As a mother, there are moments when I yearn for the comforting embrace of my own mom. The daily grind can feel isolating, draining, and at times, utterly frustrating. All I crave is the warmth and reassurance from my mom—the person who always told me I was doing well and that everything would turn out fine.
I owe much of my parenting style to her example; she embodied compassion, love, and understanding. Her main focus was always to provide acceptance and empathy, even during our toughest moments. She skillfully navigated the complexities of adolescence and sibling rivalries, showing us grace and respect. I still remember those times when she would hold me during nightmares or let me skip school just to spend time with her. She set the standard for honesty by never shaming or judging me. My children could have hit the grandma jackpot, but there’s one significant hurdle: her drinking.
Her alcohol use didn’t always exist. It started when I was around nine years old. I can vividly recall the first time I witnessed her darker side. My brother and I were playing with friends all day and settled down in a recliner together when we asked if we could have a sleepover. Instead of the expected “yes,” she flipped the chair over. We were shocked—this was not the mom we knew. That same kind of harshness spoiled our Easter celebrations, leaving me confused and hurt.
Over the years, I began to connect her drinking with her erratic behavior, which she often concealed. The only indicators were the cold glare in her eyes and her unpleasant attitude. For a long time, I only sought her company in the mornings when she would offer apologies for her previous day’s actions. Eventually, those apologies faded, and we all accepted that Mom had a drinking issue—one that we often downplayed with humor and denial. Discussing it was never a good idea, so the issue remained hidden.
Recently, my mother came to visit for the first time in over a year, and it was the first time she met my son, who had already celebrated his birthday. I was excited yet anxious about her visit; when she drinks, she transforms into someone confrontational and defensive. She mumbles, throws dirty looks, and it’s unclear whether she’s even aware of her behavior.
During her visit, I cherished the moments spent with her sober. I asked her everything from whether the baby needed medicine to what curtains would look good in my bedroom. One day, she even sent me to take a nap, and when I accidentally broke a picture frame, I relished the chance to complain, “Mom! I broke my picture frame! (sniff, sniff).” Without fail, she reassured me, “It’s OK. We’ll get a new one.” Usually, I am the one doing the comforting, so it felt refreshing to be nurtured myself.
She suggested, “I could move to Florida, take care of the babies while you go back to work.” This would be a dream come true, but doesn’t she recognize her drinking is the real barrier? One morning, I left my children with her while I ran errands. When I returned, I found her outside, holding my baby in one arm while smoking a cigarette with the other, blowing smoke in his face. That left me frustrated, but at least he’s not exposed to that regularly. I can’t allow her to do that every day. I went to the kitchen and found a fresh bottle of wine open, indicating she had polished off the jug from the previous day. Doesn’t she understand I can’t entrust my children to her?
My disappointment makes me avoid her. Like many adult children of alcoholics, I’ve stopped visiting for holidays or any other time. I want her to understand that my absence isn’t due to indifference; I genuinely dislike feeling isolated and long for her presence. But only the sober version of her.
I wish she could see how much richer my life would be with her involvement—helping with my kids and reminding me to take breaks. I love her deeply and fear that she might think the distance between us is due to my coldness. The truth is, it’s her drinking that creates that chasm. I doubt she will ever reflect on this, which leaves me fearing I’ll always be misunderstood.
While I’m tempted to lay the blame solely on her, I also wonder what my role is in all of this. Should I be more forgiving and return the understanding she has always shown me? Perhaps I should view her alcoholism as a lesson in unconditional love. I strive not to let her flaws overshadow the fact that she is one of the kindest people I know, but I often fail. It feels childish, but I can’t help but take her drinking personally; if she truly wanted to be part of our lives, wouldn’t she quit?
I miss the comfort I felt as a little girl when her presence made everything feel secure. Now, as a parent myself, that longing is stronger than ever. I want my mom not just for my sake but for my children’s, who are missing out on her special way of spoiling them with her famous words, “Sure, put it in the cart.” They don’t get to hear her gentle reminders that “they’re just children” during frustrating moments. No one comes to their aid when I snap and slam the cabinets. I need my mom, and my children need their grandma, but the elephant in the room prevents that.
In summary, the complexities of my relationship with my mother, shaped by her struggle with alcoholism, create a painful distance. I yearn for the love and acceptance she once provided, not just for me but for my children as well. The hope remains that one day, she will realize the impact of her choices and come back into our lives fully, but for now, I must navigate the challenges on my own.
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