November 24, 2023
I can still recall the scent of smoke wafting through our living room. My dad lounged on the emerald green couch, a Lucky Strike smoldering in the ashtray next to a glass of Scotch. He was half-focused on the sports section of the newspaper and half on the evening news. My mom often popped in, but rarely sat beside him. That living room, complete with its beaded throw pillows, was his domain.
From the kitchen, soft melodies floated through the air, love songs mingling with tales of heartbreak as my mother hummed along. That space was her sanctuary, just as the living room was his. After loading the dishwasher, with its butcher block top, she’d attach the silver nozzle to the sink and dive into paying the bills. The rhythmic tap of the calculator keys and the whirring of the tape as it counted up our family’s dollars and cents consoled me as I shifted from my bed to the old black and silver television to change the channel.
I remember the serene stillness of our home as my parents unwound from their long days—days filled with responsibilities I didn’t quite grasp yet. I’d lie in bed, trying to drift off to sleep to the muted sounds of the TV and radio, the echo of a life they’d built together. I dreamed of becoming an adult one day so I could create my own rules.
Now, as I sit in my own living room—an adult, a mother, a woman—my childhood comes rushing back. But instead of focusing on that little girl who longed to grow up, I find myself identifying with my mother. I understand what it’s like to juggle the chaos of daily life while trying to hold onto a piece of my former self, a self that existed before the kids, the marriage, and the house. I see my mother in ways I never did before.
I finally recognize not just who I thought she was, but who she truly was. I see her relationship with my father mirrored in my own marriage. The arguments about finances and parenting that once terrified me now resonate, but for entirely different reasons. I grasp the essence of those disputes between two partners because I’m embroiled in similar battles now.
I’ve come to understand the sadness my mother felt when my father let her down. I have a newfound respect for the difficulty of keeping a family afloat while striving to remain her own person. I am the woman she once was, and I wish I could tell her that I finally get it, but now she’s gone. Life has a peculiar way of allowing us to experience so many different lives. I wish I could thank her for giving me a part of herself that is uniquely mine. I long for more time to absorb the lessons her life imparted as I navigate one so strikingly alike. I wish I could tell her that I’ve finally cracked the code.
As I lie awake at night, I often think of her dreams and aspirations. I can picture her planning her life in the same way I do now. It all passed so swiftly. I wonder if she too contemplated how it would all come to an end. I suppose we all do, even if it lingers in the back of our minds. I’m living the life she once did, just as my daughter will one day inhabit the life I lead now. It’s a circle, a line, a curve—though our details may differ, the overarching themes are strikingly similar. The symmetry in our lives is both powerful and daunting. The world my mother navigated in her middle years reflects the one I’m immersed in now.
I remember her rush and her frustrations. I think of her body as it weathered the hormonal storms of midlife. I can still hear her voice from the past—yelling, humming, and making all the sounds that accompany motherhood, midlife, and marriage. I miss her, yet I feel fortunate to have glimpsed life from both sides.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, Julia Adams explores her evolving understanding of her mother’s life as she navigates her own journey of motherhood and marriage. Through memories of childhood and domesticity, she recognizes the challenges her mother faced and how they mirror her own experiences today. The article emphasizes the cyclical nature of motherhood and the bonds that connect generations.