Overtly Blonde

that is how I would sum up my relationship with Mother’s Day, hell with motherhood as a whole.

My relationship with my own mother was ridiculously complicated. As an adult, especially after the divorce, it seemed to be a never ending tug-of-war with myself. On the one hand I desperately wanted her approval, I had sought that since childhood, but it seemed ever elusive. On the other hand, I just wanted to run like hell and distance myself from all the emotional warfare that family life in that household always consisted of.

I love my children. I loved them from the moment I knew I carried them within my womb. I wanted to be a good mother. I tried to be a good mother. Yet, I lacked certain skills. I hope they always knew they were loved. I was selfish, though. Certainly not a helicopter parent. It was easy to blame needing to work over time for the money…but deep down? It was easier to be at work sometimes than coping with my family. How awful is that?

Now, all these years later here I am. My mother died four years ago. We reached a state of detente a few years before she died. Medication on both our parts likely helped with that. I was with her when she died…and now, even though it wasn’t planned that way, her ashes are in an urn in my home. One of these days I will figure out what to do about that. Not today.

Slowly rebuilding a relationship with my son. I hope it can continue to grow and he can lose some of the anger. I don’t know though…

My daughter? I love her dearly. She is off living her life and while I have my worries, she insists she is happy. What more could I ask than that.

I think though, in my efforts to make sure I never made them feel guilty for not spending holidays and such with me, I did to thorough of a job. Is it too late to try guilt?