I saw a series of photos online today that showed mothers and daughters on the daughters’ wedding day. The pictures, must of which showed the bride getting ready for her wedding, were full of joy and caring. When I look at these pictures, I can’t help but feel wistful. My mother had no interest in being involved with any aspect of planning her daughters’ weddings. Nor did she want the traditional scene of helping her daughter dress. My mother didn’t want to be with me to adjust my hair or zip up my dress or tell me that she was happy for me. She did, however, want me to do her laundry after the reception.
It’s 3:00 on Mother’s Day, and I am ambivalent about calling her. It’s not that she doesn’t love me in her own way. It’s accepting that her way of loving anyone else is so shallow. I know she feels love, but she does not feel for her children. We have always been valued for meeting her needs. She has always been unable and unwilling to think about ours. She’s never known how to comfort us or think about what is in our interest. She has always been so preoccupied with her own.
I know she can’t really help it. Her obliviousness to us and her singular focus on her fears and needs comes from her brain wiring. That’s just a harsh fact I have to accept.
She takes me down from the shelf in her mind when she needs me. Otherwise, I don’t hear from her. I’ll call at some point today. I’ll listen to whatever she is worried about and try to calm her fears. I know the limits of the relationship. But there’s still a deep part of me that can’t give up hoping for more.