As a mother, I often find myself yearning for the comfort and support that only my own mother could provide. Life can be incredibly isolating, tiring, and frustrating, and there are times when all I want is her love and reassurance—the kind she always offered, reminding me that I was doing well and that everything would eventually be alright.
I owe much of my ability to parent to the nurturing example she set. Her role was to provide her children with acceptance and understanding, even during our most challenging moments. She handled the complexities of adolescence and sibling conflicts with grace. I still recall her comforting me after nightmares and allowing me to skip school now and then just to spend time with her. She created an environment where I felt safe to be honest, never shaming or judging me for my feelings. My children could have truly thrived with a grandmother like her, but her drinking stands in the way of that dream.
My mother’s relationship with alcohol began when I was around nine years old. I vividly remember the first glimpse of her darker side. My brother and I were playing with friends, and when we asked if we could have a sleepover, she not only refused but also flipped the recliner we were sitting in onto its back. We were shocked by her sudden aggression. That same year, her behavior ruined Easter for us, leaving me confused and unable to comprehend the drastic change in her demeanor.
Over time, I realized that her drinking was the catalyst for her uncharacteristic behavior, which she often concealed. The only indicators were the harsh glint in her eyes and her unsettling attitude. In the ensuing years, I began to seek her out only in the mornings, when she would often apologize for her actions from the previous day. Eventually, these apologies ceased, and we all came to terms with the fact that my mother had a drinking problem—one that we often masked with humor and denial, never finding the right moment to address it openly.
Recently, my mother came to visit for the first time in over a year, and it was also the first time she met my son, who had already celebrated a birthday. While I was excited about her visit, I felt uneasy knowing that her behavior could change drastically once she started drinking. When sober, she is loving and supportive; however, when intoxicated, she becomes confrontational, defensive, and odd. During her stay, I appreciated the sober version of her. I was able to ask her opinions on everything from whether my baby needed medication to what curtains would look best in my bedroom. On one occasion, she insisted I take a nap, which resulted in me accidentally breaking a picture frame. It felt wonderful to express my disappointment and have her respond with kindness, “It’s OK. We’ll get a new one.” Generally, I’m the one who has to manage everything and soothe others.
She mentioned that she could move to Florida to help care for my children while I returned to work. It sounded like a dream, but doesn’t she realize that her drinking problem prevents that from happening? One morning, I left my children in her care while I went shopping. When I returned, I found her outside, holding my baby in one arm while smoking a cigarette with the other, blowing smoke in his direction. I was frustrated, but at least he wasn’t regularly exposed to such neglect. As I entered the kitchen, I discovered an open bottle of wine, which indicated that the jug she had started the day before had been emptied. How could I trust her to care for my children?
This ongoing disappointment has caused me to distance myself from her. Like many adult children of alcoholics, I avoid going home for holidays or any visits at all. I want her to understand that my absence isn’t due to a lack of love; rather, I hate feeling isolated and want her in my life. However, I only wish for the sober version of her—the one who can be present for her grandchildren.
I want her to realize how much richer my life would be with her support in raising my children and encouraging me to take care of myself. I love her deeply and fear that she may believe the distance between us is a result of my coldness. I want her to understand that it’s her drinking that creates this chasm. However, I doubt she’ll ever come to that realization, leaving me with the fear of being misunderstood.
While it’s easy to blame her, I often reflect on my own role in this dynamic. Perhaps I should mirror the understanding and acceptance she has always shown me. I strive to approach her alcoholism as a lesson in unconditional love, but I struggle to keep her vices from overshadowing her innate kindness and sensitivity. I know it’s childish, but I can’t help but take her drinking personally, thinking that if she truly wanted to be involved in our lives, she would choose sobriety.
I miss the comfort I felt as a child, believing everything was perfect as long as she was there. Now that I’m a mother, that longing has intensified. I want my mother not just for myself but for my children, who deserve to experience her love and indulgence. They miss out on her famous phrase, “Sure, put it in the cart,” and her gentle reminders that “they’re just children” during stressful moments. No one comforts them on days when I lose my patience. I desperately need my mom, and my children need their grandmother, but there’s a significant barrier preventing that connection.
In summary, the emotional gap between me and my mother stems from her struggle with alcoholism. While I long for the nurturing and support she once provided, her drinking creates a chasm that affects our relationship. I grapple with feelings of disappointment and avoidance, wanting to reconnect with her sober self for the sake of my family. This situation is a complex mix of love, longing, and the harsh reality of addiction.