HOME | DD

Description
When I was younger, my mom was more fun. She would take me to the park, to my friend's house, to the pool; let me listen to almost whatever I wanted in the car, unless it was the low- and slow-voiced boring people talking; and she would answer practically any question that slipped out of my ever-wondering lips. Generally the explanations were either very short, which would prompt another question; or long enough that I learned to arrange my features into an expression that said I could be listening, as well as tune in every now and then to add in another comment or question. But that sophisticated dissembling did not come until much later.

It was always a gleeful surprise to be taken to the movies or anywhere else remotely fun -- one day, after a long day of being dragged around running errands with my dad and sister, mom set off for yet another destination, even as the sun went down. My sister and I whined and complained and begged her to tell us where we were going, but Mom just turned around and grinned a grin that was all teeth, predatory, like a wolf, and told us that we needed to wait until we got there. Now that I am older, I recognize that smile as one of gleefully keeping a secret, but at the time I was just aware of how annoying it was that Mom wouldn't tell us where we were headed.

We pulled into a dark parking lot overlooking a ridge dropping into a featureless forest. "We're here," Mom announced, and I twisted around and pushed up in my seat to get a look at whatever building was behind us.

When I saw it, I almost shrieked with excitement -- it was a movie theater, something I regarded as a very rare treat from my parents. I learned that we were going to see the movie Night at the Museum, and could not keep the wide smile off my face.

That was the old Mom -- the one who stroked my hair, who comforted me when I was crying, who was strict but loving, sprung wonderful surprises, and baked me a birthday cake every year, despite the fact that she didn't cook. She had qualities both annoying and wonderful, the worst of which was getting mad at me for sobbing -- she comforted me more often than she chastised me for it, but I was scared all the same. It seemed that all her time in the world was devoted to caring for her girls -- and for a time, that was the truth.

New Mom has a job. She still stays at home, so someone can drive the kids to soccer practice and Girl Scouts and band and a thousand other things, but just because she's here -- not even five feet away -- doesn't make her available. I have had to learn to be careful around her, to not bother her with things that used to be hers to fix. When I get hurt, I have to grit my teeth and ignore it; when my sister is being far worse than a "moody teenager," I can only give her a dirty look and flee; and it is more productive to pick up a book and read than to ask my mom to fix the Internet connection.

Her time is spent more often fighting with my sister than holding me.

So I help her -- I rub her shoulders, scratch her back, bring her food, offer her layout advice when she asks for it, and sometimes when she doesn't. I talk about seeing movies but no longer hope for surprise outings to the theater -- she is too busy. But while I may have lost some of my mother, I have gained more of a friend -- one who I can make sarcastic jokes with, who smiles at all my references to The Princess Bride, no matter how lame, and who engages in far deeper talks than I was looking for on the way home from soccer practice. But these talks are given as from an equal to an equal, and I am no longer required to just be attentive. I can argue, comment, be active -- and if I close my eyes or turn my head to stare out the window, then she is not bothered.

Right now she is singing to old 80's or 90's or whatever songs on the radio as she works, like she always is, on the computer, trying to get the pictures and texts laid out adequately before the deadline.

She is my mother, and she has many flaws, and I love her.

Description
When I was younger, my mom was more fun. She would take me to the park, to my friend's house, to the pool; let me listen to almost whatever I wanted in the car, unless it was the low- and slow-voiced boring people talking; and she would answer practically any question that slipped out of my ever-wondering lips. Generally the explanations were either very short, which would prompt another question; or long enough that I learned to arrange my features into an expression that said I could be listening, as well as tune in every now and then to add in another comment or question. But that sophisticated dissembling did not come until much later.

It was always a gleeful surprise to be taken to the movies or anywhere else remotely fun -- one day, after a long day of being dragged around running errands with my dad and sister, mom set off for yet another destination, even as the sun went down. My sister and I whined and complained and begged her to tell us where we were going, but Mom just turned around and grinned a grin that was all teeth, predatory, like a wolf, and told us that we needed to wait until we got there. Now that I am older, I recognize that smile as one of gleefully keeping a secret, but at the time I was just aware of how annoying it was that Mom wouldn't tell us where we were headed.

We pulled into a dark parking lot overlooking a ridge dropping into a featureless forest. "We're here," Mom announced, and I twisted around and pushed up in my seat to get a look at whatever building was behind us.

When I saw it, I almost shrieked with excitement -- it was a movie theater, something I regarded as a very rare treat from my parents. I learned that we were going to see the movie Night at the Museum, and could not keep the wide smile off my face.

That was the old Mom -- the one who stroked my hair, who comforted me when I was crying, who was strict but loving, sprung wonderful surprises, and baked me a birthday cake every year, despite the fact that she didn't cook. She had qualities both annoying and wonderful, the worst of which was getting mad at me for sobbing -- she comforted me more often than she chastised me for it, but I was scared all the same. It seemed that all her time in the world was devoted to caring for her girls -- and for a time, that was the truth.

New Mom has a job. She still stays at home, so someone can drive the kids to soccer practice and Girl Scouts and band and a thousand other things, but just because she's here -- not even five feet away -- doesn't make her available. I have had to learn to be careful around her, to not bother her with things that used to be hers to fix. When I get hurt, I have to grit my teeth and ignore it; when my sister is being far worse than a "moody teenager," I can only give her a dirty look and flee; and it is more productive to pick up a book and read than to ask my mom to fix the Internet connection.

Her time is spent more often fighting with my sister than holding me.

So I help her -- I rub her shoulders, scratch her back, bring her food, offer her layout advice when she asks for it, and sometimes when she doesn't. I talk about seeing movies but no longer hope for surprise outings to the theater -- she is too busy. But while I may have lost some of my mother, I have gained more of a friend -- one who I can make sarcastic jokes with, who smiles at all my references to The Princess Bride, no matter how lame, and who engages in far deeper talks than I was looking for on the way home from soccer practice. But these talks are given as from an equal to an equal, and I am no longer required to just be attentive. I can argue, comment, be active -- and if I close my eyes or turn my head to stare out the window, then she is not bothered.

Right now she is singing to old 80's or 90's or whatever songs on the radio as she works, like she always is, on the computer, trying to get the pictures and texts laid out adequately before the deadline.

She is my mother, and she has many flaws, and I love her.