O Mother Where Art Thou? (April 20, 2010)

mother-and-daughter-t8961

I am preoccupied today with the topic of mothers and daughters, and the complicated dynamics that exist between them. It is a subject rendered murkier for me, because I have neither a mother in my life, nor have I ever been a parent. I have had a lot of “in betweens,” pseudo-Moms like my Aunt Diane (A.D. to us youngsters), or the parents of my close friends and loved ones. But that was always different, no matter how great it was. They have real children and are not obligated to you. It’s not their home you can move into if you lose your job.

Likewise, I view Rosebud, KK and most especially Jen as “my girls,” the closest thing I will ever have to daughters of my own – and I couldn’t love them any more than if they were. Jen and I had a most unconventional sisterly relationship growing up, the more so when you consider we’re only two years (and three days) apart. I’m certain I wasn’t always the greatest role model, but I was the only strong female figure my baby sister had in her world for a very long time. It was a protectorship I took, and still take, very seriously. But Ms. Of All Trades is a fine grown woman and doesn’t need to stand behind me anymore. KK and Rosebud think I’m pretty swell, thank you very much, but at the end of every day, they go home with Mom and Dad.

My lack of experience now throughly dissected, I wonder if I will ever to be able to grasp what it’s “like” to feel the ups and downs of the true, unguarded female relationship. What is the complex intimacy between a mother and her daughter? It’s such a trope of literature, film, drama and yet it’s wholly outside my understanding – always has been. I am used to being an island. If a co-worker regales me with tales of the “Momzilla” who is taking over her wedding plans, I nod my head knowingly and smirk as if I am in on the joke. But I’m really not. I don’t even know where my mother lives to have sent her an invitation to mine and Eddie’s nuptials.

Don’t misunderstand me. I am not feeling sorry for myself. I don’t comprehend enough about the motherly attachment to even know what I missed. I just know that I am missing something. It sits there in my chest like a painless gaping hole. It’s an odd feeling to be wholly alien to a mostly universal experience.

Would anyone like to educate me?

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