Thinking About Our Mothers

Our moms have a long lasting effect on our lives. Mine is dead and gone, but that does not mean she’s forgotten. What I think about her and how I think about her still matters because thinking, even about a parent who is dead, affects our words and actions.

My expectations for Mom formed early on in my childhood. I noticed how different she was from Dad and how I’d wish her to be more like Dad. 

Dad was the kind hearted, compassionate, tender, gentle and soft spoken parent. He hugged me, listened to me, and seemed to understand me much more than my mother ever did.

Not only did I compare her with my dad, but I also compared her to my grandma, her mother. 

Mom’s homemaking skills were nothing like Grandma’s. Grandma baked sumptuous pies, marvelous dinners and her house was spotless. Unlike Mom, Grandma was an organized,  self-disciplined and likeable woman.

Oh how I silently wished for Mom to be different.

Before the age of eight, I’d already sized her up. She had two strikes against her and I decided that I didn’t like her half as much as I liked my dad or my grandma. 

Unfortunately, the older I got, the darker my perception of her grew. 

After Dad ended his life by suicide, life with Mom only worsened. There was one more strike against her; she’d lied to me about my father’s death.

Years ago, when I forgave Mom for lying to me about Dad’s death, I secretly hoped that forgiving her would alter our relationship. It did not. She still seemed as emotionally distant from me as she ever had and I decided it was up to me to simply accept her as the woman she was. 

I had the opportunity once, while she was still alive, to thank her for not abandoning us like Dad had. Her response was nothing like I’d hoped. She didn’t even say, “thank you,” stop what she was doing or glance my way. But, if I were to accept her it meant letting go of my expectations of her. 

Since that time, I continue to accept her, even though she is dead and gone. Acceptance, I’ve discovered, uncovers more of her strengths to me resulting in an alteration of my thoughts of her.   

She was a jazzy woman who loved to dance and a socialite who loved to laugh. I did not inherit her gene for rhythm or dance, but I did learn that as we accept others for who they are, we stop wishing for them to be someone else. 

Why Bother?

Why bother knowing what we think about our mother? Thankfully, I no longer harbor the same thoughts as I once did about my mother. Instead, I’ve come to appreciate her which in the long run, helps me to appreciate others, just as they are. 

P.S.  I wrote the story of my journey to forgiveness for those who need clarity when it comes to understanding forgiveness. You can find A Heart’s Journey To Forgiveness at Redemption Press and Amazon.