I vividly recall a chilly autumn day in 1983, watching my mom beneath our apple tree, raking leaves as the sunlight danced through the branches. “Here, take this,” she said, handing me a rake. “Get all these leaves into a pile.” Reluctantly, I began scraping the ground, kicking old apples behind the shed. “I’m ready for a garbage bag now,” I finally huffed. “Aren’t you going to jump in it first?” she replied with a playful smile.
Sundays were filled with memories of cramming into the backseat of my mom’s car, which we dubbed “The Beast.” Its ceiling hung in tatters, and the seats were draped with an old rug. If my sisters and I managed to behave during church, we were rewarded with a late breakfast at Roy Rogers. I can still taste the crunchy French toast sticks as my mom quietly sipped her coffee from a paper cup.
These memories play on a loop in my mind, each viewing slightly distorted by time. Did we really have these Sunday breakfasts every week? Or was it a rare treat, now blurred in my memory? After 30 years, I find it hard to trust this nostalgic film, yet I can’t help but revisit it.
My mother passed away when I was just 8 years old; my sisters were 6 and 2. I thought I had come to terms with her loss until I became a mother myself, and suddenly, waves of grief surged from deep within me. In the stillness of the night, while my newborn son squirmed against my sore breast, I rocked him, desperately wishing for my mom’s guidance. “I don’t know how to do this. Someone should be here to teach me,” I thought.
While other women lamented their mothers’ outdated parenting advice, I scoured my own hazy memories, searching for nuggets of wisdom to help me navigate sleepless nights and teething troubles.
I recall one morning, yelling at my mom, “I don’t love you! I hate you!” She looked down at me, face flushed, and said, “Well, you’re making it pretty hard to love you right now too.” If I only had 8 years to parent, what lessons would I pass on? My mom didn’t have much time to prepare us. She lost her battle with cancer just three months after her diagnosis. Unbeknownst to her, she had already woven a safety net for my sisters and me. Our dad was incredibly loving and supportive, and family and friends surrounded us with comfort.
As the years went by, love and support were always present, yet I often turned to my memories for reassurance. By the time I was pregnant at 36, I thought I had extracted all the wisdom I could from those familiar scenes.
At just a month old, my son began waking at 2 a.m., wailing until dawn. I was leaking milk onto my pajamas, my head throbbed, and I felt helpless. “I am a failure,” I confided to my husband, which really meant, “I hate this. Did we make a mistake?” I hadn’t yet learned how my son would giggle or enjoy dancing and singing. Everything was about to change.
I remember once telling my mom I was running away—perhaps it was because she limited my TV time or served meatloaf for dinner. The details are fuzzy, but I do recall marching up to my bedroom, grabbing a bag, and stuffing it with toys. Suddenly, my mother was beside me, adding shoes and clothes to my sack. “What are you doing?” I asked. She met my gaze and said, “I’m helping you pack.”
My mother wasn’t an idealized version of motherhood; she was real. I don’t picture her as a perfect homemaker or a serene earth goddess. Instead, I remember a beautiful woman, even while driving her beat-up car, who was playful and kind but also frustrated and tired.
Now, my son is 2, and I can’t pinpoint the moment I fully grasped what my mother taught me: that motherhood will never align with my expectations. Some days will test my patience and drive me to the edge. Other days will require fast food bribes just to get through. While I might sometimes feel overwhelmed, I also experience joy and wonder that remind me this journey is anything but a mistake. She taught me that it’s normal to have mixed feelings about motherhood.
I can still picture her wry smile as I dropped my rake and leaped into the pile of leaves under the apple tree. She showed me that while I don’t have to cherish every single moment, I will discover love in more of them than I ever could have imagined, and they will slip away faster than I anticipate.
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In summary, my mother’s memory remains a guiding light in my own journey through motherhood, reminding me that love, patience, and the reality of parenting are all part of this beautiful yet challenging experience.
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