There was a cute article in today’s Salt Lake Tribune by the “humor writer” Robert Kirby. He shares a few of the lessons he learned from his mother (I’m afraid I particularly liked the lesson he learned when, after he’d done something illegal, she hit him so hard with a pan, he “saw into the future.”)
http://www.sltrib.com/homeandfamily/ci_3796926
This got me thinking about lessons learned from my mother, and I suppose it’s because I’m having something of a downer day that the first things that came to my mind were two little incidents that hurt me deeply to this day because they hurt her.
When I was about eight or nine, I went to church one Mother’s Day Sunday in our microscopically small town and found they were giving out small pots of African violets to all the mothers entering for church. My mother didn’t attend church often–my father was not a church-goer and she had to balance a fine line between attending church because she wanted to and not attending because he didn’t want her to. After church on this day, there were several African violets left and I asked the lady at the table if I could have one for my mother. She said, “Is your mother here today?” She knew very well my mother wasn’t, as everyone in town knew everybody else and all about them. When I said she wasn’t, the lady said, “These are just for the mothers who are at church today.” I don’t think I ever told my mother about this little incident, but the pain lingers to this day–that somehow my mother wasn’t deserving of a flower because she didn’t go to church.
The second painful memory occurred about ten years later. My mother was coerced into having a Tupperware party. Unfortunately, another woman in town had a party just a week or two previously–far too much Tupperware partying for a little town like that–but the instigator complained that this date was the only time she could do it and everybody would come because they all just come out of politeness anyway. My mom cleaned the house, made desserts, set out 15-20 rounded-up chairs, and dressed up in preparation. I still remember walking into the house that night after a school function and seeing her “party” – two of her closest friends. She was embarrassed and hurt, and I was deeply hurt for her.
She’s been gone for almost ten years now and I still miss her. I miss her laughter at life and interest in everything in the wide world. When my daughter and I are snubbed at family gatherings, I miss her because she would have pulled my daughter onto the couch next to her and grilled her about her life and how things were–the only attention and love her granddaughter would receive at the get-together. I’ve missed her the past few weeks as I’ve done intensive updating and remodeling on my house. She would have loved what I’ve done and praised it to high heaven (undeserving as it would be). I miss her because, outside of my daughter, she’s the only person who ever loved me unconditionally.
I hate Mother’s Day because I feel like such a failure as a mother myself. But I wish with all my heart that my own mother was still here so I could give her an African violet and a piece of Tupperware.
Susan
