I can still picture my mom in the fall of 1983, standing under our apple tree, sunlight filtering through the leaves as she clutched a rake. “Take this,” she instructed, “and gather those leaves into a pile.” Reluctantly, I scratched at the ground, kicking aside shriveled apples behind the shed. “I’m ready for a garbage bag now,” I finally announced. “Aren’t you going to jump in it first?” she teased.
I recall our Sunday mornings, piled into the back of my mom’s old car, affectionately named “The Beast.” Its ceiling hung in faded strips, and the seats were draped with a threadbare rug. If my sisters and I managed to stay quiet during church, we were rewarded with a late breakfast at Roy Rogers. I can still taste the crispy French toast sticks while my mom sipped silently from her paper coffee cup.
These vivid memories play in my mind, though they often feel distorted over time. Was it really every Sunday we went out for breakfast, or just a rare occasion that I’ve replayed too many times? After three decades, the clarity of these scenes has diminished, yet I can’t help but revisit them.
My mother passed away when I was just 8 years old, while my sisters were 6 and 2. I thought I had come to terms with her loss, but motherhood brought forth a flood of grief from a hidden place within me. Late at night, as I struggled to soothe my newborn son who was desperate to latch onto my aching breast, a wave of longing for my mother washed over me. “I don’t know how to do this. Someone should be here to guide me,” I thought.
While other mothers grumbled about their moms’ outdated advice on sleep training or introducing solids, I found myself sifting through my own elusive memories, searching for the wisdom to navigate nursing, teething, and the overwhelming sense of losing my identity.
I vividly remember a morning when I yelled at my mother, “I don’t love you! I hate you!” In response, she looked down at me, her face flushed with frustration, and retorted, “Well, you’re not making it easy to love you right now either.” With only 8 years of parenting experience, what lessons could she have shared? She hadn’t even had time to prepare for our family’s upheaval, succumbing to cancer just three months after her diagnosis. Yet without realizing it, she had woven a supportive safety net for my sisters and me, surrounded by our loving dad and a network of caring friends and neighbors.
As time went on, I never lacked love and support, but I still turned to my memories for comfort and reassurance. By the time I was pregnant at 36, I thought I had extracted all the wisdom from those cherished recollections.
When my son was a month old, he began waking at 2 a.m., crying until 6. I was leaking milk onto my soiled pajamas, with throbbing temples and an inability to soothe either him or myself. My husband appeared either helpless or utterly exhausted. “I am a failure,” I confessed, which really meant, “I loathe this. Did we make a mistake?” I hadn’t yet discovered my son’s laughter or his joy in dancing and singing. I didn’t know how everything could shift.
I recall telling my mother I was running away, possibly due to her restrictions on TV time or perhaps because she served meatloaf for dinner—details of that moment are murky. However, I do remember storming up to my bedroom, filling a bag with toys. Suddenly, my mother was at my side, tossing shoes and clothes into my satchel. “What are you doing?” I asked. She looked me in the eye and said, “I’m helping you pack.”
My mother was not a myth. When I think of her, I don’t visualize a perfect mom in a pristine apron or a serene goddess navigating chaos with grace. Instead, I remember a beautifully flawed woman who was kind and playful yet also experienced frustration and fatigue.
Though my son is only 2 years old, I can’t pinpoint when I fully grasped the lesson my mom imparted: motherhood will never align with my expectations. Some days will challenge me to my limits, making me want to pack my son’s bags and send him away. Other days will require bribes of fast food, while some will overflow with joy, and I’ll remind myself that this journey isn’t a mistake. She taught me that all of these feelings are part of the norm.
I can still see her subtle smile as I abandoned my rake and leaped into the pile of leaves beneath that apple tree. She showed me that I don’t have to cherish every moment, but I will love more of them than I can imagine, and they will pass quicker than I think.
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Summary:
This piece reflects on the lessons learned from the author’s memories of her mother, emphasizing the unpredictability of motherhood. It highlights the beauty found in imperfect parenting moments and the profound love that can emerge despite challenges. Through the lens of nostalgia and personal growth, the author navigates her own journey into motherhood, illustrating the lasting impact of a mother’s love.