my kind of mother

Menopause is scary. Either I am losing my mind or coming into myself. My mother said that once. She told me, when I was turning 40, that that is the time a woman begins to “come into herself”. When I turned 50, she told me that is when she looked in the mirror and realized she was getting old.

My mother is not the “sit down let’s have a deep chat and I’ll give you some direction and support” kind of mother. She is the kind of mother you have to listen to really carefully because something will come out of her mouth at a time you don’t expect it. And later you realize, DAMN that was a pearl of wisdom!

I wanted the kind of mother that would take me out to dinner, sit across from me, listen to my trials and tribulations and then spout out kernels of advice that would guide me along the bumpy road a little easier. I wanted the kind of mother that when I am crying, sitting next to her on her bed, she would hold me and tell me “everything is going to be okay baby” while rubbing my back and rocking me to and fro to ease the pain. I wanted the kind of mother that would bust somebody in their ass if they hurt me in anyway. The kind of mother that was feared and respected and exuded endless amounts of love and caring.

I got the kind of mother that I have to help guide on her bumpy road; making sure she does not get swallowed up. The kind of mother who is fragile and weak. I got the kind of mother who loves me without saying so; shows me so little; and needs so much. I got the kind of mother that wants to love me in a different way but can’t. I got the kind of mother whose woundedness was greater than her mothering skills. I got the kind of mother I was supposed to get to be who I am.