On Mother’s Day

A personal note

Holidays are always a multi-faceted kind of complicated, whether from internal or external factors. They feel different as you age, as your perspective shifts, as your understanding grows. The world is not black and white - never was, never will be. I’d argue that we’ll all spend most of our lives in the grey, trying to determine right from wrong and up from down, trying to find the non-existent playbook for this big, great game we’re all in the middle of.

Holidays are always complicated, and this one especially. I debated, for a long time, especially when starting this Substack, how personal I would get. Writing is inherently personal - you’re giving someone access to your innermost thoughts; the way you speak, the way you perceive, the unnecessary amount of adjectives you use. Writing is another opportunity for one to judge you and assume that they know you. To create a persona of you in their mind from your words on a page.

I’ve spent most of my life avoiding the personal. I’ve gotten brilliantly good at shapeshifting past questions about myself, gently moving the spotlight farther and farther away until anyone forgets it was near me at all. It’s hard to share the parts of yourself that you never thought would see the light of day. It’s even harder to acknowledge that you have no control over those parts once they’re released into the wild.

I knew I wanted to write something, to share something, on this day, because I am making a conscious effort to shine more light, everywhere. And maybe in sharing the complicated and the hurt and the messy love, you, whoever and wherever you are, will be able to relate, and will permit yourself to share more of yourself, too.

I always go through my saved notes and writings as context and remembrance for when I want to write something new. (Remember my Substack from last week on the death of originality?) In July of 2023, I wrote, “The difference of (age) 25 and onward is that up until 25, I held the general belief that most people weren’t trying hard enough. 25 and beyond, my perception has now flipped to be that most people are doing the best they can.”

On this Mother’s Day, I want to recognize and commend all of the women in my life - mothers, step-mothers, aunts, partners, grandmothers, daughters, sisters - and the complexities that each of these roles brings, on their own and combined, on top of pieces and fragments of a whole life’s worth of prior context. We are all doing our best with the tools we were and were not given. Give grace to these women: the ones who raised you, who championed you, who broke your heart. Give grace to yourself, to your past, to your future. Nothing is as straightforward as you think it should be.

---

You’re sitting on the couch, reading the Times and drinking coffee, as is your Sunday tradition. You’re wearing the same ratty, grey, old Roots sweatshirt you’ve had for the past two decades. The zipper doesn’t work anymore- but in your book, that’s what makes it all the more to love.

You catch me out of the corner of your eye, walking into the kitchen to get a glass of water. I tried my best to walk swiftly, quietly, without disturbing you. Sunday morning hours were ones we both treasured, for different reasons depending on the weekend.

This particular weekend, we were recovering from a fight from the evening before. One of several revolving topics - this one was the hyper fixation and comparison of levels of love and devotion from child to parent. My heart is bruised, and my head still spinning, steeped in anger that twelve hours later has infused into sorrow.

I mentally berate myself for not stocking up on water from the night before, delaying the inevitable walk down the stairs for as long as physically possible. I round the corner, and like a cat, I see you put the newspaper down and turn to look at me. I suppose seventeen years of child rearing provided you with supersonic hearing.

“You’re up. This is late for you.” We, a family of chronic insomniacs and early risers, celebrate anytime one of us sleeps past seven am.

I’ve stopped, staring at you, mentally preparing my next chess move. Will this be one of the revolving scenarios that we discuss in said fight? Will we lay down our weapons? Will I, like a well-trained pet, apologize first to break the ice even though we both know I’ve done nothing wrong?

“Yeah, I guess I was tired last night.”

You quietly stare, leaving the chasm of words unspoken, gaping open for me to jump into. We both know what’s coming next.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I don’t know what happened.”

Partially true and partially false, I’m too exhausted to think about the strategy today. I’ve decided to sacrifice my king nice and early.

You smile. My heart aches. You motioned with your hand, waving me over to the couch. I walk to you, tucking my hands inside my own ratty sweatshirt, the neckline cut down the middle because you told me once that any tight collar made you claustrophobic, and I, too, decided that any tight neckline made me claustrophobic as well.

I get to the couch, gingerly sitting down on the edge of the L - not too close, not too far, Goldilocks’s perfected recipe for how to tightrope walk. You motion to your feet. “Could you please rub my left foot? My arthritis is killing me this week. And as my strongest child, you have the strongest hands.”

You’re masterful. Beautiful to watch like a bird in flight. I wish you had become a lawyer or a politician because you would have ruled the world and had all the G20 leaders wrapped around your pinky finger. In all the armor I’ve built, my seventeen years are not enough to battle the lethal combination of being needed, being guilted, being loved.

I move closer and pick up your left foot. Your toenail polish has been the same color for as long as I’ve known you - a deep plum, which your daughters refer to as vampire’s blood behind closed doors.

You continue to smile at me as I feel all the small bones and cartilage in your foot move back and forth. “What do you want for breakfast? Want me to make you pancakes?” Your peace offering will never take the shape of an apology, but will always be an act of love and service - on your terms, of course, which have become our terms.

“Sure,” I hear myself say, “pancakes sound great.”

Many years later, my armor fully grown but filled with gaps of unhealed wounds, I am left with one resounding thought: Is manipulation inherent in love? Can you separate the two? If you can, what does love sans manipulation even look like? Feel like? Sound like? Do those hearts ache, too?

Sometimes, I stare at my feet and remark how much they look like yours. Sometimes, I’ll feel my own small bones and cartilage. Sometimes, I miss the feeling of being desperately needed.

We, as products of our parents, are left with the genetic reminders of our most powerful relationships, the ones in which we first learn how to love, how to relate to the world, how to treat ourselves, how to protect ourselves, how to harm ourselves, how to let others harm us.

And, suddenly, as if I forgot I made the choice myself, I always end up with vampire’s blood on my toenails.