“The kitten was not his mother. The hen was not his mother. So the baby bird went on. “I have to find my mother,” he said. “But where? Where is she? Where could she be?”
I went to visit my mother’s grave the other day and was distraught that I couldn’t find it. Literally. I got lost on the winding roads through the cemetery that I have driven so many times before. And when I finally found the right section, there was no trace of my mother. She died in March and on this sunshiny morning in September, there was still no engraved granite marker, no remembrance of her at all.
I have since called for a status on the stone I ordered months ago and was assured these things take time. But it was significant that I could not find my mother. I have been looking for her my whole life. Maybe like the mother bird in the classic children’s book, she was off somewhere gathering food. I’m not sure. She just wasn’t there during my childhood.
Maybe that’s why I fell in love with my high school boyfriend’s mom. I think I stayed with him to be near his mother. She was kind and warm and made sun tea and broccoli casserole. She even made clothes with her daughter. I remember being over at their house once and coming upon Mrs. Clevenger and Jan cutting out a pattern on the floor together. It was this magical moment of mother-daughter togetherness that was completely foreign to me. I was transfixed. Mesmerized. Hungry for that kind of connection. Long after her son and I had broken up, Mrs. Clevenger stayed in touch, coming to see me in my college dorm room, meeting me for lunch. I clung guiltily to her as a surrogate mom.
There have been others over the years. Another boyfriend’s mother. Carolyn Clift cooked blueberry pancakes and liked to play the slots at Harrah’s. When her son, Philip and I were together, we took Carolyn, aka Mammo, to the beach with our children and to Vegas to gamble. She hiked with us. We watched sports together (she had a thing for LeBron). Our families spent holidays together. She and Philip were in the receiving line when my own mother died. And my son, Mac, still spends time at their house, aka Cornbread Castle.
Mothers are supposed to be soft bundles of love. Open arms for hugs. Magnets for children, their own and others. My mother was not like that. Although she mellowed in her later years, when she morphed into Gmamma and doted on my son, she was self-contained, reserved, standoffish even. If you hugged her, you couldn’t hold on too long. It’s like she couldn’t tolerate that level of intimacy. She was like a fluffy Persian cat that you could never pat.
I have always tried to be a different kind of mother to my son, who, coincidently, sometimes calls me “Mother Bird.” I have smothered him with love and affection and acceptance. And he, like Gmamma, keeps me at arm’s distance, allowing me to love him only from afar. I tell myself it’s because he’s all grown up. As a tiny child, he was attached to my hip, thumb in mouth, blissfully secure in our connection.
So while I miss my mother with an aching heart, I also miss the mother I never had.
Laura.. This one, as many.. Brings a tear…. so many similarities … Sure you touch a chord for many… Also makes me think about how I should start this day with my children as well as every day… Warm hugs and kisses and words of encouragement !
You are the best and bring such wonderful writing and stories into our lives !
Libby
Libby, we have so much in common, including similar family dynamics with our mothers. Now that mine is gone, somehow the hurt feelings and lonely childhood memories are gone too, or maybe I’ve finally made peace with them, with myself, with my mother. You are a wonderful mother to your children, and that is the best way to fill your heart. XXOOO
This makes me sad for you and more grateful for my dad who was both mother and father when he had to be.
Ahhhhhhh…… Ur so heart felt … Amazed at ur recognition …
I am not sad for you. You had your mother. She was the mother you were supposed to have to be the Laura you’re supposed to be. I didn’t know families hugged until I got to college and had the “hugging-est” roommate a person could imagine. I went home with her one weekend (she had 4 younger brothers) and they all hugged like they were never going to see each other again. Weird; I thought. I found myself challenging my own siblings and mom to hug more, and they did. And they still do. But it took some straining and training. Stoics at heart are not easy to convert. Honestly, though, I still don’t hug easily anyone I’m not related to or really close to. Is that bad? Beats me. It works for me. Love your blog. Love!
She was indeed the mother I was meant to have, and she loved me fiercely despite her lack of outward displays of affection. Everything my mother did, she did for her family. I know that. You are right, Annette. I’m a crazy hugger now, overcompensating I guess. But I’d trade my mother’s authentic love and loyalty for a lifetime of hugs.
Love this. Every single time.
XXOOO