A baby.....

For the second time in my life, the birth of a baby is making me re-examine my relationship with my mother. 

When Megan was born, my relationship with my mother was simple.  I talked to her occasionally. We visited a few times a year.  We were not terribly close, but there was nothing troublesome about our relationship either.  I was living what some would call an unexamined life.  After enduring an emotionally, and sometimes physically, violent childhood, I thought of my mother the same way she looked at herself - as a victim.  I had never thought about my childhood below the surface, had never even considered the underlying reasons and decisions that created my own particular history.  I had never looked past my father's role in it.  He was a sick, evil man and my mother, my siblings and I were all his victims.  End of story. 

Five years later, a bad marriage had ended, a solid, stable one was underway and Dana was born.  I don't know why Dana's birth prompted something in me that Megan's didn't.  I think timing and circumstance had something to do with it.  With everything in my life in order, maybe I had the emotional stability to finally look below the surface - I don't know.  Maybe it was just time.  Whatever the reason, I clearly remember sitting in my hospital room, looking at Dana and it all washing over me like waves.  I didn't think of my mother when Megan was born.  When Dana was born, I could think of nothing else. 

I remember everything about those moments.  I was sitting on the bed, unwrapping her in wonder, much as I had Megan when she was born.  I don't know what triggered it, but out of nowhere, I was in tears.  I sat there looking at this baby and all I could think of was my mother.  I would imagine many women think of their mothers after having their own children, but this was not a moment of bonding, of understanding.  It was just the opposite.  Instead of understanding her better, I realized I knew nothing about her.  For the first time in my life I questioned her - not my father.  I knew without a doubt that I would lay down my life for Megan and now, Dana.  How did this woman give birth five times and not rescue us from the life we lived?  The examination of my life, and hers, had begun.  I was angry, conflicted and confused - and would remain that way for many years.  On any given day, I am still all of those things. 

As Megan's due date approached, I realized, that I was about to experience some of the same feelings again.  One of the many things I have learned about my mother over the years is that there is a missing piece to her - a mothering piece that simply isn't there.  And what isn't there in her mothering is also absent in her grandmothering.  She has been content to observe them from a distance, ask about them from time to time but never really connect with them.  With nine grandchildren, she would be hard pressed to name them in the correct chronological order.  Over time, while I don't know I can say I honestly accepted it, I did get used to it.  With the exception of her twice yearly visits, my frustration and resentment about her lack of attachment to my girls was relegated to the back of my mind. 

And then Della was born.  Short of the bonding moments with my own girls, there is no other feeling like it.  My bond to this baby was instantaneous.  I want to know how she's sleeping, how she's eating, what she is doing every day.  Megan sends pictures and video to my phone throughout the day so I can see her.  (What exactly did grandmothers do before cell phones with pictures?)  I can't imagine not hearing about her every move.  And here I am again with the same kinds of questions.  Not as angry but just as confused.  How did this woman have the opportunity to bond with nine grandchildren and miss it every time?  The emotion and reality of my own experience were in direct opposition to what I had observed as her experience.  Again - the missing piece. 

While there are many, many issues surrounding my relationship with my mother, it is these issues of mothering (and grandmothering) that are central.  It is a little disheartening to think that I sit here in my 50's still trying to sort them out.  Even more disheartening is that at the peak of some of these moments, I still find myself waiting for her to be the mother or grandmother she is not.  What is not disheartening is that in the absence of any significant bonding in my own relationship with her, I have created the strongest of bonds with my children and now my granddaughter.  Shouldn't that be enough?