Halfway From Mom

When I woke up this morning, I felt something had shifted.  I’d been aware of this upcoming milestone of sorts- the day that marked the halfway point. Today, on this exact day, I have been without my mom in my life for as long as I was with her. Twenty-nine with, twenty-nine without. At fifty-eight years old, I am already two years older than Miriam was when she died. Losing her was such a searing loss, it’s sometimes hard to remember what it even felt like to have a mother.

Significant life-passages in the second twenty-nine years make it hard to relate to the first half as me being the same person. It often feels as though that was another person altogether, going through my childhood, my teens and into adulthood. My mom was there for that part. But she missed the delicious parts, the parts that give my life so much meaning and not having her to share that with has been heartbreaking on so many occasions.

There is a great comfort though in feeling that the further away I get from her death, the more I remember her life. And today for some reason, I am focusing on my mother’s hands.

My mom Miriam was left-handed and her hands were lovely with long, thin fingers. When she wrote or typed for long periods of time, a numbness in her fingers caused her to stop writing, shake out her hands for a minute and then continue. Her handwriting always reminded me of the perfect examples in my “How to Write Cursive” book from elementary school - flowing, easy-to-read, beautiful.

When she died, I took her brown leather purse and over the years, each time I have found something she wrote, I put it in the purse. Now I have a whole collection and each year, my sister Sue and I take the purse out for a spin.

Re-reading years of letters written to us can be so hard, causing us to cry the inconsolable tears of the motherless daughters and then suddenly, minutes later, bringing us to our knees in great gales of laughter. Like the letter about her driving clear across San Francisco to buy a six-pack of her favorite soda (Fresca…only ONE calorie!) because it was on sale for .50 less than usual and then calculating that what she saved in the cost, she paid for in gas in her piece-of-shit ‘ 76Toyota Corona station wagon. That car gave her more pain than pleasure. Mechanics hated working on it and complained bitterly when she brought it in. And she brought it in a lot. Before she died in 1983, she referred to that car in one of her purse letters, accurately predicting that, “this damn car will probably outlive me.” 

There were letters full of advice (some taken, some ignored) and many pages fervently wishing for a life partner like Robert Browning wrote about in his poem “Rabbi Ben Ezra” – “Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be…” She was a romantic and instilled in her girls the notion of true, requited love as being something of an ideal for which to strive.

Reading the now-yellowed newspaper clippings, my sister and I are reminded that Dear Abby was something of a hero to her, recommending that girls simply “keep their legs together” as a way to avoid all kinds of unplanned teen maladies and that "if the boy really loved you, he would not ask you to go all the way". Having her daughters regard themselves with self-respect was extremely important to her.

In her most pensive moments, she talked about her desire to “leave a mark” or have some type of legacy that meant something to somebody.  Miriam’s legacy is my sister, me and all of her grandchildren and how we conduct our lives. None of us would be who we are without having had her for that first half, teaching, advising, writing to us. And each year on July 22^nd I am reminded how much a part of me she still is and will continue to be. I may not have her beautiful hands, but in quiet moments, I sometimes still have her voice in my head.

Hey, can you just W.A.I.T.?

W.A.I.T.

Why Am I Talking? It's one of the coolest acronyms I learned from listening to Anne Lamott. It reminds me that sometimes the best action to take is no action at all. As a mom, it's one of the most challenging lessons I need to learn.

Recently, my 30-year old came for a visit. In the past, he's asked me pointedly not to do his laundry when he comes to visit. A simple request, right? One would think. I walked by the washing machine, noting that it was closed and cycles done. I looked inside & saw his clothes, and automatically started to transfer them into the dryer. Suddenly, his request popped into my head & I methodically took the clothes I had just put into the dryer  and placed them back into the washing machine. I closed the lid and walked out of the room, shaking my head as I considered how stupid that seemed, but at the same time, proud of my actions. 

It's actually the inaction that was important, just as the unspoken has proven to be my saving grace when communicating with my kids. Holding my tongue and not jumping immediately to solutions or worse, plying them with probing questions I think has improved my relationships with them more than any advice I may have given.  

I read this quote recently and it took me by surprise. 

"God grant me the serenity to accept the people I cannot change, the courage to change the one I can, and the wisdom to know it's me."  (Anon...)

Well of COURSE it's anonymous- who would really want to admit writing that? But it's good to have the reminder that looking honestly in the mirror and making changes is necessary and humbling. 

To keep evolving is key to having mutually satisfying relationships with my adult kids. Knowing when to shut up is equally important as knowing when not to butt in. Even a facial expression which conveys an uninvited response can be read with little effort. I need to utilize "W.A.I.T" more often & practice just listening and nodding. 

I guess it's a bit like finally letting go of the bicycle seat or letting go of them in a swimming pool- all scary prospects but necessary for them to learn and necessary for me to take a step back. It's no different today really, they're just bigger and smarter and they know me better . Now I know when to pull back, even if pulling back sometimes means just keeping quiet when I still want to offer the advice. I have learned this - a supporting actor is a critical role to play and sometimes the supporting actor's job is to simply keep their mouth shut. Hey, like falling off a log.

The more things change, the more they change

Watching a blinking cursor is not good for anyone, especially me. I know many writers often hit blocks, but I have hit a writing wall and for the past four months, have had many excellent essays roaming around my brain, but alas, that is where they've stayed.

So I'm back & I appreciate everyone (anyone's?) indulgence and patience and I promise to keep these essays churning out at a regular pace now that I'm out of my writing coma. My revelations about being a mom come at a nonstop rate and I am constantly in awe of what an unusual and ever-present role this really is. I really made a very inaccurate assumptions that though my role was one of constant change and adjustment, I would be okay with the change. I'd roll with it in a relaxed and accepting fashion. As if.

There are delightful and sometimes painful surprises along the way and I will admit right here and right now and I in fact have NOT been "rolling with it" as well as I'd expected. The physical distance between me and my kids grows larger and with it, the emotional connections sometimes falter. No sense in handing out blame and I accept my role in this phenomenon. But I surely do not like it. I know, I know- it's what I bargained for and in so many ways had hoped for. Independent adults, living their lives anywhere and in any way they wanted. I knew intellectually that I was not to be a part of their everyday lives, decisions and experiences. But the actuality of this has been more difficult to accept. That is my problem, not theirs.

Many friends whose kids left for college never to return to the San Francisco Bay Area shoot me borderline menacing looks when I sigh and complain. The Sberlo kids were around the homestead for much longer than most - until well into their twenties. I argue then that my adjustment is that much harder. In a previous blog, I wrote about September 2009, when within two weeks, my oldest kid left, my youngest kid started college and my dog died. Talk about ripping the bandage off quickly.

Years ago I attended a lecture by Hope Edelman called "Motherless Daughters". It was attended by, as you might guess, a few hundred of us motherless daughters. Each woman had her story but it wasn't until a gray-haired woman in the back of the hall stood up and said, "I have just lost my mother and I am devastated." Having lost my mother when I was 29 years old, I am ashamed to admit that my first thought was, "You were lucky to have had your mother through your seventies!" And then she uttered a sentence that put me in my place, "I had my mother for so long, I don't even know how to live without her." 

Einstein really had something there with his Theory of Relativity. We get accustomed to something being a certain way and the longer that is the case, the more difficult it is when it changes. And it goes without saying that that applies to both positive and negative change. It's up to me to make those adjustments and understand that it's okay for the paradigm of my relationship with each of my kids to morph into something different. 

I find myself going through waves of mature, thoughtful adaptation and acceptance and then periods of sadness, loneliness and even a little heartbreak. My goal here is to not put that burden on them and to continue whatever stream of communication works for both of us at the time. Texting is a Godsend, emails can be fun and seeing their face on a screen is the best of all. I think I ought to call my dad right now...