Do you ever find yourself wishing for the warm embrace of your own mother? As a mom myself, I often feel lonely, drained, and at times, utterly frustrated. I long for the love and encouragement my mom used to provide, always assuring me that I was doing just fine and everything would turn out alright.
I owe much of my parenting style to her, as she exemplified a nurturing love that emphasized acceptance and understanding, even during the tough moments. She gracefully handled the teenage years and sibling rivalries, always managing to keep her cool. I remember her comforting me after bad dreams and allowing me to skip school just to spend time with her. She created a space for honesty by never shaming or judging me. My kids could have hit the grandma jackpot, but there’s one glaring issue: her drinking.
Her drinking didn’t always define her. I first noticed something was off when I was about nine. After a day of playing with friends, my brother and I asked her for a sleepover, only to be met with an outburst that left us stunned. This was so unlike the sweet mom we knew. That same meanness soured our Easter that year, and I struggled to understand the sudden changes in her.
Gradually, I realized that her behavior shifted when she drank—a habit she hid from us. The signs were subtle: a harsh look in her eyes and an unpleasant attitude. I began to seek her company only in the morning, when she would sometimes apologize for her actions the day before. Eventually, those apologies faded, and we all accepted that her drinking was a problem, often dismissed with jokes and denial. Conversations about it never happened; it was always swept under the rug.
Recently, she visited 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. I was excited about her visit but also apprehensive—her sober self is a delight, but when she drinks, she transforms into someone confrontational and odd.
During her visit, I cherished her sober moments. I asked her everything from whether the baby needed medicine to what curtains I should choose. One afternoon, she insisted I take a nap, and in the dark, I accidentally broke a picture frame. It felt amazing to be able to tell her, “Mom! I broke my picture frame!” and hear her reassuring response, “It’s OK. We’ll get a new one.” Usually, I’m the one fixing things, so it was refreshing to be cared for.
She even suggested moving to Florida to help with the kids while I returned to work. It sounded like a dream, but doesn’t she realize her drinking is a major barrier? I left the kids with her while I went shopping, and upon returning, I found her outside, baby in one arm, cigarette in the other, blowing smoke across his face. I was upset, but at least he wasn’t constantly exposed to this behavior. I discovered a bottle of wine open in the kitchen, which meant she had polished off a jug she started the day before. How could I trust her to care for my children?
My disappointment often leads me to avoid her. Like many adult children of alcoholics, I skip family gatherings, not because I don’t care but because I feel isolated. I desperately want her to know that my distance is not due to a lack of love but rather her addiction. I fear she will die thinking I’m a cold-hearted person, when really, it’s her drinking that keeps us apart. I doubt she’ll ever understand, so I’m left feeling misunderstood.
While it’s easy to blame her, I sometimes wonder what my role is in this dynamic. Maybe I should repay her kindness by practicing unconditional love. I try to remember her as one of the kindest souls, but it’s challenging. I can’t help but take her drinking personally, thinking that if she truly wanted to be part of our lives, she would quit.
I miss the sense of safety I felt as a child when she was around. Now, as a mother myself, I yearn for that comfort not just for me but for my kids too. They don’t get to experience her spoiling them with her classic line, “Sure, put it in the cart.” They miss out on her gentle reminders that “they’re just kids” during tough moments. No one is there to offer support on days when I lose my temper and slam cabinets. I need her, and my children need their grandma, but there’s an elephant in the room that complicates everything.
In conclusion, the struggle between my desire for a close relationship with my mother and the reality of her alcoholism creates a painful distance. I long for her presence, but her drinking casts a shadow over our connection. I hope one day she can recognize how her choices impact not only her life but ours too.
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