My Mother

I had a prof in college, Dr. Cooke, who taught Community Economics. He never ironed his clothes; he wore khaki shorts, terrible plaid shirts, and, always, dark socks that went half-way up his calves with white tennis shoes. He had crazy hair that reminded me of Jim Morrison's Alexander the Great haircut, but it always looked like he just got out of bed. I learned a tremendous amount from Dr. Cooke, Jim, I think was his name, but I didn't like him. He always picked my papers to read and start some huge argument in class, made me stand up and defend them (and I was SO DAMN shy it terrified me), and once kicked me out of class (I had NEVER been kicked out, didn't show up on numerous occasions, but never told to get out) and told me not to come back until I had a plan to save the down-trodden women of Tonga, but not before he gave me a budget to do it--of a meager $100,000.

His words that day, slap me in the face almost daily. He SCREAMED at me, "There is no such thing as a helpless woman!" Which, now, as I admit I think Dr. Cooke was a major dick, even after he took me out for a beer after giving me an 'A', apologized, and then proceeded to tell me to get my shit together and not wallow in a failed marriage, because "it doesn't make you a failure, you do it yourself," I am famous for quoting that statement to my daughters, my friends, my husband, and just about everybody. He told me to get the damn chip off of my shoulder, which REALLY set me on fire, because my mother has been telling me that since I was way too little to even know what she meant. And, like all mothers and daughters, I held the opinion that my mother, of all people, had absolutely NO business telling me not to be pissed. Who was SHE?!?

For the record, I don't have a chip on my shoulder, its the whole pile of bricks that built the goddamn house, because I KNOW how things should be and I know everyone else knows it, too, and it really just pisses me off that no ones does anything to make this world right. Yes, I have a lot of anger, which 15 years of therapy have taught me to somewhat manage. I still, on occasion, retreat to the garage and have "pitching practice," where I once threw my back out and couldn't move for three days.

But, my daughter turned 14 yesterday, and for some reason, this, to me anyway, is a right of passage for both of us. Mostly, because this is the age that my mother tracked me down and kicked my ass for "riding in a car with boys." She even brought my father into the tiff, which, for the record, NEVER happened before, and when I mouthed off, he pushed me into the sink. MY DAD! The one who had NEVER, EVER, in my life laid a hand on me--and hasn't since. This is the age when my mother went from being my best friend to becoming the dumbest bitch I ever had the misfortune of running into, and who wasn't able to redeem herself in my eyes, and then only partially, until I was 19 and my GEO Storm died in the dorm parking lot, and I had no idea what to do, except call mom.

I have written, a LOT, about the ways that me and my mom don't see eye-to-eye, and in a lot of ways, we don't. I always thought there was no way to ever please her--I got a "B" once and she wanted to get me a tutor; I never dressed right--"You waited SO long for God to make you a girl, why don't you dress like one?"; I never had a date to prom so she could help me buy the dress; I never cleaned the bathroom right; I drove her crazy because I iron left-handed, which is "backwards;"I had too much fun, didn't go the right college; I had no business having a job when my husband could give me a life at home with my kids which was ALL she ever wanted, and I never seemed to catch the guy matching my potential. In all of it, I would throw back at her, like spitting in her face, "I am the product of my environment!" Spat once with enough tequila bile, as she was volunteering to stay with my children for the weekend so I could attend my best friend's funeral, to make the hair on Satan's neck stand on end.

And, as I was standing in line yesterday, with teenage fashionistas, for over 30 minutes to get a dressing room at The Gateway Mall, and my 14 year old daughter was rolling her eyes into the back of her head at EVERYTHING I said, I pursed my lips, got a look, and stopped just short of uttering words that immediately told me I have become...yes, my MOTHER.

To say that I hold a lot of things against my mother is an understatement. I judge my mother harsher than I judge anyone, which is a confession, because I try to make myself not judge anyone, but am very guilty of being a judgmental bitch.

I give my grandmother a lot of credit for giving me an education, but in all honesty, I was driven by the desire to NOT be my mother. Give me a few seconds before you judge that statement.

In all of my life, I don't remember asking my mother, ever, what SHE ever wanted in life. I saw a very kind woman, a woman who would have given ANYTHING for her children, come home, give us hugs and kisses and tell us how much she missed us all day, then act like a crazed schizophrenic because nothing was taken out for dinner or I had forgotten to dust the plant stand. I watched a woman work menial jobs for minimum wage to pay bills she sometimes hid in drawers from my father, so he wouldn't know they didn't get paid, because she bought one of the kids the latest, best jeans. I watched her throw pans across the kitchen, because we had called my grandmother to bring us bread or milk. To my defense, we called grandma 'cause we knew Mom had enough to worry about. In her defense, looking back, I understand how it made her feel...somehow, inadequate.

Of course, my mother may have a different view of the situation, I only know from my perspective.

Back then, my mother was a helpless woman--in my eyes--and there was no way in hell that was ever going to be me. Not ever.

I just know that I watched my mother fall asleep in the chair at 5:30, unable to keep her eyes open after getting up every morning at the ass-crack of dawn to haul cement up a mountain at a mine or after a day of hanging drywall in the old house she turned into a home. I saw her tired, sad, and angry--because she felt she wasn't there for us. I saw my dad take the brunt of it for drinking, and I remember thinking, "Shit, I wish I could drink, too!" or, more often, "Leave his ass!" And, then, thinking she has three kids and no money. She can't go anywhere.

She's stuck. I will never be stuck.

I didn't understand, then, that she made a promise and really loved him and family was everything--the good, the bad, the ugly, and the beautiful. I now have enough experience under my belt, good and bad, to understand the choices she made. And, really, as much as I blamed my dad and then blamed her in the same sentence for choosing that plot in life, I now know what it all meant and the juggling act they tried to follow. I realize, now, after the fact, that my mother just wanted me to have the very best of all I ever wanted, and as much as she doted on my brother, "The Golden Boy" as we call him, I seriously doubt she had those worries about him. His track in life was a given, and for me and my sister, it was up to the cards--and we have many more to choose from.

I stood there yesterday, waiting in line at the mall--and trust me, the irony of Ani Difranco playing on the sound system was NOT lost on me (thank you, nameless, faceless, "Forever 21" employee)--with my mother's look on my face that always seemed to scream in silence "You fucking idiot" and wondered what my daughter will have to say about me when she is 25 and then again at 35.

I imagine it will be something about how I was never there, only worried about my career and trying to make more money than my husband JUST to prove a point, and she was left to pick up the pieces, just like I thought for all of those years about my mother doing EVERYTHING, despite the fact that my mother WAS there, in spite of my blindness, to talk to my friends about sex because their moms REALLY weren't available for THAT talk. Despite our differences, I could, and still can, tell my mother everything and anything, and its priceless.

I imagine it will be something about how I tried to get The Sha to buy the Lucky brand jeans for $90 instead of the $19.50 ones at WetSeal, just to show her I'm not gonna freak out and hide the bill, and how all I worried about was not being poor. How I didn't realize poor in character and poor in an economic sense are different, when my own mother taught me that a LONG time ago.

I imagine she'll tell her therapist she never got a birthday for three years, from 11 to 14, because she had bad grades, and her mother was a hell bitch perfectionist who freaked out when the birthday cakes didn't slide right out of the pan and spent tear filled hours feeling inadequate for not being "Ace of Cakes" every year on the birthday. I imagine, most likely right on the mark, she'll tell the same therapist about every fight between her mother and step-father and just how much she thought of me as an idiot. I imagine she will choose a life-path totally different from mine, in an effort not to become her mother, only to stand there, one day, open mouthed, knowing she's mine.

And, when it does happen, that day she realizes she has become me, and I'm not all that bad, I want her to know the greatest lesson my mother ever taught me--in spite of what you see or what I say or what I do, I'm here, always and forever; I love you more than my luggage; and even though when that doctor smacked you on the ass and I wanted to slap him back, right before I said you looked like Yoda, or when you were 14 and I wanted to smack you in the back of your head for rolling your eyes at me on your 14th birthday, I think you are the most beautiful and wonderful thing God EVER put on the earth, and I want nothing more than the best of what you ever want in life.

I want her to know, more than ANYTHING, I'm here--for everything. I'm sometimes tired. I'm a bitch--most of the time. I don't always make the right decisions, but for me, at the time, they worked. And, most importantly, when you're embarrassed I'm gonna call the DARE cop about you HAVING to wear a dress on Tuesdays and tell him that is bullshit, and you beg me not to cause a scene over "my silly" convictions, just remember, I love you more than life, and you are NEVER, EVER stuck or helpless.

I learned that, li'l missy--not from Dr. Cooke, even though he did show me what I already know--from my MOTHER!