I have now been a Mom for over half of my life. In ways it seems like I’ve barely started and in others I feel like I’ve been mothering since I was old enough to realize I didn’t have one. I’ve taken care of my emotional and psychological needs since I was a toddler and had various adults come into and out of my life to attempt the rest. None lasted. Many barely tried. I spent the better part of my younger years feeling invisible and acting out in ways that ensured someone would take notice even if they did so in depressingly negative ways. I needed to be seen and to feel like it mattered or might one day matter that I was even born. As melodramatic as that may sound, when you’re repeatedly abandoned, abused and traded out for fresher stock it’s fairly normal to at least wonder “Why am I here?” It’s also fairly normal to fear how you’ll handle being placed into the very role that’s failed you over and over again.
For me, I always had a pretty clear-cut idea of what a good Mom should be like. I never experienced that from a child’s perspective. But when I was in need or had a friend that was in need, I’d conjure up my idea and just like that, I knew what needed to be said or done. Whenever physically possible, I began mothering children two or three times my own age when I was just three. I have vivid memories of quietly tucking the other girls into their beds at the children’s home and whispering songs to them when they were scared or sad. I kissed boo-boos, applied bandages and even helped clean up when someone wet the bed. I took turns with the other seven girls that shared my room doing dishes, laundry and general cleaning for a house of twenty before I even knew how to read. I had my first Holiday celebrations when I was 7, right after I got adopted. I experienced my first birthday party when I turned 8. I have only one picture of myself before I was adopted and it’s a black & white published in the newsletter printed by the children’s home which they sent out monthly hoping to solicit donations.
The complete lack of a history was always a sore point for me; not having any pictures or personal possessions. Clothes, toys, books; nothing was ever really mine. It had all belonged to someone else who’d outgrown it and I was fully expected to pass it along when it was no longer deemed appropriate for my age. We weren’t allowed to form emotional or sentimental bonds to anyone or anything while at the home. If you did, you got it taken away whether that meant relocating a friend to another house, giving a toy to another child or even being forced to pack up a stray dog or cat and help take it out into the countryside to abandon it. I guess they thought our transition into real two-parent homes would go smoother if we left with no strings attached, no baggage. But we had our baggage alright. Oodles of it. Some I’m sure would never overcome theirs.
I struggled even after I got rescued from that place and was accepted into a home with two parents, a common last name and things to call my own. It was so amazing to have things and to realize there were special days, several times each year, when it was traditional to give even more things. The sheer volume of gifts, toys, candy, clothes and trinkets left me dumbstruck. I wanted them all. What child wouldn’t? But that was as far as it went. I felt thoroughly sponsored, but not quite loved. I blamed myself for many years because I feared it was my fault for not knowing how real families loved and for not being grateful enough for what I was given. I wanted the complete package. I wanted to be taken care of physically, emotionally, psychologically and spiritually. It’s not that I wanted all of those things predetermined and rigidly adhered to or even that I believed they should all be met on a daily basis and without flaw. I just wanted to know it was in my loved ones’ repertoire; that it was doable.
It wasn’t doable after all. And what I was left with was another pair of adults fully capable and willing to provide food, shelter, clothes and cool toys, but who completely avoided anything below the surface. Their guidance stopped at appearances and I was left once again and forever this time doing my best to soothe my emotions, untangle the lifetime of mixed signals and in general talk myself off the ledge every time the pain of isolation became more than I could take.
I had so many dark times both emotionally and psychologically. I was too young to have the answers to so many things that pained me. It was frustrating, frightening and lonely. I often felt engulfed in perpetual shadows, unable to move in the direction of light because I lacked the tools to get me there. Life and my place in it confused me.
This picture by Diane Varner, titled The Marvel Remains, feels like that phase of my life. It’s beautiful. Breathtaking. Fearsome. Isolating. Abandoned. Hopeful. Inspiring. Affirming. Appreciated. Serene.
This month we celebrate Mother’s Day. I’m going to dedicate the entire month to that topic; covering what it means to me, how I managed to find my expression of it, how I reconciled never having one of my own and the impact each of my wonderful kids has had on the evolution of my mothering.
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