Mother’s Day should be hell for me.
I manage to make it through with loving feelings towards my mother; able to, for that day at least, pretend as though she truly cares for me, that she loves me with all her heart, that she wants to be a part of my life because I am her most cherished treasure.
But I know it’s all a lie.
I know that it’s not love I feel, but rather a wish – a longing – for my mother to be like all the other good moms I see out there.
I see good mothers on a daily basis. I know what it looks like to truly love your child, and I just don’t have that kind of mom. I see them everywhere: on TV, coming in to school to drop off their kids, at the grocery store, in the car driving on the highway… Everywhere I go, I am assaulted by their image, and the constant reminder that I do not have one.
I see them staying at home with their kids, making home-cooked meals, doing dishes and laundry, cleaning up and offering play spaces that engage the intellectual curiosities of their precious little ones.
I see them giving great advice, acting as an unbiased third party for their kids, giving them just enough information to help them make the right decisions without compromising their child’s integrity or sense of self.
I see them loving their children unconditionally, without regard to any sort of orientation (be it political, sexual, lifestyle, or whatever else) their child may have; but, also, without regard to how they wear their hair, where they go to school, what kind of job they have, how much money they make, what kind of car they drive, or who they’re getting married to.
My mother does not do these things.
My mother does not stay at home with her kids. She finds other people to raise them, preferably for free, including her own 70-year old mother who should be enjoying her retirement.
My mother does not give great advice. She tells you what she thinks you should do, and then refuses to offer support when you choose to do the opposite. Then, when you succeed, she’ll stand there and say to your face that she was the one who helped get you there.
My mother does not love me unconditionally. She refuses to accept my own choices for my life, and offers constant criticism until I just so happen to make a choice she agrees with. She constantly tries to make me into her perfect image. She pushes me to make her decisions on my hair, my clothes, my makeup, my car, my job, my fiance, my life.
My mother does not love me unconditionally.
It’s no wonder when I see mothers who unconditionally love their children, I get
I only hope that, one day, I can be the kind of children to my mother that I wishextremely jealous. I’ve been starved for that maternal affection my entire life. I’d had for myself.
I don’t know if this jealousy will ever go away. Perhaps it shouldn’t; perhaps I can use it to reflect on the kind of mother I want to be, and ensure that I give my kids the kind of unconditional love and support I’ve been searching for my whole life.