week and she was saying how when we were growing up our friends loved my mother and were envious of how great our relationship was. This is a balm to my soul, because as you know, I only got to have her around for 18 years. My friends and their mothers got to develop rich adult relationships that are still evolving today.

My friend suggested that maybe my mother’s and my great relationship was a GIFT, since we wouldn’t have the chance to grow apart and then grow back together the way most of our friends and their mothers would. Makes sense, but there is more to the story.

Not 24 hours after that conversation, I found this lovely note I had written my mom. I’m guessing I was 12 or 13 in 8th grade. Please don’t confuse this with my first grade hate note (preserved in my mother’s jewelry box) or the 16-year-old’s diatribe when I go off on her for not buying me a car.

Good times.

Scrawled on notebook paper with permanent marker and poor spelling we have:

"You always feel the need to irratate (sp) and to fight and dampen people’s hopes. John will say, “Can I go here can I go here and of course you say “sure” me (double underline) no way and I wait all week for tonight and you have to either say I cant (sp) watch something because they want to watch something else or to start a fight over nothing!

And when I have a new room planned you say “sure” with till Jan—sure wait till Feb—What next? You put in a yellow rug without asking about all the hours I’ve spent planning and paint the woodwork your color and there go my plans… think about it!

You don’t delay (underline) to get John something for sports—talk about 2 pair of cleats in 2 weeks?? But when we do go shopping you act like were (sp) being mean if we don’t like something OR YOU SAY before I get a chance to comment you say: YOU HATE IT!!

You are a great mother but have a lot to learn to be a friend.

And for Christmas, sure you read my list…

FOR LAUGHS."

Sheesh. There are a lot of directions we could go in when analyzing this letter. You may be wondering why you even read the blog of such an ungrateful wench. I know. Me too.

You may be pitying my mom who only got to live for 46 years on this earth, yet had to deal with this kind of shit with surprising regularity.

If you haven’t already unfollowed or de-friended me, let’s ask what can be gleaned from this letter.

That a caring mother surprised her daughter by installing new wall to wall yellow carpet (shag, even??) and spent hours painting the room for her, only to be berated for not consulting her daughter’s color palette (seafoam green and dusty rose, natch?)

That this daughter is so jealous of her siblings she even begrudges her brother’s necessary sports equipment purchases?

That a dateless, awkward, hormonal Friday night was “ruined” by the daughter not getting to watch Falcon Crest?

And as a mom myself who knows how much effort women put into making Christmas special, I can barely read the part about the Christmas list.

Ugh.

I share this letter for several reasons:

One is to tell you that even though I know I acted like a loser and I really miss my mom, this letter does not kill me. Why? Because of the kind of person she was. She wouldn’t want it to kill me. She would want me to get a grip and move on from a bad day, which is probably what ended up happening.

Another is a heads-up that THIS relationship, that looked enviable to outsiders, must have had its rocky points. Rocky points need not define or destroy a relationship.

Another is to help me brace myself for this kind of thing with my own kids. And if you have read the rest of this blog, you know I need to brace myself. While I’ve been typing this post my daughter tried to cut a tag off her shirt but cut a hole in the shirt instead. This was somehow my fault even though I never left this spot.

In dealing with my kids, I want to think about what my own response could be/can be.

This note helps me remember that how my kids feel about me on a given moment or day does not define my self worth. Neither does a note from the principal or a snippy remark from a friend, or my husband not wanting to discuss remodeling ideas.

It helps me remember that even though I said I hated her, I loved her. More than anyone or anything. I loved her so much that this insecure wreck of people pleaser and honor student felt safe enough to be a truly hateful and miserable wretch to her. Makes sense, right?

And her reaction, or lack thereof, made me feel even safer and more secure and even more wretched but less wretched at the same time.

You see, instead of telling me how this kind of behavior hurt her, lecturing me about respect, or withholding love, intimacy, or shag carpet, my mother let me get myself worked up into a lather.
This allowed me to keep the focus on ME, which hello, where does any self-loathing yet narcissistic 8th grader want the focus anyway? Before long I would cool down, stew, and realize what an idiot I was while my mother still maintained her dignity. Her lightly pursed lips, quiet humming, quizzical smile and perhaps a raised eyebrow were all it took for me to realize I was an idiot and my mom was still my mom.

I’m sure the “perfect” relationship my friends envisioned wasn’t perfect from either of our perspectives. But you’ve probably already read about how my mother and I think/thought perfection was overrated.

What was special, or notable, was a mom who was a great mom, who loved this ingrate unconditionally, who didn’t stoop to my level, and who did not try too hard to be a “friend” to someone who had plenty of friends, but only one mom.

I guess that’s what I get from this letter.