Reassessing my relationship with my mom

I always thought I should be closer to my mom than I was, but with the benefit of time, I realize that we had the relationship that we could. It dawned on me long after it was helpful or valuable insight, that my mom was probably on the spectrum. I thought her lack of sentimentality, her matter of factness, her inability to gauge appropriate responses in social situations was a shortcoming, but it was just the way she was wired. I connected so easily with my sentimental, overly expressive, passionate Greek father that I saw my relationship with my mother as less than that.

Now, as a mother and a middle-aged adult, I realize we had the relationship we could have with the information (about each other) available to us. She showed me her love in so many ways. For a decade she sewed my toe shoes because I didn’t have the patience with things I wasn’t interested in or good at (I was a dancer not a seamstress I’m sure I told myself as a teenager and my hand dexterity was never great).

Multiple days a week, from age 13-23 when my flat feet hurt after hours on toe shoes, my mother would sit with my bare feet on her lap and massage them with BenGay. Could she have used that time for class prep or correcting exams? Definitely. Did she ever make me feel like she would rather be somewhere else? Never. I’m sure the smell of Ben Gay clung to her hands long after our nightly sessions ended.

When I was sick growing up, my mom was my caretaker. Stomach bug, my dad didn’t have the stomach for it, pun intended. I never faulted him for it. It was my mom who I asked to sit with me when I had a fever. She would stroke my hair and hold my hand.

Both my parents were obsessed with picture taking which I inherited. Here my mom (at rest for a change) posing for my dad.

It was my chemist mom who explained algebra concepts a million times because they didn’t make sense to me especially when I was tired after class and rehearsals. I would give her attitude as if it was her fault that my tired, non-math brain couldn’t understand. She would calmly tell me to go drink some water or get a snack and we could try again. She truly had the patience of a saint. Sadly, for my children, I inherited my dad’s impatience.

When I procrastinated throughout college and had multiple papers due, without judgement, she offered to type up one paper while I worked on the other. Then when I left for graduate school, she would send me monthly cards (though sometimes more often) where she told me she was thinking of me, that I was cute, or that she knew I could do it when I was often discouraged during my first year away.

Recently I went through a box from our childhood home, and it had all the cards I had given her during my teen and adult years. In them, I thanked her for her patience, for taking care of me, for always supporting me and encouraging me. I was glad to see that I had let her know I saw her sacrifices and attention and that I loved her. I had forgotten about the cards and assumed I hadn’t explicitly acknowledged that she was the perfect mom for me.

I don’t know if given time, if her health hadn’t taken a turn so suddenly at age 60, that we might have found a way to be closer in the way I wanted us to be. But I now see that just having someone who is always on your side, who thinks you can do anything if you set your mind to it, who is always interested in what you have to say is a rarity and a gem. I miss that feeling of having someone in my corner no matter what. And I miss her and our imperfect relationship.

The day of my college graduation in front of our mango tree in Puerto Rico.