This is gorgeous and wise. My mother is still very much alive and has mentioned more than once lately that "if she dies, she wants me to be okay," I replied "Mom, there's no if. You will die, just like all of us." She clarified, "If I die BEFORE you." Hmmm. Lovely. At first I was offended, and yes, offended the second time as well. But the third time, I delved a bit deeper and have chosen to view the statement in a different way. She's worried about me, my health. AND, I've had mother hunger since I was a child. I was always looking for a replacement. In many ways, flawed as he was, too, my father was a much better mother to me. And you are correct. When my father died, my life transformed and I started building a life of my own, I began to bloom. I needed to be free of that relationship to become an independent adult. If I skip back one generation, I will tell you, you are right, again. My maternal grandmother was my heart, she died in 1997. I still think of her every single day, and talk to her in my head. I wish I could share my writing with her, wish I could call her and chat. Wish I still received her daintily lettered notes in the mail, telling me how proud she is of me and how she misses me (I have a stack of them, safely tucked away). So much wisdom here, thank you. Love you. xo
Nan, your grandmother was that empathetic mother every child craves. The person who fills that role may not be the mother. What matters is that someone fills it. As for your mother, she means well in her fashion.
I don't know that that's true for me. No one really filled it. My grandmother was not in my daily life. She was a life raft, the person who loved me unconditionally and for that, I'm grateful and I miss her all the time. This particular day is always hard for me. The greeting card industry, in their lust for sales forgot to take into account the numbers of us who don't feel called to celebrate our mothers, just because we technically possess one. Okay. Enough from me. I have to go get ready to take my mother out for brunch.
Oh. The duty call. A tough day. There's no making some people happy, and your mother seems to be one of those people. But you can always make a dog happy. That's one reason why we need them.
My mother might’ve been one of those whom the greeting card industry couldn’t quite identify; the level of treacle never fit her style of mothering. At the risk of sounding preachy, trust me when I say it’s different when they’re gone. Instead of the day to day irritants, a more macro view of their lives comes into focus: who they were as human beings; friends, sisters, lovers, daughters, not just mothers. My mother’s death shifted something in me. I could appreciate the complexity of her life, perhaps even identify with some of her struggles instead of feeling I was shortchanged. Death does clear the slate! It’s been 12 years and I only feel warmth for her now.
I'm happy for you that this is your truth. My father died 14 years ago, and it is different. I see him and the role he played in my life much more clearly. The veil was lifted and I could understand that the man I'd idolized my whole life was not the full picture of who he was. And I needed him to die so I could grow up. Who knows how it will be when my mother dies...(unless I DO die before she does). I'm working very hard to come to a place of forgiveness with her, so that I'm okay in our relationship. I see her for who she is. I see her sadness, her trauma, all of it. And I'm working through the pain of not getting who I needed, and learning to be that mother for myself.
Oh dear, Rona. I love your writing both for its quality and the thoughts expressed (as you know), but I don't identify with this one at all. I suspect I am an outlier – I will add my perspective in case there is anyone with a similar background who would like to feel they are not alone.
My mother was very wrapped up in obtaining success in her professional career and not in attending to the needs of her three kids (with the possible exception of my younger sister). But life without any real mothering from her was normal to me. I got a fair amount of 'mothering' from my father but there was little real intimacy in the relationship. So, I just got on with life, searching for (and finding) real intimacy with friends and, very early on (we met when I was 19), with my husband. I certainly don't think of her every day – on the contrary, maybe once a year if that.
Perhaps strangely to others, I don't feel I lack anything, because it is hard to miss what you never knew.
I’m glad you spoke up, Ann. There is no template here. Your mother knew what she wanted and went after it. In her odd way, she was setting an example. You too have made the life you wanted, finding love and support along the way. I should perhaps clarify that while I think often of my mother and wish I could speak with her, my life is in most respects better without her.
Yes, my mother did set an example and one thing she definitely gave me was a belief (in my inner core, not an add-on) that women were equal to men and could make their way in careers as equals. This was somewhat tempered by her doubt that I had what it took, as both my siblings were outstandingly clever and by comparison I seemed normal - she even told me that it was perfectly OK “to become a homemaker”. I didn’t realise that I was actually quite clever until I was in my 30s, but that never stopped me from pursuing a career.
My life is definitely better without my mother, but that happened to a considerable extent when I moved to England and even more when she got dementia. I said at the time that she was ‘de-clawed’. After that, I just felt sorry for her.
Incidentally, having read your posts and your book, I feel I have quite a strong picture of your mother, complete with her red pen (a very striking and strong image to any writer.
Mine was a complicated mother. She loved me fiercely but I don’t miss her on Mother’s Day. She made my life as hard as she made it easier. I’m still working her out as I will for the rest of my life. Thanks for your honesty, Ann.
Some people do that. I spent a lot of time working my mother out, too, but it helped being far away.
Interestingly, for her memorial service, I worked long and hard on a talk about her that wasn't airing dirty laundry but was also honest (I really don't know how to be anything else.) I was quite pleased with what I came up with, but one of the attendees stood up and spoke at length about HER mother (also a professional career woman) and how she had felt neglected as a child. Over lunch afterwards, someone said they had never been at such an honest memorial service!
I understand the need to be honest very well. Gratefully, so did my mother (even as she was not able to carry it through). I acknowledged a difficult side to my father in front of a room of adoring art fans even as I honored him. (The venue was the American Academy of Arts and Letters.) I could not do it any other way. I guess my entire substack is built around this need, come to think about it. I will say that my mother meant well and knew the shitastic feminist bind she was in (as I also understand motherhood within patriarchy).
You don't say so directly and perhaps you don't want to, but was your father very famous? I have often wondered about the kids of famous people who must have suffered much of what I did, but to a much greater extent. My parents were not famous, although they would have liked to be (see my recent article on fame), but they were successful and acknowledged in their respective fields.
No, not very famous, but he was god to some people. And he was in the academy and it took chutzpah to do what I did and it was satisfying. Also he was a great painter and I loved him. (All the things.)
Dear Rona, how is it that no matter what you write, you enter my bones? When you write about your mother, I feel I know her. And how it feels for you now that she is gone.
This is my second Mother’s Day without my Mom, and I cannot imagine a time where I do not think of her every day. While we had lots of challenges, there was also a lot of love - and I know that no one else in the world will ever call me Darling Girl. Or touch my face in that special way she had, with the softest hands in the world. Thank you, Rona, as always. I love to read your work.
Thank you for this lovely essay. A great way to softly ease into Mothers Day. I never really had one. My biological mother deserted me at three years of age and my stepmother and I had an almost Cinderella time together. Luckily I became a mother! Spending today with my son and his family (nearby) and talking to my daughter, now a mother herself, living in Spain.
What a sad start in life, Merilyn. By being a loving mother and giving what you were not given, you healed the wound. I have seen this pattern before. A friend, physically abused by her mother, flowered as a mother and grandmother.
I thought of my mother a few days ago, knowing Mother's Day was approaching.
When she was alive, I would bypass the Mother's Day selection in card stores, the flowery sentiments of "I owe you everything, You're always there for me, You're a role model for me," because none of that was true. Instead, I'd look for a card in the "Simply Said" section with a beautiful flower bouquet image and the genuine "Wishing you a happy day doing the things you love." I could sign that card without feeling hypocritical.
When she died, I felt a dull ache, realizing that the faint flickering flame of hope—that my mother would mother me—which had existed somewhere in the farthest corners of my mind, was finally extinguished. And that was the saddest thing of all.
Margaret, there's a particular grief that comes for those with a parent who failed them. You think you understand, as a grown-up, realistic human, that this parent will never give what you longed for all your life. When the parent dies, the child in you begins to scream and beat small fists. Because, in spite of yourself, you hoped it would be different someday. And you have to accept that what little you got from the disappointing, neglectful or abusive parent is all you'll ever get. For me, it was my father's death that revealed "the faint flickering flame of hope."
How beautiful and thoughtful. My older sisters and I became orphans when our mom died at 97 years. Our dad died 19 years before. There is nothing like a mother’s love - she knew you as no other could.
Indeed. My mother didn’t live to see me fall rapturously in love with my first dog and write a memoir about the transformation that followed. About 30 years before my husband talked me into adopting the dog, my mother offered me a spaniel puppy for my birthday. She had seen me happily petting her friend’s spaniel and sensed that a dog would do me good. She did some research and established that a puppy would soon be available from her friend’s breeder. My mother was frugal and not one to spend much on presents. But for a puppy, she would make an exception.
I declined her offer of a puppy. We had a cat, and I doubted we had time for a dog. But a dog would have helped me. She knew.
This just happened to me last month. My dad, who died in April at 91, was not much of a father but he was one; my husbanddubbed him Dad Dude. My mom died in 2019, and she was truly my best, and longest, friendship. Being parentless is an odd situation to me.
Your line, "On each birthday I count the years I had and she did not", hit me deeply. My mother was only 64 when she died. I'm 59 now and I fear the next decade because that could mean death for me too. Whether that's a foolish thought or not, it's there. I believe my mother was 'ripped off' for not being able to live a longer life. She would have loved it.
Tracy, many people feel as you do about a parent’s age of death. So I have read, and I believe it. My mother was the picture of health until she wasn’t, and I thought she’d make 100. Her death was shocking, not just shattering. Yes, your mother was robbed.
Thanks Rona, I loved reading this. And especially, "Even if you don’t miss the mother you had, you’ll miss the one she could not be." I have heard that "The one she could not be" is actually the biggest influence.
Thank you, Deirdre. I could have gone on about the particular anguish of losng a disappointing, perhaps infuriating parent. You realize that against all the evidence, you still hoped the gift withheld was going to come your way, eventually. Now it never will. What that parent gave was all you’ll ever receive, and you were a desperate fool for hoping otherwise. This is a story for another time.
My mother died when I was in my thirties. She was just fifty-six. I'm now almost 74, and I still. have her phone number on my fingertips as well. She was a woman of big dreams (she wanted to become a teacher and move to South America) who instead became an alcoholic whose personality (and wants and desires) got pushed to the bottom by my father (who had deep wounds of his own). I used to blame her for my own wounds, but now see how brave she was. I talk to her often, and my biggest dream is that I will one day live with her in eternity.
Linda, I’ve found that understanding my mother gets easier with the objectivity that absence brings. It seems you’ve found that too. As long as our parents are alive, we tend to see them from a child’s perspective.
Yes, I agree. It wasn't until I was around sixty that I found my feelings about her changing drastically. And with that came a lot of healing for me too.
I didn't want to respond to this until we'd put some distance from Mother's Day. (There must be an emoji for this, but I'm too lazy to look for it.) My mother was, as you read, enormously complex. Sometimes, even often, her weighing in out loud wasn't as welcome as her weighing in on the page. At times, even her not weighing in was weighing in. Both experiences were true in their way.
But to you point: if she weighed in with a letter, it would have been a keepsake.
I'm not the least bit surprised you mother wrote marvelous letters, Rona. What a gift it is to have a parent that can express themselves formally.
I have based a few posts on my mother’s letters and there are more to come. She was a widely published author; the letters contain her most acerbic and honest writing. They range from hilarious to poignant.
I'm going to read this again. Because it did evoke some sweet memories that are welcome. My mother, as you'll read in my upcoming substack, was always there. We had good times. I don't miss her. I remember her phone number, which was mine growing up.
We just passed 12 years since her passing. This spoke to me: “You’ll come to accept the yearning that blindsides you when something wonderful happens—a baby’s birth, a diploma—and your mother cannot share it.” Our son graduates from college in two weeks. I do wish she could be at the celebration.
This is gorgeous and wise. My mother is still very much alive and has mentioned more than once lately that "if she dies, she wants me to be okay," I replied "Mom, there's no if. You will die, just like all of us." She clarified, "If I die BEFORE you." Hmmm. Lovely. At first I was offended, and yes, offended the second time as well. But the third time, I delved a bit deeper and have chosen to view the statement in a different way. She's worried about me, my health. AND, I've had mother hunger since I was a child. I was always looking for a replacement. In many ways, flawed as he was, too, my father was a much better mother to me. And you are correct. When my father died, my life transformed and I started building a life of my own, I began to bloom. I needed to be free of that relationship to become an independent adult. If I skip back one generation, I will tell you, you are right, again. My maternal grandmother was my heart, she died in 1997. I still think of her every single day, and talk to her in my head. I wish I could share my writing with her, wish I could call her and chat. Wish I still received her daintily lettered notes in the mail, telling me how proud she is of me and how she misses me (I have a stack of them, safely tucked away). So much wisdom here, thank you. Love you. xo
Nan, your grandmother was that empathetic mother every child craves. The person who fills that role may not be the mother. What matters is that someone fills it. As for your mother, she means well in her fashion.
I don't know that that's true for me. No one really filled it. My grandmother was not in my daily life. She was a life raft, the person who loved me unconditionally and for that, I'm grateful and I miss her all the time. This particular day is always hard for me. The greeting card industry, in their lust for sales forgot to take into account the numbers of us who don't feel called to celebrate our mothers, just because we technically possess one. Okay. Enough from me. I have to go get ready to take my mother out for brunch.
Oh. The duty call. A tough day. There's no making some people happy, and your mother seems to be one of those people. But you can always make a dog happy. That's one reason why we need them.
Yup. xo
My mother might’ve been one of those whom the greeting card industry couldn’t quite identify; the level of treacle never fit her style of mothering. At the risk of sounding preachy, trust me when I say it’s different when they’re gone. Instead of the day to day irritants, a more macro view of their lives comes into focus: who they were as human beings; friends, sisters, lovers, daughters, not just mothers. My mother’s death shifted something in me. I could appreciate the complexity of her life, perhaps even identify with some of her struggles instead of feeling I was shortchanged. Death does clear the slate! It’s been 12 years and I only feel warmth for her now.
I'm happy for you that this is your truth. My father died 14 years ago, and it is different. I see him and the role he played in my life much more clearly. The veil was lifted and I could understand that the man I'd idolized my whole life was not the full picture of who he was. And I needed him to die so I could grow up. Who knows how it will be when my mother dies...(unless I DO die before she does). I'm working very hard to come to a place of forgiveness with her, so that I'm okay in our relationship. I see her for who she is. I see her sadness, her trauma, all of it. And I'm working through the pain of not getting who I needed, and learning to be that mother for myself.
Oh dear, Rona. I love your writing both for its quality and the thoughts expressed (as you know), but I don't identify with this one at all. I suspect I am an outlier – I will add my perspective in case there is anyone with a similar background who would like to feel they are not alone.
My mother was very wrapped up in obtaining success in her professional career and not in attending to the needs of her three kids (with the possible exception of my younger sister). But life without any real mothering from her was normal to me. I got a fair amount of 'mothering' from my father but there was little real intimacy in the relationship. So, I just got on with life, searching for (and finding) real intimacy with friends and, very early on (we met when I was 19), with my husband. I certainly don't think of her every day – on the contrary, maybe once a year if that.
Perhaps strangely to others, I don't feel I lack anything, because it is hard to miss what you never knew.
I’m glad you spoke up, Ann. There is no template here. Your mother knew what she wanted and went after it. In her odd way, she was setting an example. You too have made the life you wanted, finding love and support along the way. I should perhaps clarify that while I think often of my mother and wish I could speak with her, my life is in most respects better without her.
Yes, my mother did set an example and one thing she definitely gave me was a belief (in my inner core, not an add-on) that women were equal to men and could make their way in careers as equals. This was somewhat tempered by her doubt that I had what it took, as both my siblings were outstandingly clever and by comparison I seemed normal - she even told me that it was perfectly OK “to become a homemaker”. I didn’t realise that I was actually quite clever until I was in my 30s, but that never stopped me from pursuing a career.
My life is definitely better without my mother, but that happened to a considerable extent when I moved to England and even more when she got dementia. I said at the time that she was ‘de-clawed’. After that, I just felt sorry for her.
Incidentally, having read your posts and your book, I feel I have quite a strong picture of your mother, complete with her red pen (a very striking and strong image to any writer.
Mine was a complicated mother. She loved me fiercely but I don’t miss her on Mother’s Day. She made my life as hard as she made it easier. I’m still working her out as I will for the rest of my life. Thanks for your honesty, Ann.
Some people do that. I spent a lot of time working my mother out, too, but it helped being far away.
Interestingly, for her memorial service, I worked long and hard on a talk about her that wasn't airing dirty laundry but was also honest (I really don't know how to be anything else.) I was quite pleased with what I came up with, but one of the attendees stood up and spoke at length about HER mother (also a professional career woman) and how she had felt neglected as a child. Over lunch afterwards, someone said they had never been at such an honest memorial service!
I’ve often thought that attending memorials, regardless of whether I knew the deceased, would be an enlightening pursuit.
I understand the need to be honest very well. Gratefully, so did my mother (even as she was not able to carry it through). I acknowledged a difficult side to my father in front of a room of adoring art fans even as I honored him. (The venue was the American Academy of Arts and Letters.) I could not do it any other way. I guess my entire substack is built around this need, come to think about it. I will say that my mother meant well and knew the shitastic feminist bind she was in (as I also understand motherhood within patriarchy).
You don't say so directly and perhaps you don't want to, but was your father very famous? I have often wondered about the kids of famous people who must have suffered much of what I did, but to a much greater extent. My parents were not famous, although they would have liked to be (see my recent article on fame), but they were successful and acknowledged in their respective fields.
No, not very famous, but he was god to some people. And he was in the academy and it took chutzpah to do what I did and it was satisfying. Also he was a great painter and I loved him. (All the things.)
Dear Rona, how is it that no matter what you write, you enter my bones? When you write about your mother, I feel I know her. And how it feels for you now that she is gone.
This is my second Mother’s Day without my Mom, and I cannot imagine a time where I do not think of her every day. While we had lots of challenges, there was also a lot of love - and I know that no one else in the world will ever call me Darling Girl. Or touch my face in that special way she had, with the softest hands in the world. Thank you, Rona, as always. I love to read your work.
Dear Suzanne, what a wonderfully appreciative reader you are. This comment is destined for my compliments file.
🤗🤗
I was my mom's Darling Girl, too. This comment brought tears to my eyes. Sending you a hug.
Thank you for this lovely essay. A great way to softly ease into Mothers Day. I never really had one. My biological mother deserted me at three years of age and my stepmother and I had an almost Cinderella time together. Luckily I became a mother! Spending today with my son and his family (nearby) and talking to my daughter, now a mother herself, living in Spain.
What a sad start in life, Merilyn. By being a loving mother and giving what you were not given, you healed the wound. I have seen this pattern before. A friend, physically abused by her mother, flowered as a mother and grandmother.
I thought of my mother a few days ago, knowing Mother's Day was approaching.
When she was alive, I would bypass the Mother's Day selection in card stores, the flowery sentiments of "I owe you everything, You're always there for me, You're a role model for me," because none of that was true. Instead, I'd look for a card in the "Simply Said" section with a beautiful flower bouquet image and the genuine "Wishing you a happy day doing the things you love." I could sign that card without feeling hypocritical.
When she died, I felt a dull ache, realizing that the faint flickering flame of hope—that my mother would mother me—which had existed somewhere in the farthest corners of my mind, was finally extinguished. And that was the saddest thing of all.
Margaret, there's a particular grief that comes for those with a parent who failed them. You think you understand, as a grown-up, realistic human, that this parent will never give what you longed for all your life. When the parent dies, the child in you begins to scream and beat small fists. Because, in spite of yourself, you hoped it would be different someday. And you have to accept that what little you got from the disappointing, neglectful or abusive parent is all you'll ever get. For me, it was my father's death that revealed "the faint flickering flame of hope."
How beautiful and thoughtful. My older sisters and I became orphans when our mom died at 97 years. Our dad died 19 years before. There is nothing like a mother’s love - she knew you as no other could.
Indeed. My mother didn’t live to see me fall rapturously in love with my first dog and write a memoir about the transformation that followed. About 30 years before my husband talked me into adopting the dog, my mother offered me a spaniel puppy for my birthday. She had seen me happily petting her friend’s spaniel and sensed that a dog would do me good. She did some research and established that a puppy would soon be available from her friend’s breeder. My mother was frugal and not one to spend much on presents. But for a puppy, she would make an exception.
I declined her offer of a puppy. We had a cat, and I doubted we had time for a dog. But a dog would have helped me. She knew.
This just happened to me last month. My dad, who died in April at 91, was not much of a father but he was one; my husbanddubbed him Dad Dude. My mom died in 2019, and she was truly my best, and longest, friendship. Being parentless is an odd situation to me.
Hugs
Your line, "On each birthday I count the years I had and she did not", hit me deeply. My mother was only 64 when she died. I'm 59 now and I fear the next decade because that could mean death for me too. Whether that's a foolish thought or not, it's there. I believe my mother was 'ripped off' for not being able to live a longer life. She would have loved it.
Tracy, many people feel as you do about a parent’s age of death. So I have read, and I believe it. My mother was the picture of health until she wasn’t, and I thought she’d make 100. Her death was shocking, not just shattering. Yes, your mother was robbed.
For decades, I've had an obsession with having mentor. I've mislabeled the feeling. Your friend is right. It's mother hunger.
Dawn, I had a wonderful mentor who died in her 50s. Now I have mentor hunger. Being a mentor helps to some degree.
Good lord! Now you've opened the possibility that I have both mother and mentor hunger. :)
Thanks Rona, I loved reading this. And especially, "Even if you don’t miss the mother you had, you’ll miss the one she could not be." I have heard that "The one she could not be" is actually the biggest influence.
Thank you, Deirdre. I could have gone on about the particular anguish of losng a disappointing, perhaps infuriating parent. You realize that against all the evidence, you still hoped the gift withheld was going to come your way, eventually. Now it never will. What that parent gave was all you’ll ever receive, and you were a desperate fool for hoping otherwise. This is a story for another time.
My mother died when I was in my thirties. She was just fifty-six. I'm now almost 74, and I still. have her phone number on my fingertips as well. She was a woman of big dreams (she wanted to become a teacher and move to South America) who instead became an alcoholic whose personality (and wants and desires) got pushed to the bottom by my father (who had deep wounds of his own). I used to blame her for my own wounds, but now see how brave she was. I talk to her often, and my biggest dream is that I will one day live with her in eternity.
Linda, I’ve found that understanding my mother gets easier with the objectivity that absence brings. It seems you’ve found that too. As long as our parents are alive, we tend to see them from a child’s perspective.
Yes, I agree. It wasn't until I was around sixty that I found my feelings about her changing drastically. And with that came a lot of healing for me too.
I share Adam Nathan’s sentiments exactly. Those were the very words of Rona’s that leapt into my heart!
Thank you, Rona, for reminding me to focus on my Mother’s memory, her essence. A comfort and peace like no other.
“no tragedy or triumph of mine seemed complete until she weighed in“
Perhaps your mother would have told the story in a letter? Mine also wrote marvelous letters.
I didn't want to respond to this until we'd put some distance from Mother's Day. (There must be an emoji for this, but I'm too lazy to look for it.) My mother was, as you read, enormously complex. Sometimes, even often, her weighing in out loud wasn't as welcome as her weighing in on the page. At times, even her not weighing in was weighing in. Both experiences were true in their way.
But to you point: if she weighed in with a letter, it would have been a keepsake.
I'm not the least bit surprised you mother wrote marvelous letters, Rona. What a gift it is to have a parent that can express themselves formally.
I have based a few posts on my mother’s letters and there are more to come. She was a widely published author; the letters contain her most acerbic and honest writing. They range from hilarious to poignant.
She told them “as they should have happened.”
I'm going to read this again. Because it did evoke some sweet memories that are welcome. My mother, as you'll read in my upcoming substack, was always there. We had good times. I don't miss her. I remember her phone number, which was mine growing up.
And they didn't know it was ok to feel that way.
I will watch for that piece, Nancy. Most mothers were always there when we were young, but not all of them wanted to be.
I love the love for you, Rona. And for what you say and how you say it.
Big hug, Beth. I am not a hugger. But it seems appropriate.
We just passed 12 years since her passing. This spoke to me: “You’ll come to accept the yearning that blindsides you when something wonderful happens—a baby’s birth, a diploma—and your mother cannot share it.” Our son graduates from college in two weeks. I do wish she could be at the celebration.
“There in spirit” just isn’t the same. Congratulations to your family on this milestone.
❤️
Oh that pressure on your palm!I’m so sorry. I feel her loss for you both.
It was a great gift. If she had died in her sleep, it couldn’t have happened.
Truly