The thing is, my circumstances have changed. I've tucked away a few bucks for retirement. That, added to my conviction that I'm going to die young (ok, middle-aged), and the fact that Kiddo is about to finish his sophomore year at a good school, with good grades, and ambition in spades, and that he has a responsible/conservative dad, and my life insurance would more than pay for a PhD and a respectable car, plus keep him in D&G Light Blue for life. But that's another blog post.
Even though Kiddo detests me, I take great satisfaction in knowing that I was a good mom. At least until 7th grade. I read to him every night. I was laissez-faire about potty training. Gave him whole milk until he was two years old, because I was informed enough to know that cholesteral is a good thing when it comes to a developing brain. I ate fruit and took vitamins and walked an hour a day when he was in utero. I stressed over a stupid irish coffee I had before I knew I was pregnant. Never mind that I didn't like it, so probably only drank half.
Forget that I sang "Hush, Little Baby" a bazillion times, and stood by his crib for hours, patting him on his back, waiting until I could tiptoe away without waking him.
I comfort myself with these thoughts. And try not to remember the painful times. Telling him that his dad and I were divorcing. Seeing him cry. Going to family therapy and listening to him talking about the good times. When I read to him in bed. And that he loved us. In the course of a 50 minute session, my baby became a man. In my eyes.
As imperfect (fucked-up) as I am, I take pride in one thing. Kiddo doesn't need me to make it in this life. And even though he manages just fine without me, I have a feeling there will be times when he needs me.
Like me. With my mother. She made me crazy. When my brother died, I had a major melt-down. Over who was going to drive to the funeral home. We both wanted to drive. And we both stubbornley refused to yield the wheel. In retrospect, we were both having a panic attack - the need to control something, even if just the wheel of a car, became paramount. I remember screaming at her, then running to my bedroom, sobbing hysterically, a 38 year old child. The Daddler walking into my room and telling me that he was disappointed in me. I swear, I'd rather he whipped out a switch and put welts on my legs than say that to me.
Strange thing. I was stubborn. Classic middle-child trait. We had some sort of unpalatable (to a 5 year old) dinner. I refused to eat it. My mother got her dander up. Everyone else retired to the living room to watch Perry Mason or Twilight Zone. I sat alone. In the dark. I was prepared to stay the night. I never considered eating the swill. Then The Daddler appeared. He told me to go on. Wow. He was the good guy. It made an impression. I'm sure that's a big part of why I love him so much.
Another time, I broke a cup. Mother was mad. The D told me not to worry about it. I'll never forget that. I was the only one who wanted to go fishing with him. I was so proud of sticking a hook through a minnow. Hated when it came out of the eye. I reached into the screened cricket house, grasped a creepy bug, and stuck my hook through its thorax. I hated when I went too low and pierced the abdomen and the yellow guts oozed out. The worms were the best. Couldn't go wrong. They were like tube socks.
Back to Mother. When I was sick, I cried for her. When my belly was sliced open (3 times) and I was all alone in a sterile hospital room, I called her. She was awake. Ironing. And I'm sure, waiting for my call. Fifteen minutes later, she appeared. When she died, she cried. In my arms. I was the only one she talked to about dying. And as selfish, immature, and childish as I'd been, I found a way to mother her, the same way she'd mothered me. When she told me she didn't want to be a burden, I told her to think about all the shitty diapers she'd changed. She was too sick to laugh, but I know that she loved me for it. I miss her so much.
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