It’s weird to think that for all of us, the parent that raised us no longer exists
My mom is 84. She’s been living here for three and a half years. Having her live with us has been interesting. At first, she actually lived in our house – we re-did the den to add a larger bathroom and she and my dad moved in. Shortly afterward, my dad ended up in a nursing home and about a year ago, she moved out to her own apartment, which is behind our house. My husband built it for her at one end of his workshop. I think she’s happier there. She doesn’t have to feel like she’s in our way (even though she wasn’t). She can eat her own food without feeling we might disapprove of the sugar content. She can do whatever she wants without worrying about what we will think. And I guess that includes playing the piano. My husband frequently hears her sitting at her piano and playing. I heard her the other day too and I thought, “how cool!” Growing up, I don’t remember hearing her play much. There were four of us kids, and I’m sure she didn’t have time to sit down and play much, or she played while we were at school.
I’ve had conversations with my siblings about our memories of mom. Each of us has differences based on our ages and how she changed over the years. I told my sister once that when I was a young parent I felt like a failure because sometimes I would lose my temper and yell at my kids and I have only one memory of my mom ever losing her temper. My sister is the oldest and is six years older than me. She couldn’t imagine this version of my mom. She remembers my mom sometimes losing her temper and yelling. She remembers my mom making popovers and cooking casseroles for dinners. I remember none of that. The mom that I remember was cool and calm, never yelled and never made popovers. Meat, veg and starch were the meals I remember. My younger brother remembers frozen pizzas and hot pockets after school and a mom that was more hip and with-it than I remember.
My mom is much changed from the mom any of us grew up with. I guess we will all be able to say the same when we are 84. I have thought a lot about how strange it is to be with this mom, who is so different from the mom I grew up with. I’ve wondered, when did the change occur? We haven’t lived in the same city since I was 17. They moved away while I was a sophomore in college and I stayed here in Fort Worth. Throughout the years, I would usually only see her a few days a year. She would come for a visit of a few days at the holidays, and I would go for a visit to her house for a few days for other holidays, seldom more than a few days at a time. Not enough time to get to know the changes that might have been going on with her that much. How she might have changed in her viewpoints, her temperament, her beliefs. Sure, as she has gotten older I’ve seen the physical changes; aging, slowing down, more forgetful, more vulnerable. But for the most part, in my mind, my idea of her as “mom” was locked in to that person that raised me.
Until she came here to live.
And I realize that the person I have thought of all these years as “mom”, really doesn’t even exist except in my memories.
It’s weird to think that for all of us, the parent that raised us no longer exists. It’s weird to think that my own kids will remember the person I was from the age they had good memory (8 years old?) to when they moved out of our house (18 years old) – maybe ten to twelve years; as their mom. And that woman doesn’t exist. Sometimes I think back to the person I was ten or fifteen years ago and I barely recognize her myself. From the time that my kids left home until now, our interactions have been for a few days here, a week there. Not day-in and day-out. Not living together and experiencing what is happening to the other, seeing how they live now and how it’s different from then. We see one another age and evolve, but from a distance, and in short glimpses. It’s kind of sad to me in a way. The 10-year parent that I gave to my daughter’s memories was not my very best self. I was a young parent with them, super enthusiastic about being a parent, but a little over-the-top; pretty dogmatic, strict and black and white. The ten-year parent I gave to my son’s memories was better. I was more chilled out, had a better balance. If I had been a parent to yet another kid the past ten years, I would have been even better.
But who am I kidding, I would have been too tired to raise another kid.
Anyway, it’s an interesting process getting to know a new mom. Holding her in my heart as that same person I knew then and letting go of that person at the same time.
This infinitude within people is such a strange and weird contradiction.
And this infinite contradiction is one we all live with – both with the people we love and within ourselves. We all feel like we are the same person we have always been. In so many ways, I feel no different than I did when I was 17 and I wonder how it’s possible I am 53. But, if I stand away from myself and look at myself – really look – I can see I am nothing like that girl I hold inside. I am much changed. I hardly recognize so many of the things I said, and did, and believed. I regret things that I said and did in the past. I find many things embarrassing and laughable and find that it would be impossible to think and act that way now. So the girls I’ve been at any age and at all ages add up to the person I am today. We are all me at the same time. And who I am today is a breath that will blow away and be gone but will incorporate into someone I am becoming and will be tomorrow.
I’m sure my mom would say she’s the same person and she’s unchanged from the ten-year mom I remember.
But it’s not true.
(To comment, click on header)