Birches

Gustav Klimt—Farmhouse with Birch Trees

 I read a Thread by a guy (now in his 50s) who, when he was 15 years old, called his father a crap dad (which the dude says was most def not the case) His father, instead of engaging in his son’s adolescent temper tantrum, broke down in tears.

The poster, almost 40 years later, still feels heavy remorse and guilt. Commenters all told him to apologize. Gee, what a novel idea! 

Quite possibly he already had. FYI, apologies don’t make guilt and regret magically evaporate. I know, crazy, huh? Also, maybe his old man’s no longer alive to hear it.

I’ve written before about my mother. She truly was absolute crap as a mum—at least for me. I can’t speak for my siblings (two of whom I know she absolutely adored). Lucy probably wasn’t perfect for them either but she def made clear that they were loved to Jupiter and back. They received the bulk of her love and support.

Unlike the Threads poster, I never called Lucy a rotten, failed mother to her face but I’m sure she understood that I wasn’t her biggest fan. Subtlety has never been one of my talents.

Gustav Klimt—Birch Forest

As I got older and worked through a lot of the anger and resentment, I could see in the rear view mirror, that she was, if nothing else, well intentioned. Just not necessarily towards me. I was too different from what she had wanted/needed from a child.

I made an effort to see her good qualities and tried, in the half dozen times a year I visited, to meet her in her comfort zone. I would ask Lucy about herself, encourage her to tell me stories about her. I’d relate anecdotes from the last time I saw her brothers and cousins. When she was in Boston for surgeries, I’d sit with her, spoon-feeding lunch to her and telling tales of The Amazing Bob (who she loved—after all, we’d finally tied the knot versus living in sin AND he had a son!). Everything I said and asked her about was specific to her interests (husbands, boy children, her brother and so on). This made her happy.

I’d finally achieved a good relationship with my mother. All it took was leaving myself behind. Why did I do it? I wanted our last chapters to be as pleasant as possible. They were.

The price I paid for her smiles, her seeming happiness in my company was small. For a handful of weekends a year over the course of a decade, I clocked in. Put on a selfless, happy, caring daughter face. I pretended that our nasty past never happened.

The very last time I saw her she was quite frail and thin. We, (Jen, me, Mother and Pop) were sitting at the dining room table having lunch. She wasn’t eating so I began encouraging her (okay, maybe I was nagging)—you’re too thin, you need to eat, just take a little bite, if you have a spoonful, I’ll have one too, if you won’t have a morsel I’ll spoon-feed you like I do when you’re in hospital. She smiled, laughed and finally ate.

I don’t regret playing the good daughter role those last ten years of her life. She had come to understand, at least a little bit, how, in my case, she’d dropped the mothering ball.

Lucy was who she was. She did the best she could. Also, birches were her favorite tree. We planted one here in her memory.