As of this morning, I have officially been a mother for 4,128 days. That’s roughly 2,000 bath nights, 3,124 meals served, 2,948 loads of laundry and 9 substantial road trips. It’s overwhelming to think about how quickly it’s all piled up on top of each other, and yet I know it pales in comparison to the maternal rankings of some of the women reading this, including my own mom.
Some days it feels like I’ve come so far as a mother, and others, like I’m still at the beginning, finding my trail legs. But I can say with great certainty that 4,128 days has carried me far enough down the path, that I’ve reached the sober phase. Where once I was drunk on the adorable sound of a startled, sleepy breath, the intoxication of tiny fingers and toes, or the sweet high of a toothless giggle, I now hear, see, smell, taste and feel all of the bitter remnants of their displeasure and opinions. My children have driven me to the land of self-awareness, in a vehicle outfitted with many mirrors in which to see hindsight. And in this hindsight, I can see all of the ways I tormented my mother. I can hear and smell every sour piece of commentary I had for her in my younger years. My chicks are three of the most important gifts I ever received. They are also living proof that paybacks are hell.
Thus, the long-overdue apology. Let’s get into it.
I want to begin by saying that I am sorry for every time I groaned, rolled my eyes or grimaced (or any combination of the three) at the sight of the meal you prepared. I know now that feeding us was one of the five thousand things you were doing in a day, and catering to five different individual palates and preferences is a fool’s errand, but a job that must be fulfilled all the same. I have a newfound appreciation for both your staple offerings (God, I miss those salmon patties and hot chicken sandwiches) and moments of experimentation, when you dared to submit something new into the rotation. Likely for the betterment of our health. Likely to a reception of pouts and protests.
Related, I feel terrible for every occasion in which I laughed because you burned, under or overcooked said meal. Taking into consideration the sheer volume of dinners you had to produce, night after night after night, odds were, a few weren’t going to get all 5 stars. And what qualified me to be such a bitchy food critic, anyway? My palate was so sophisticated … I thought chicken tenders and ranch were the mark of a fine establishment. So what that you didn’t know you had to warm taco shells up in the oven before you served them so they always tasted cold and stale? You got that fiesta to the table, and that matters! Who cares if we cut the charred bottoms off the biscuits? You probably got distracted by a buzzing dryer or ringing house phone (remember those?). Nine times out of ten, you killed it, despite my constant criticism to the contrary.
Moving on, I’m sorry for every time I stepped over my crap, which you kindly placed on the steps to remind me to carry it to my room, where it belonged. While we’re swimming in this pool, I’m sorry for all of the things I couldn’t be bothered to put away. I honestly can’t tell you why it felt like more of a “you job” to put the cereal back on the shelf or the milk in the fridge after I used it. There’s no recollection of the internal dialogue I had to justify dropping all of my school stuff – book bag, shoes, papers, coat – at my feet by the door where I came in. I just can’t seem to recall.
You did all of the heavy lifting with that laundry, many of the items in which I, let’s be honest, just threw back in the hamper because I didn’t want to put them away. We both knew. And yet, you washed it, folded it, put it on hangers. You were a gosh dang saint. And I still couldn’t be troubled to take the ten minutes it took to close the loop. And if a mysterious spot showed up on my favorite 90210 t-shirt … well, lookout. I loved to let you have it over the unexplainable phenomenons that happen in the washer. Where shall I stick this blame? My mom’s front pocket sounds good. It’s super close to her heart. Ugh, I’m so sorry about all of that!
For all the times I lost things – and yes, as a 37-year-old woman I can say, I lost the things – and made you drop everything to look for them. Earrings and schoolwork and shoes … so many shoes … and insignificant little trinkets that meant so much at the time for entirely inexplicable reasons, I apologize. Mostly, I apologize for not even trying to find them myself first, and then for giving up so quickly once I knew you were on the case. You were like a bloodhound. I took advantage of your instincts to look under and behind furniture. I know now that you were sacrificing your time and pieces of your sanity.
Speaking of losing things, my temper, particularly with my siblings was … shall we say accessible? The way we went at each other was so petty, and physically and emotionally brutal. No one can push your buttons like a brother or sister. They know about those buttons on the backside – the ones you didn’t even know you had. And my gosh did we ever push them. And we loved to drag you into it. I don’t know why we ever thought you’d actually pick a side, but it didn’t stop us from trying time and time again. What a waste of energy all that bickering was. Exhausting. We could have had so much more fun. Sorry about that.
I want to acknowledge my unapologetic volume in enclosed spaces, namely our van. I know you wanted to hum your heart out to that Dolly Parton song. I know you had a thousand thoughts darting around in your head. But I had to be heard. I had to be louder than your daydreams and running to-do list. I wish now I would have let you have those songs. I understand the weight of taking in so much noise.
I’m going to dip in and quickly dip out of this one, but oh my gosh, the hundreds of times I came to talk to you while you were taking a bath, trying to go to the restroom, changing your clothes … I robbed you of years of privacy and discretion. Sorry.
I used to get so scared at night. I was convinced that the house was going to burn down or an axe murderer was going to sneak in the back door. It wasn’t my fault. Kids get scared. But why did I have to stand over you, my face inches from your face and jolt you from your rest like a character from The Shining? Why couldn’t I just gently reach down, touch your arm and whisper near your face? I mean, I guess there’s no good way to go about asking someone else to join you inside your personal nightmare, but I was really bad at it, always sending Dad from snore to jackknife in seconds flat. I’m so sorry about that.
We both know there’s so much more, but I’ve gone on for too long here. Once you start unpacking your past personal misdemeanors it’s like a loose thread on a tired hemline. I know you, of all people, never kept score. It just isn’t a mom’s style. But I also know you get a tickle out of the fact that I’m tasting the medicine that I spooned up to you and you spooned up to your mother and she likely spooned up to hers. It goes down like sand and pebbles some days. Finding the humor in it all helps. Knowing they have good little hearts and the sweetest souls underneath it all helps.
I know you, Mom. I know what you would say. That I don’t need to apologize and you wouldn’t change a thing and you actually miss it all. (Right, you miss having me at home? Right?) It’s the pledge we all swear to when we sign on to suit up and take the job. And there’s beauty in the bitter, too. I feel that.
From my new perspective, I think maybe you were fueled by the same elixir I have sloshing around in my emotional tank these days: The truth that one day, my girls, God-willing, should they wish to, will also be on the receiving end of all of these self-indulgent, neglectful, sloth-like tendencies. And they, too, through their own children’s actions will realize how blissfully unaware they were for all those years. How they took the most important woman in their life for granted. And maybe they will be inclined to write a similar note, one which I, too, will insist is completely unnecessary.
It’s the cycle of service. The wheel of womanhood that goes around and around in a brutal, beautiful rotation. While in the moment every popsicle wrapper, half-consumed, abandoned can of soda, wet towel on the floor and spilled bottle of nail polish feels like a special kind of torture, in the end it all blurs together to the stuff of your family. The messy pieces your heart has your mind soften with time. All the same, I wanted to own my history. I wanted you to know that I saw you, I see you, and I appreciate all of your grace, forgiveness and unconditional acceptance. You showed me the way.
After saying so much, I have just two words left for the woman who picked up my crap, negotiated my meal standoffs and eased every night terror. Thank you, Mom.
