Decoding a mother’s love

As a young woman I fought with my mother constantly.  In hindsight, I was simply trying to assert my independence, and was wrestling with the conflicting nature of needing her wisdom and finding my own voice.  Or more simply - add two feisty women into the mix, and arguments will ensue.  Something my mom used to always say during these fights was, “you won’t understand me until you’re a mother yourself.”  I used to think it was just her way of saying that I should put myself in her shoes and sympathize with her.  But, after I became a mother the statement held profound meaning.

Jonas Salk once said, “Good parents give their children Roots and Wings.”  The truth is you have one fierce instinct to protect your child, and another instinct to encourage your child to walk, to run, to be independent from you.  You know the independence is critical so they can make solid and smart choices that allow them to prosper, grow as a human, be thoughtful of others, and ultimately be happy.  To struggle with this is inherent in loving them. 

What my mother actually meant during those fights was that she loved me.  She loves me in that unconditional, intense, mothering way that sometimes drives us both crazy.  That even if she was hungry and thirsty, she would still give me food and water before she admitted that she needed any.  That hell or high water if she sees me doing something detrimental to my well-being she’s going to stand in front of the fast-moving train (me) to stop it from happening.  That when I’m sad, a little part of her dies too.  That despite the pain of childbirth, carrying me in her body was miraculous joy.  That when I was experiencing the pain of childbirth, she hated being powerless against preventing that pain.  That watching your baby bloom into a person is definitely more fulfilling than having a lot of money.  That when I talked back to her or threw a tantrum, she wanted to slap me silly, but never has – instead summoning large quantities of patience.  It took loving my daughter unconditionally, to realize that my mother taught me how to do so.

Post-motherhood our relationship has been quite serene.  I may have lost my temper a couple of times, and my mom might have given some unsolicited advice, but we really haven’t disagreed on anything.  I recognize now, in my thirties, knee deep in diapers, and with crow’s feet starting to settle on my face, that I’m lucky.  I have an amazing mother, and though she rarely says the words “I love you”, she articulates the sentiment to me in all of her actions.  Really, if I am anything worthy, it is mostly because of her.  So, mom (though you refuse to buy a computer and go online), I want you to know I love you, and I understand you now.