Remembering My Mother

Editor’s Note: Often we don’t understand our mothers until we reach the autumn of our lives. We treasure what we can now see. 

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It took me many years to realize that my parents weren’t perfect. Especially my mother. Growing up, my mother would curl and braid my hair. She had long tender fingers. This time together as well as times when I was sick, my mother cared for me in excellent ways. Hot J-E-L-L-O was delicious for colds and flu. My mother had training in nursing, since she worked at the mental hospital with my father during World War Two. Her fingers would take my pulse gently, and her hands would apply a cool cloth to my forehead.

My mother made sure we had a rich upbringing. Ballet and tap dancing, piano lessons, art lessons and religious lessons. At times, her talents led me to believe that she was a sorceress, coming up with entertainments like making Chinese yo-yos from scratch, cat’s cradles, a spinning button on a string. As a child, I saw adults as perfect human beings.

My expectation in the family lineup was that I would be responsible to see that dinner was ready when my parents got home. If there was a brush up, I was supposed to be the one to fix it, despite the fact that my brother was older. As I saw it, I had the responsibility and my brother had the privileges. Sibling rivalry was exacerbated when I skipped a grade and we were both in the same grade at school.

My mother didn’t respond to my concerns of injustice in this regard. Trying to explain my concerns wasn’t going to happen. She told me to stop crying unless something was broken or bleeding. If it was anything other than a physical issue, she wouldn’t give me the time of day. My father would listen, but he always gave in to my mother’s decisions.

Every chance I got when I was old enough, I chose to leave home for outside experiences. YMCA camp, Camp Fire camp, Church camp, a week with my grandmother, a week with an aunt and uncle, Art Camp, all sponsored by my parents. I liked being in new situations where the family expectations were gone. Long story short, as time went on, my brother inherited the family business and I moved away. As far away as I could manage at the time. I blamed my mother.

As I grew older, I began to reflect on my mother’s personality in a different way. I knew she grew up mostly with brothers. I knew she was the Queen in her household. Many times she told me when she was growing up she was protected from having to babysit her younger siblings. Nurturing didn’t come natural to her, except for physical care. I remembered having discussions about feminism and women’s rights, and she would always add, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never was discriminated against!”

To be fair, my mother often bragged about my “special-ness” and yet did not allow me to participate fully in the family dynamics. My brother was the designated heir, the law of primogeniture, and he was always considered first. I realized that my parents’ world had consisted of men first, women serving men, and their hopes for the family were placed on those world views. Though I grew up in a time of transition – during feminist rights, civil rights and hippies fighting for freedom – none of those struggles were fulfilled yet. In fact the struggle still rages on. They may have hoped change could happen, but their bets were placed on the cultural norms they knew best.

Time passed, my father passed away and I visited my mother for a week every summer, making a long trip just to honor her. I steeled myself for her criticisms and determined to treat her with the respect and care I wanted. She did appreciate this attention. We gradually came to a better understanding of our similarities and got along better. She was able to explain herself better to me, and also listen. We shared many similarities. A few weeks before she died, she gave me the responsibility of assigning who would inherit the last of her precious paintings. I am very grateful for that gift of acknowledgment. She was telling me that my role in the family had some weight, something she had withheld most of my life. Now, I remember so much more of the good, so much that we did share. I feel I needed that separation from my mother and I needed the coming together again. With presence, persistence and time, I gradually gave up the unquestioning worship of a child. As I was able to communicate more to her, and she with me, we began to see each other with more compassion.

After she died, I went to help my brother inventory her material goods. At lunch I asked him how he was coping with her death. He replied that it had been hard for him, because she “always had my back.” I acknowledged his response and waited a bit before I answered, “you know it wasn’t that way for me.” He acknowledged quickly, “Yes, I know.” That acknowledgment meant a lot to me and to our relationship for the future.

P.S. Many alternate mothers blessed me with emotional support and guidance. My daughter and I are traveling some of these same paths in our relationship now.

Copyright © 2025 Addie Seabarkrob