When my mother was my age, I was 18. I hadn’t lived with her–or even in the same town–for nearly half my life. After my dad divorced her, she latched on to a series of bad husbands, each one a little worse than the one before.
First Husband: My dad. Married when they were nineteen. He dragged us around the country, twenty-five moves in five years, looking for that elusive job which would be worthy of him. He divorced her after thirteen years, a bout of cancer and chemo, four kids and a couple of silent years.
Second Husband: Unemployed, drove a yellow van, lots of previous marriages, stepchildren. My dad took custody of us when this man came into the picture. He was 9 years older than my mother and after five years of marriage, took all her belongings in the divorce.
Third Husband: Illiterate, a lot older than her. He didn’t seem to have a job, either, and worse, he had a bad habit of breaking coffee cups and other items on her head. She left after a year and a half.
Fourth Husband: She met and married him while I was away at college, so mostly, I only heard stories and didn’t have to sit in the same room with him while he sprawled on the couch in his undershirt, drinking beer. I heard that he threatened her with a shotgun, threatened to kill himself, and was a mean drunk. She sneaked away, one box in her car trunk at a time, and disappeared from his stinky life about the time I got married. I think her marriage lasted a few years, less than five, though.
While I was busy preparing for my (first and only) wedding–that sacred bonding time between mothers and daughters–my mother was scheming and planning her escape from her disgusting fourth husband. I sewed my own wedding dress, located my own florist, picked out my cake–I did it all alone because my mother was involved in the drama of her own life. As usual.
Two years later, during the time my dad was ill and dying, she started dating again through classified ads. She ended up living with some guy with a repaired harelip for six or seven years. I only wish I were kidding. He would wear sweatpants and undershirts to family holiday celebrations. He knew everything about everything–at least he thought he did–and he tried to recruit me for a multi-level marketing scam. My mother basically abandoned my teenage sister to live with this man, but she told us she was renting a room from him. (He took in two or three boarders in his split level house.)
Remarkably enough, my mother and I now have a fairly close relationship. She lives in the same town I do now–and she lives alone. We see each other and/or talk on the phone every week. She babysits my kids. She’s 62 now, a genuine senior citizen with a handicapped parking permit. I try not to ask her about things that are none of my business, so many of my questions go unanswered, questions like, “What were you thinking?” and “How could you give up custody of your four children so easily? Did you miss us? Or were you relieved to be rid of us?” Our relationship is easy and we laugh a lot, but there are huge hunks of time and giant categories we just don’t talk about. Ever.
When I was a child, I wanted her to pat my head and tell me how pretty and smart I was, but she was busy, really, really busy. She had four children, too, and she seems to have amnesia, because she says to me, “I don’t know how you do it.” She does know, though–you just do it a day at a time, Monday through Friday, one bowl of Cheerios at a time. She doesn’t seem to remember much–her dismal marriage to my father and my brother, sisters and I overwhelmed her. She was barely finished growing up when she gave birth to three of us, all in a row, sixteen months apart and then my “oops” sister, five years later. Her early marriage limped along from one crisis to another.
What I wanted most from her was her attention. What she did most was overlook me. I was easy to ignore. Who notices the easy child, the one who achieves, the good girl, the bookworm? And then she left me and my siblings, just as I was on the cusp of adolescence, on the brink of the most terrifying years of life–middle school.
She feels guilty, I know. And I’ve forgiven her, completely. She did the best she could with what she had at the time. She gave me as much as she could. I don’t hold any of it against her.
Mother’s Day card shopping is a challenge, though. They tend towards the sappy factor: “Mother: My Best Friend, The One Who Was Always There For Me.” It’s a chore to find a plain card that just says, “Happy Mother’s Day.”
I bet if I designed a card that said, “What the HELL were you thinking when you left me for your new boyfriend? Happy Mother’s Day!” I’d make at least five or ten bucks marketing it.
Actual Unretouched Photo 
You’d probably make a heck of a lot more on a card like that.
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You should be proud of having such great values and being such a good Mom without benefit of a good role model.
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Mel, I can’t even believe how many similarities we have in our backgrounds — although my dad only took us to six places the first five years of my life.From Kansas Citity to Atlanta to Fairbanks, Alaska to Long Beach, California before dumping my mom with three kids. My mom dumping us in a foster home so she could find a man. Then the succession of repulsive, abusive husband/live-ins. Wow. Just reading your description gave me the willies. We were dirt poor and very low class. And while poverty doesn’t condemn you to a hellish existence, spiritual and emotional poverty do. You would think if that was the only environment you knew, you wouldn’t expect much. But I was ashamed and disgusted by the sordidness of my life, so seized onto education as a way to get me out. I also — amazingly — always wanted to be a mommy. I attribute both those longings to something God imbedded deep into my individual being, though I would not find out who God was until I was 37. I do so want to come to Seattle someday and meet you, Mel.
And, yeah, let’s brainstorm a line of REAL greeting cards. You had me smiling at the end.
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Many similarieties to my life as well. My parents were both on the “rebound” when they met one another: he had just divorced his 2nd wife, she had left her first husband. The got married in Vegas because I was on the way. My dad got drunk alot and my mom did what she knew to do to survive. As well, my mom had 3 kids right in a row (me, 12mo. later my sis, and 17mo. after that my other sis . . . .my brother was surprise 4 years after that) and basically has no memory of raising us. My parents also divorced when I was 13 years old . . .what a horrible age to go through that. I went from being on the honor roll, to getting straight D’s in a few months time. But, they really didn’t seem to notice. I was the easy one to overlook as well. In fact, I was more of an adult at 14 than either of my parents at the time. When I turned 16 I didn’t want to get my driver’s license because I knew it was going to mean even more responsibility for my siblings than I already had. (I waited until I was 17). I took my brother to soccer practices and games and did a good portion of the grocery shopping. My mom did alot though, as she was working full-time to support the 4 of us. Dad was on the scene from time to time, but was hit and miss with the child support payments. Although, she also met a new guy pretty quickly after the divorce, and I’m happy for her that they are still married. My mom wrote us all letters a few years ago asking for forgiveness and it has brought alot of healing. The most akward part for me at times is when I share my parenting philosophies, desires and dreams for my son with her, and she thinks I’m a little “extreme” shall we say. She knows we all went through hell as kids, but thinks we’ve all turned out pretty well, so no harm done right? I just want to give him something better. Thanks for sharing, Mel – I aplogize for the long ‘comment’. I just so connected to what you had to say. I should blog about it myself . . . someday.
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Mel, you are an amazing writer! I was with you every word along the way… My story isn’t similar, although, I *do* have trouble finding mother’s day cards for my mom because she and I have so rarely seemed to *connect.* I agree that the makers of Mother’s Day cards really should get real and have a more realistic approach–I’ve thought that for years. Anyway, thanks again for another remarkable post! … Debra
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I make my own cards. Rubberstamps, calligraphy, whatever it takes. Would be happy to start on them now for next year! Isaiah and Jeremiah have some great verses I could put in them also…
My husband has a very similiar story. No restoration yet.
Life is HARD.
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Aw, yes… the “What the hell were you thinking…” line. You should take it to Hallmark. I think you’d make a fortune. “What the hell were thinking when you called me fat when the truth was that I was twelve and only just getting breasts?” And “What the hell were thinking when you were beating me?” And the ever-popular “What the hell were you thinking when you broke your promise to love me unconditionally?” (destined to be a best-seller).
Your mother — my father… same situation. You try and make an adult relationship the best way you know how. But there’s a line you toe, that you mustn’t step over. And you know they know it, too. It’s a tacit agreement you make with them — I’ll refrain from asking you the tough questions, if you refrain from pretending, even for one minute, that you were a good and loving parent when I was growing up. And you know that somewhere inside, in their dark, quiet moments, there is a part of them that wishes they could do it again and make different choices.
And somehow that wanting — that regret — makes it a little easier… if for no other reason than because it’s all you are ever going to get from them, so you’d better take it and run with it.
But really… what the hell were they thinking, Mel? Will we ever really know? And do we really want to? I’m not being rhetorical — I really don’t know the answer.
But I hear ya. Loud and clear.
~CA~
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Poignant post… I wish all of you with the sad motherings could’ve had my mother. 😦
Peace,
mrsd
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Coming from a noisy but secure house of 11 I can scarecely relate. My heart goes out to you though!
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That guy who sat on the couch and drank beer, I think he lived with my mom for awhile, too! My mom abandoned me for that guy, and we don’t ever bring that up, either.
Congratulations to you and me both for making better choices!
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You have such a great head on your shoulders! You should be so proud of all you have accomplished. And even better, you realize your mom did the best she knew how at the time. That is so important! Parents are peope too.
You sure did have a difficult time growing up. I can’t imagine.
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I didn’t have a fraction of the troubles you had, and yet it was hard to find just the right Mother’s Day card. I wanted one that expressed, “I Love You, even though….” (I’m sure my own kids will design one just like that!)
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That’s why I stick with comedic cards.
Happy Be-lated Mother’s Day
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