As a mother, I often find myself yearning for the comfort and support of my own mom. Life can feel overwhelmingly lonely, draining, and at times, incredibly frustrating. There are moments when all I crave is the love and reassurance of my mother—the person who has always encouraged me, telling me I’m doing well and that everything will turn out fine.
I recognize that I am only half the mother I could be because she exemplified such nurturing love and understanding. Her primary role was to provide her children with acceptance and empathy, even during our toughest moments. She gracefully handled the tumult of teenage years and sibling rivalries, always treating us with respect. She comforted me during nightmares and even allowed me to skip school occasionally to spend time with her. Her approach fostered an environment where honesty thrived, as she never shamed or judged me. My kids could have been so fortunate to have her as their grandmother, but there’s a significant obstacle: her drinking.
Her relationship with alcohol began when I was around nine years old. I still remember the first glimpse into her darker side. One evening, after a day of playing with friends, my brother and I asked her if we could have a sleepover. Instead of the gentle “no” we were accustomed to, she flipped the recliner we were sitting in, leaving us shocked. It was a behavior that felt utterly alien to the caring mom we knew. That same year, a similar outburst cast a shadow over our Easter celebrations, and I struggled to make sense of her actions.
As I grew older, I started to realize that her behavior changed when she drank, which she often did in secret. The only indicators were the coldness in her eyes and her unpleasant demeanor. In the years that followed, I sought her company only in the mornings when she would occasionally apologize for her previous day’s behavior. Eventually, those apologies ceased, and we all began to acknowledge that my mom had a drinking problem—one that we often joked about, masking its severity with denial. Conversations about it were never broached, leaving it to fester beneath the surface.
Recently, my mom visited for the first time in over a year and met my son, who had already had a birthday. While I was excited for her arrival, I felt uneasy knowing that her behavior could shift drastically when she drank. When sober, she is a delight; however, alcohol transforms her into someone confrontational, defensive, and just plain odd. The visit brought a mix of joy and anxiety.
During her stay, I cherished the moments spent with her sober self, seeking her advice on everything from whether my baby needed medicine to what curtains I should buy. One day, she encouraged me to take a nap, but I accidentally broke a picture frame while trying to climb up to rest. It felt refreshing to be able to express my frustration to her, and without hesitation, she assured me, “It’s all right. We’ll get a new one.” I’m usually the one comforting my kids, so being on the receiving end of that support felt wonderful.
She even suggested moving to Florida to help take care of my children while I returned to work. This seemed like a dream, yet I wished she could see that her drinking was a barrier. One morning, after leaving my kids with her to run errands, I returned to find her outside, holding my baby in one arm while smoking a cigarette with the other, the smoke wafting toward his face. I was upset, but at least he wasn’t regularly subjected to such behavior. I couldn’t allow that to be a normality. In the kitchen, I discovered an open bottle of wine, indicating that she had polished off the jug she started the day before. Doesn’t she realize she can’t be a caregiver in her current state?
My disappointment creates a rift between us. Like many adult children of alcoholics, I find myself avoiding family gatherings, not because of a lack of care, but out of a deep-seated frustration. I hate feeling isolated and long for my mother’s presence, but it’s only the sober version I want.
I want my mother to understand how much richer my life could be with her support as I navigate parenting. I love her dearly and fear she might think I am distancing myself out of cold-heartedness. The truth is, the distance is a result of her alcoholism. I doubt she’ll come to this realization, leaving me to feel perpetually misunderstood.
While it’s easy to place blame solely on her, I also reflect on my part in this dynamic. Perhaps I should repay the understanding and acceptance she has always offered. I strive to embrace her alcoholism as a lesson in unconditional love, but it’s a challenge that often overwhelms me. I know it’s immature, but I can’t help but feel that if she truly wanted to be part of our lives, she would choose to give up her vices.
I miss the sense of safety I felt as a child when my mother was present. Now, as a parent myself, that longing is stronger than ever—not just for my sake but for my children. They deserve to experience her love and generosity, her famous phrase, “Sure, put it in the cart.” They miss out on her comforting reminders that “they’re just children” during stressful times. They lack the support on days when I snap and slam cabinets. I need my mother, and my children deserve their grandmother, yet there’s a significant barrier blocking our connection.
In summary, the emotional distance between my mother and me has been exacerbated by her alcoholism, leaving me feeling isolated and frustrated. I long for the loving, sober version of her to be part of my life and my children’s lives, but her struggles with alcohol create insurmountable challenges. While I grapple with my feelings of disappointment and longing, I also recognize the need to approach this situation with understanding and compassion.