Down the Rabbit Hole

F**king up this "Mom" Thing

I can feel her eyes on me as I sit trying to stem the flow of frustrated tears that refuse to stop. I try listening to music. I decide the road noise will be better and cut the radio off, hitting the knob hard and fast with my palm for emphasis. We sit in relative silence for a few more miles, me watching her watching me in my rear view mirror. Does she look remorseful? I can’t tell. She looks serious but then that is so often the expression painted across her beautiful little features. I can feel the anger ebbing as the front door of the school draws ever closer. I hate mornings that start this way, with silly battles for the sake of battling, with screaming (hers) and heated words that rise to a frustrated crescendo (mine) that leave us both wrapped in misery. I am left with the aching certainty that I am fucking this up in some desperately important way, this “mom” thing.

I have found it remarkably easy at times, effortless really, to be a more loving and compassionate mother than the one I had growing up. I tell her all the time that she is smart, she is kind and beautiful inside and out. It has been so enriching to encourage her curiosity, her passions and her interests. It is a joy to be part of her pursuits, to be there for as she experiences new things and to revisit things that have become part of our own traditions. Since that first moment I knew she was there, nestled under my heart, connected to my being, our relationship has become fundamental to my own existence. It has made me less forgiving, less understanding of the limitations of my own mother’s love. Where once I might have been able to dismiss the scrutiny and indifference I sometimes suffered in my youth, knowing how effortless it is to show love and to empower my daughter and make her feel like the center of my world, I find it increasing difficult to pretend that I can understand the coldness that has become a feature of my relationship with my mother.

I tell myself only this, all mothers are a divinely complex beings who we must try to accept for what and who they are. And most importantly for me, I know that one mother’s nature is not necessarily built into the genetic makeup of her daughter. We can become the mothers we want to be. We can raise our daughters to be better, stronger, more loving versions of ourselves. Even on bad mornings. Even when we feel as if we are failing.

I find a parking spot in the lot. There will be no drop off line today for us. I unhook her from her seat and pull her to me. I tell her I love her. I tell her I am sorry I lost my patience and yelled. I tell her I don’t want to have mornings like this, that it hurts me. She tells me she is sorry. She means this I know because she hugs me back, hard enough to make my ribs hurt. I know she is sorry because she wants me to walk her in, all the way to her classroom, which I do hand in hand. On my knees in front of her, I tell her again how much I love her, how special she is. She flicks her sea green eyes up to mine and I know she can see it there in my face - I see her. I know her. She is my everything.
In a few moments, her friends cast dancing shadows over our moment of forgiveness. They are balls of excitement, having found a rare parent visitor to entertain with stories and jokes. They all vie for my attention at once. Her friend Gabby, learning that Jaden has had a tough morning, begins to pantomime her own battle with getting out of bed on time and soon we are both laughing at her antics. As I leave, I see Gabby move into my place, sweetly rubbing my daughter’s head, showing that trademark kindness that immediately endeared this little girl to me. I make a mental note to meet Gabby’s mother. I want to tell her what a fantastic daughter she is raising.

On my drive to work, I find my heart is much lighter…maybe I am not completely fucking up this “mom” thing after all. After all, I am a mother, a divinely complex being who might not always be perfect but never gives up trying to be the best version of myself that I can be. I’m doing the best I can with what I have and what I have is a joy to give. My daughter knows she is loved, beyond words, beyond measure – at least I am getting that part 100% right.