Black Oak's Daughter

Today my mom would have been 84.   A year ago I wrote a long post about how I finally made real peace with the past, mostly with her.  In learning so much about myself, I learned that I am my mother’s daughter, in spite of my every effort to resist that, and in a lot of ways that’s not so bad as I used to think it was. 

She and I had a tumultous relationship. Like every other teenager on the planet, I hated being trapped in the life that I was trapped in, and she was the authority keeping me there.  There were deep layers of complexity between us, but the bottom line was that I rebelled in a big way when I was in my late teens, and put her through the kind of hell that every mother prays never happens.

I distinctly remember my mom telling me one day, out of the frustration that I caused her, that “I hope you get one just like you.” She looked at me with that mom look that all mom’s perfect by the time the kids hit double digits. Damn she was good at that look.

I’ve perfected that same look now, just ask minime.

And, Mom got her wish.  My girl is just like me in so many ways.  There are some major differences too, but she gives me a lot to be proud of.  She’ll grow out of the other stuff in time, just like I did.

My mom was the best mother she knew how to be.  Our lives weren’t easy, and she always felt bad about that.  The last conversation that I had with her, the day before the surgery that took her life, was her trying to apologize for not being a better mom.  I told her then and I still believe it, that she raised us the best way she could with what she had. I couldn’t say I love you to her then. That still hurt too much, but at least she knew that I held no real blame toward her and her mothering abilities.  She knew I loved her too. I know that in my heart.  Whether it went unsaid realy didn’t matter anymore. We made our peace that afternoon. I am truly grateful for that.

As kids, we had a house, we had food and clothes, we weren’t given everything like a lot of kids around us were, but we had the essentials, even when she had to scrape them together any way she could. It always worked out.  We learned how to get by. We learned how to love. We learned patience, and how to wait for something that we wanted.  We learned the value of money, and that things that didn’t cost anything, like smiles and hugs, were usually much more valuable. We learned what was important.  We weren’t poor, in any way except monitarily. 

I’ve written about my brothers and how living with them was. It was a complicated situation.  I can’t say that my childhood was amazingly happy, but it had it’s moments.  I heard on the radio the other day about how 85% of everyone grew up in a dysfunctional home. So my upbringing was apparently somewhat the norm and not the exception. Everyone’s parents give them plenty of reason to be screwed up.   When it comes down to it, we make our own reality.  How I react to my upbringing is my choice.  What I take those experiences and make them into is up to me. I don’t blame either of my parents for my life now.  I do give them credit for doing a lot of things right. I could have started my adult life a lot less prepared. For that I’m greatful.

Today is a day when I remember, and honor my mom.  For better or worse, she did the best she could with what she had.  That’s all I could ask. The rest is up to me.

Happy Birthday Mom.

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