The Motherload

After spilling half a bottle of Gatorade on the entertainment center, and short-circuiting the cable box in a classic "do as I say, not as I do" moment, I was forced to enjoy some DVD entertainment this morning while finishing my workout.  This might be my new MO in the mornings.  I have a much sunnier attitude after watching comedy (Scrubs), then after hearing the weather report nine times and that traffic on the Gowanus is backed up.  I have lived my entire life in the tri-state area and I still have no idea what that road is or where it goes.

Well maybe a "sunnier attitude" is a stretch because I wound up in tears today.  The main character was speaking to an elderly patient about his fears and she put her arms out and gave him the "come here" motion, then held him as he cried.  Then I started sobbing in plank position, my arms gave out and I collapsed on the floor.

I have these moments every now and then.  When the motherliness of something I see hits me with a laser-like focus in my motherless heart.  When I see someone lay their fears out to an adult woman, without fear of judgement, and be able to surrender utterly into the comfort offered, I realize how much I have lost.  I have people in my life, my father specifically, who will provide the services above.  The poor guy has been forced to listen to a lot of female angst, and complains not a bit, but despite his best efforts, it is my own reaction in this scenario that makes it different.  I'm the one who can't let go and be comforted.

Last week was the 19th anniversary of my mother's death, and I realized that I have lived as long without her as I did with her. I have built up a pretty good defense system in that time.  I try not to rely on anyone too much, and always, always, feel uncomfortable asking for help.  Healthy?  Probably not.   But if I can do everything myself, or not draw attention to the fact that I can't, then no one will notice my mother is not there, including me.  Planning my wedding, getting ready for my babies, having said babies - were all done with the minimum help I could get by with.  Not that the older women in my life didn't offer.  My aunts, my mother in-law, my stepmother, but none of them is my  mother, no matter how much they love me and I, them.

This "stiff upper lip" has not only affected the way I run my life, but it had also worked its way into the way I speak to myself.  For example, "just get over it already", is the phrase playing through my mind as I write this because, seriously, it's been almost twenty years.  Shouldn't I be over this by now?  And when it comes to the kids, keeping the house, writing, I speak to myself like a bully in a schoolyard, pushing myself with negativity.  I was talking about this with my sister, KK*, the other day, complaining about some task I hadn't completed, and she asked me, "What would you say to #1 if she were telling you all this?".  It took my breath away.

What wouldn't I tell her?  I would tell her to stop being so hard on herself.  I would point out all the wonderful things she is doing.  I would tell her she is a good wife and mother and friend.  I would tell her to give herself a damn break.  So why not tell myself these things? Maybe it's too hard for me to accept female comfort from a different source, but maybe I can accept it from myself.  Maybe I need to replace my inner critic with my inner mother and speak more kindly and in a more encouraging manner.

And maybe it'll be with a Bronx accent and I'll call myself cucaracha.**

*It is such a gift to me that the little girl who used to lose her jacket with unbelievable regularity has grown into the woman who keeps me from losing my mind.
**Spanish for "cockroach". Apparently, my mother gleaned some Spanish from the large Puerto Rican population in our neighborhood.  Although, I doubt they were using this term as a pet name for their children.