The Whole Motherhood/Womanhood Dilema

My daughter will be three years old in four months. There are still some days where I don't quite feel like I have figured out the "mother" role yet. I mean, i get up in the middle of the night, change wet bed sheets, detangle curls, and clip little bitty finger nails. Yet, I still don't know if I have settled into it.

The last few weeks, I have been recognizing patterns in hers and my behavior. Some of which I like. Some of which I don't. I think that this has a lot to do with triggering memories about my mother and I. Which, regardless of how I fight it, brings forth an avalanche of conflicting emotions.

I think that the foremost example of this is my daughter's "know it all" attitude. I love it about her. It cracks me up. Yet, it can be a bit trying on my patients when I have to listen to "don't say that to me!" and "No it NOT!" for the entirety of a thirty minute commute. Since I was the exact same way as a child, I know that arguing with her outright is entirely futile. So, I ask her to explain it to me.

Well, this little interaction is a complete throwback to my childhood. I can remember plenty of times where I would ask my mother a question and she would respond "Well, how about you tell me. You are much smarter than I am". I would.  Which was great in the sense that it bolstered my self concept and made me feel like I knew everything. I am sure that I do not need to explain the double-edged nature of that sword.

The significance of all of this is that I am slowly coming to realize that I will have to come to terms with one of two things: a) my mother was a good mother who wanted me to be a strong-willed and independent woman OR b) I am falling into the same bad parenting patterns that my mother did which set me up for inevitable let downs later on in life. Neither of which are pleasant to consider.

I am sure that it seems a bit confusing to most that the first option is unpleasant for me. Why would it be difficult to come to terms with my mother having been a good one?

Simple.

The only way that I have managed to cope with my mother's death after five years of necessary estrangement has been to convince myself that she never cared about me and that I was better off without her.

It is far more heart-wrenching to consider that my mother was a woman the same as I am, now. That she loved her daughters and fought her demons. That she tried her best to give us a better start in life than she had. That she was a good mother and there for us when we were small. Before the drugs and the mental illness took her away. It is much easier to cope when you have convinced yourself that you didn't lose anything than it is to acknowledge that you lost the person who (for better or worse) made you who you are.

I try my best to recognize the things that I do each and every day which bring back painful memories of my mother. I try to remember so that I can avoid the same pitfalls. Yet, so much of it is deeply entrenched in who I am and what I do. So, how do I become a better mother without losing who I am in the process?

One of the things that drove me crazy as a child was how my mother was never satisfied with what she saw in the mirror. To me, she was a vision. My mother was tall with thick brown curls and gray blue eyes that were set off by her olive skin. She had broad shoulders, a narrow waist, curvy hips, strong thighs, and could more than adequately fill out a pair of jeans. She always felt soft and smelled rich. That is the best I can explain it, rich. She truly was a very beautiful woman. Yet, she never thought so.

I can remember sitting there in my shorts and t-shirts with my keds on and my long blonde hair in a pony tail at the nape of my neck, watching my mother spin around in front of the mirror for what seemed like hours. I had gotten dressed in a matter of minutes. What on earth was taking her so long? She looked just fine to me. Apparently, I was missing something. My being a tomboy and incapable of even braiding my own hair (until high school) must mean that I am a bad judge of what looks good. So, I sat and I watched and I did my best to learn what looked good.

Flash forward around 8 years or so and I was the one spinning around and pinching at myself in the mirror. If I made it out of the house after trying on less than five different outfits it was either a miracle or because I had to go to school (uniforms). I would be pinching at the rolls above my underwear lines or how my shirt clung too tight to my "flabby" abdomen. If I could even feel a single inch of myself that was constrained it meant that I looked bad and I had to change. It was a nightmare. There were plenty of times that I just never left the house because I had given up.

Funny thing, though. Whenever I got it right, my mother would say one of two things to me: "Look at how beautiful my littler girl is getting" or "What took you so long? You need new jeans". Point is that I either got reinforced for having spent that long in front of the mirror hating myself or I got admonished for not having gotten it right even after spending that long.

Well, flash forward another 8 years. I wake up in the morning, rinse my body off in the shower and then run a bath for my daughter. She inevitably wakes up right as I am getting out and have a towel on. "Mama, were you stinky agaaaaaain?" "Yes, baby, go potty and then it is time for your bath".

I plop my daughter in the tub, and quickly put on the first outfit that I settle upon. I do mean settle upon, I spend a few minutes running through my wardrobe and what might feel good to me before I dare to try anything on. I limit myself to two songs to adjust and spin before I have to go and wash her hair. I ask her what she wants to wear and get a blank stare until I make a suggestion. I pick it out, comb her hair, get her dressed and say "What do you think? Don't you look darling?"



I see where I am doing better. I can also see where I am still not doing as well as I should be. I have learned to cope. Yet, I have not entirely overcome it.

I know not to do the spinning in front of my daughter, so I put her in the tub while I appease myself. I know that I don't have the time to go through "clothes trauma", so I force myself to wear whatever it is that I put on. I may change once or twice if I actually have something big going on for the day; but, I generally make it out with the first outfit that I "settle upon". Granted, the fact that I still have to settle upon something bothers me. I make it a point to pay as much attention to my daughter's appearance as I do my own. At least in the end result. I don't change her. I pick something out, put it on, and tell her that she is adorable. I want her to know how beautiful she is. I don't want her to think that she has to work at it. Primarily because she doesn't.

My hope is that I can give my daughter a better start than I had. Mine is probably better than my mother's; but, it still is fraught with challenges. I don't want her to ever feel like she has to primp and prune to be beautiful. I don't want her to ever see her idealized female figure (me) agonizing over appearances. It is a constant effort for me. I try not to let her see that.

I worry about what will happen when I can't just stick her in the tub anymore. I worry about when she will want to sit and watch me get dressed. When she will want to learn how to accentuate her beauty. I hope that by the time that day comes, I will be ready to show her how to do it. I hope that I will have practiced enough on my own by then.

I am fighting my demons. The same as my mother did. Mine are lesser than hers were. Yet, I am still aware that there are things within me which impair my abilities. I do my best to keep them separate. Yet, I can't help but wonder if my mother tried to do the same thing. I think that she must have. She held it together for a long while. Sadly, I will never know.

Accepting who I am as a woman is a critical component to settling into my role as a mother. I try not to let it become consuming. There are plenty of days where it is a non-issue. I am not saying that flippantly. There really are several days each week where I can run out the door or walk past a mirror without wondering if I would meet my mother's inspection with approval. I am actually able to meet my own approval. That is shocking in and of itself.

I am growing to have compassion for my mother's process. It is painful for me. To come to terms with the fact that she really did try for us. To recognize that she was just further behind than I am. Or at least that is my hope. That I am able to carry on the process that she could not.

My mother always said one thing to me that I have little issue with:

"I have broad shoulders, honey. So, lay it on me. I can take it."






It was her way of conveying the importance of strength to me. Sadly, there have been times when I interpreted it to mean that I should just take whatever is thrown at me because if she could do it, then I should, too. Well, I can. I don't need to prove it anymore. Yet, I still want to show my daughter how key strength is in beauty.


I have always really liked my shoulders. They are broad. Just like my mom's.