Explaining my mother

I’m at my dad’s house. Leah is visiting from across the waters and we are preparing to go on a sightseeing tour.

And suddenly I’m stopped. Can’t write. There’s so much I want to say, and all of it clogs together in my head, a cacophony of words demanding their moment to be heard, to shape themselves into images, to present themselves in the form of recollections and reflections.

What I want to say is that my mother was extraordinary. (Why did I write “is” at first?) Because I’m unfolding the retrospective slowly, and trying to describe what happened without too much explanation or unpacking or projecting forward into the “now,” it might seem that she was a terrible mother in some ways, that she made unforgivable mistakes. But she was not. She was very sick at the time, with an illness nobody could figure out. She was living the dark burden of her own traumatic childhood, trying to overcome it alone, without the benefit of counselors to help her recast her past in a new and more illuminating light. As a child I knew none of this, or at least, I knew she was sometimes sick in bed, but I didn’t know how deeply her illness weakened her emotionally, and I knew nothing about her past.

What amazes me about her is that she overcame all of it, all the horror of her own upbringing, her father’s suicide when she was five, her mother’s raging alcoholism, the dysfunctional society in which her family stood as some kind of beacon of respectability. She changed, altogether. Those who knew her in the last 20 years of her life knew her as someone fully kind and loving, generous to all, always looking for the best in people. There was a lag in how she applied her love to her children, I realize. It started on the outer edges of the pond of her life and rippled back towards the center, where we were grouped. She could not, in the early years, be as unstintingly generous with her compassion towards us as she was towards others. But she did love us. She did everything out of what she believed was the best for us. And in truth, there were good days. There were days when she showed up at school, and the school secretary came to fetch us from class, and we would go to the beach with another family to take advantage of the rare sun. There were days when Dad was home late, and we would sit in the kitchen with her friend and her friend’s kids, and eat biscuits (cookies), and talk and laugh. We went to the pantomime and the opera. We got swimming lessons in Dublin, and stopped off at the campus bakery for fresh-baked meltingly soft rolls on the way home. We went to Bewley’s on the half day at the end of every term for raisin buns and fudge. We marched in Dublin to try to save Wood Quay, the site of a Viking excavation, and she helped us make a placard for our dog, and afterwards we ate in the newly opened McDonald’s, Ireland’s first, with the dog curled under our seat. I tasted my first milkshake then, and laughed when the boy who was mopping the floor pretended to mop up the dog.

We had fun. There was joy. I did laugh. I know I did. It’s just that the dark moments intervened at times, and they shaped me as much as the fun times.

So I have to say, before I continue my retrospective, that my mother was an extraordinary, beautiful, kind woman, who saved herself somehow from her own traumatic past, and in doing so gave us — her four girls — the tools to help us heal ourselves. Two of my sisters have had extensive counseling, one on the East coast and one in Ireland. One should probably consider it. I have visited a counselor now and again, not often, and done what I can through reading and walking meditation and prayer — my mother’s path. It has not always been easy. It will not ever be easy. But it is possible, and every time I breathe deep and feel joy, I think of my mother, who taught me how.

8 responses to “Explaining my mother

  1. It’s funny, I feel I know your mother so well, from your book, that I wondered you felt you needed to say this. Even if I didn’t, though, I don’t think you’ve painted as dark a picture as you think you have in these retrospectives.

    In any case, any upbringing that resulted in you starts with a strong presumption in its favor.

  2. You know, I said as much to my therapist the other day about my own mother when we were talking about the consequences of her darker side. I owe her so much, I said, and you need to that as well.

    It’s very hard to balance up there on the high wire, holding the two truths, the two realities. But it is possible.

    (And I have fond memories of Bewleys!)

  3. Last sentence, 1st para: … you need to know that as well.

  4. Very poignant – makes me want to know more about how she changed.
    I smiled at mm’s comment, for I too have done (still do) the same in therapy.
    tk, your love and compassion come through very clearly.

  5. Dale: Thank you. I know the book showed the depth of her compassion, and also her humor, something I hope to convey for those who haven’t read it as I continue with the retrospective. And I’m glad that the piece doesn’t feel as dark as I sometimes think it might come across.

    mm: I am trying my best to keep my balance on the high wire. I’m glad you can relate. And viva la Bewley’s! Or maybe it should be Bewley’s go bragh. 🙂

    Stella: I hope to be able to show the change, and the reason for the change, soon. 🙂

  6. This writing about your mother made me cry in a good way. So much like my mother.

  7. “I did laugh. I know I did. It’s just that the dark moments intervened at times, and they shaped me as much as the fun times.”

    This segment made me feel so much less alone.

  8. am: Funny how across the world we can have had such similar experiences. Like Bethany says, it makes me feel less alone.

    Bethany: I know it’s been awful for you. I’m glad you feel less alone, reading this.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s