Seasons of Tough Love

Usually I welcome the end of April. Theoretically, it means showers give way to flowers, but I've long ago relinquished hopes of that being the case. At least the onset of May signifies a closing of the gap between the inaptly named spring in Chicago and the longer, warmer, lazier days of summer. Theoretically.

This year, though, I can't help but remember the string of unfortunate events that defined the month of May just a year ago, a month I still refer to as "Mayhem." My beloved lab died, his happy and carefree sidekick went blind, and then there was that car accident on the way to my daughter's college graduation that broke more than a few of my mother's bones. And set off a chain reaction of spinal compressions that now has her injecting herself every morning  (as she says shooting up -- my mother, the junkie) with some revolutionary concoction that will stop the mortar that holds her spine together from deteriorating further, curtail the shrinking, maybe even alleviate some of the pain. Maybe.

She's a feisty old broad, my mother, and a few broken bones and a collapsing spine have not deterred her. Slowed her down? Yes. Made things a lot more difficult? Definitely. But she, unlike her skeleton, is far from broken. It will take a lot more than osteoporosis and a little T-boning in a taxi to stop her from living life as fully as she can, while she has the chance. Don't get me wrong; she's a well documented (in this space, even) pain in the ass, but there's a lot of good in there, a lot I can only hope to emulate as the years wear me down.

May is already a bit of a tainted month for me. My father died in May, and my wedding anniversary is in May. There's no ambivalence about the former, but as to the latter, well that's a mixed bag. There are good memories, there are not so good memories, some relief that I've gotten out, and a lot of honey coated nostalgia and wishful thinking, about what we both could have done differently long ago to prevent the catastrophe. In the plus column for May, though, is Mother's Day, the day set aside by Hallmark to celebrate those of us who, no matter what we have accomplished or failed to accomplish in our lives, value our role as mom above everything else. Even though our kids sometimes don't quite see the point.

As any good shrink (or I) will tell you, my mother has caused me a fair share of pain and insecurity over the years, and I've tried my best to do things differently.  As any good shrink (or my own kids) will tell you, I have caused my children a fair share of pain and insecurity over the years, and they, in turn, will try their best to do things differently. Good luck with that. It will take a long time for them to realize what I have realized, which is that the more opportunities life gives you to screw up, the more likely you  are to screw up. Which kind of puts the ever present mom in a precarious situation.

As we waited in the stands for the medal ceremony at my daughter's final badminton tournament the other day, I watched with amusement as the girls from the nine teams gathered on the gymnasium floor. The tough, focused competitors had once again become giggling high school girls. Some sat braiding each others hair, some jumped up in odd shows of team unity and broke into spontaneous, for lack of a better word, dances, others just gossiped and snacked as they lay sprawled on the polished wood floor. They had all traded their court shoes for flip flops or Uggs, and looked less like athletes than teenagers at a slumber party. And why shouldn't they?

Off to my left, a country clubbish looking mom yelled down to her daughter, who was eating an enticing looking bakery cookie loaded with thick frosting in the image of a smiley face. "Is that your second cookie?" The mom literally looked as if she was going to cry. The girl seemed momentarily stunned, not to mention embarrassed. Busted, caught with the shadow of yellow icing on her lips, there was no point in denying it. But the girl persevered, stared right at her mom, and took another bite. A small victory for girls everywhere, for girls like me who, years later, still reel from the memory of the criticism and the disdain, from the scornful look on the face of a mom who thinks her daughter's happiness (like much of her own) rests with thinness.



Yesterday, crammed into a fitting room with my two daughters as we all tried on dresses for our cousin's upcoming wedding, I made the mistake of telling my youngest that a certain neckline was better for her sister than for her. Her sister actually agreed, but all my fifteen year old heard was what I said, which was apparently something like "you are ugly, fat, and inferior in every way." Minutes later, I told my older daughter a certain color wasn't so great on her. She agreed. Shortly after that, they both told me a dress I loved was not good on me because I didn't have enough boobs to hold it up. I was disappointed (the bottom half was just so cool) but I moved on. Still, my youngest only heard me pounding her into the ground. She brought it up no less than seventeen times at dinner.

Just like the mom and daughter at badminton, my youngest and I will have to carefully navigate the next few years without permanently straining our relationship over complete bullshit. I am under no illusions about my older daughter, by the way; we are certainly nowhere near being out of the woods. The delicate mother daughter dance continues, and I often seem to come up short, with two left feet.

It's complicated, the mother daughter thing. These days, my mom occasionally even looks to me for guidance. Maybe she always looked up to me in some ways, and I just failed to see it. I know I often look to my daughters for guidance, but my guess is they are probably so busy hearing criticism they don't notice. Nevertheless, I am fairly confident that they will celebrate Mother's Day with me and make me feel like a queen, at least for a few hours. Because deep down, the little princesses know that one day they too will be queen, and that can be a royal pain in the ass.