Mothers Are Often Wonderful, But Not Always

This thing, which may or may not have been written by Washington Irving, is the kind of  thing that I see posted to Facebook all the time. Not just on Mothers' Day, but all year. Sometimes it's the mom's birthday, and sometimes it's just for laughs.

Many of us were raised by mothers who bore no resemblance to the sentiment in this, this thing. Some of us had mothers who were an absolute torment to us.

For us, these paeans to motherhood are are acts of violence. They are what is now called "triggers." They call to our minds either the sense of impending doom that we experienced every time we went home as children, or the terrible regret that comes from that lost opportunity to have what many people seem to take for granted. We are still trying to pick up the pieces and build satisfactory lives, and this constant tickling of our triggers is not helpful.

So go ahead, thank your moms. Do in on Facebook, I'm sure that mom appreciates the mention. But let's not overdo it, okay? I'm glad that you are grateful for the great gift that fate has bestowed upon you, and congratulations to your mom for being one of the good ones. Just bear in mind that, especially around Mothers' Day, you are making some people cry.

Now read the story of Philomadre, who, as her name implies, "loved her mother." The story illustrates what I'm driving at here.

My Favorite Folk Tale: Philomadre

I heard this story told by a professional storyteller in the 1980s, and it made a big impression on me. I’ll save my take on the story’s importance for the end.

The Story of Philomadre

Once upon a time there was a young woman who wished for only two things. She wished for a handsome husband that she could love and take care of, and she wished for three beautiful daughters that would make them the envy of all of the other families in their village. She was a lucky young woman. She met and fell in love with a very handsome woodsman. He was big and strong and he loved her very much. They got married, and in the fullness of time the couple was blessed with three daughters, each very beautiful in her own way. The mother called the three girls number one, number two, and number three. The family was happy.

The woman was surprised when she got pregnant for a fourth time, surprised and concerned. However the pregnancy turned out, it would ruin the delicate balance of her perfect family. The new child was also a daughter, and the woodsman loved her as much as he loved her sisters and named her Philomadre. The young mother was not as generous as her husband. She resented “number four” from the first day as an intrusion upon her perfect happiness.

The family lived on the edge of the forest, some distance from the village, and the father left every morning to work deep in the woods. The mother sometimes went to the village to shop, and upon returning she would call out to her daughters, “number one! Come out. Number two! Come out. Number three! Come out. Number four, stay where you are.”

One day, there was an accident in the forest, and the woodsman was killed. The young mother was distraught at first, but then she realized that she still had the family that she had wished for. She still had her three beautiful daughters. She hardly thought about Philomadre at all. After the death of her father, Philomadre was treated like a maid and given all of the most difficult tasks in the family. Number four was one daughter too many.

There was a dragon living in the forest. He was not a very big dragon, nor was he very fierce, but he was clever. He had never come to close to Philomadre’s house, because he was afraid of the woodsman and his axe, but now he became bolder. One day the dragon was lounging among the trees, looking out at the house. He saw the young mother come back from the village carrying food items. He listened as the mother called out, “number one! Come out. Number two! Come out. Number three! Come out. Number four, stay where you are.” He had seen the mother do this before, and sure enough, on this day as well, three very tasty looking girl children came out of the house. It made the dragon hungry just to lay eyes on them. The dragon began to wonder: how can I manage to eat these three wonderful children?

The dragon went back into the woods and thought about it, and he came up with a plan that he thought was a very good one. He went very far back in the forest, where no one could hear him. There he practiced sounding just like the mother! Over and over again he practiced her chant, wanting to sound just like the mother calling her daughters to come out of the house. After a few days of practice, he thought that he had it just right.

He went back to watching the house, and one day the mother left for town. After the mother was gone for a long time, the dragon approached the house. He cleared his throat a little, and began. “Number one! Come out. Number two! Come out. Number three! Come out. Number four, stay where you are.” But nothing happened! The children had heard him alright, but to them his voice sounded like a giant steam whistle!

When the Dragon realized what had happened, he tried to think about how to fix the problem. He went to see a plumber that he knew about, and asked for his help. The plumber examined the dragon’s voice pipes and said, sure, I can fix it all up so that you sound just like the mom. It’s always nice to know a dragon that owes you a favor, and the plumber did not think at all about why the dragon wanted to sound like the woman. This plan worked perfectly.

Now the dragon, with his new voice, returned to the woods near the house to wait for the mother to leave for the town again. When she did, he waited long enough and approached the house for a second try. Sure enough, this time, when he made the chant in the mother’s voice, the three children ran out of the house to see their mother. Instead, they ran right into the dragon, who gobbled them down without a moment’s hesitation. How proud the dragon was that his plan had worked so well! He went way back into the woods to rest and digest his meal.

After a while, the mother came back. She noticed that there was blood and bits of clothes around the house, and even some pieces of bone and hair. She looked in the house, and she saw that her three daughters were gone. She hardly noticed that Philomadre was over in a corner mending clothes. The mother began to scream and tear out her hair when she realized what had happened. She ran off and didn’t come back.

After a couple of days of waiting, Philomadre ran out of food and went to the village looking for help. Her mother had never been friendly, so no one in the village liked the family. No one would help Philomadre. They told her to go to the city. Maybe someone there would help her.

Philomadre was allowed to enter the city, but she did not know anyone who lived there. She didn’t know what to do. She went to the big market, because she was very hungry. She asked around, did anyone need any help with anything? Could she please have some food? No one was being very nice about it, but finally she ran into some women who worked at the palace. They always needed extra help at the palace, because there was so much to do. When the women found out that Philomadre knew how to do all sorts of things, every kind of housework that there was, in fact, including making clothes, they took her back to the palace and put her to work. She worked at the palace for many years, and grew up to be a very, very beautiful young woman.

On one lovely spring day, the Prince was walking around the grounds, and he saw Philomadre working on something. He had never seen her before. That’s how big the palace was, you really couldn’t even get around the whole thing and see everybody. The Prince asked her who she was, and she told him that she worked there, which he didn’t believe, because she was too beautiful to be a servant. They got to know one another and before too long they fell in love. The King became very fond of Philomadre, and he allowed them to get married. They were very happy together.

Years went by. Philomadre and the Prince had children of their own, and everything was really very nice. The old King died, and the Prince became the new King. Philomadre was the Queen! It was all like a dream come true, even though it was a dream that Philomadre had never dared to dream for herself while she was only “number four” working so hard back at the house near the forest. Now Philomadre was a mother herself, and she loved all of her children dearly, and they loved her. “Life is strange,” thought Philomadre, although she did not yet know just how strange life could get.

One day there was a tumult around the main gate of the city. Philomadre sent one of her handmaids to see what it was all about. She was told that there was a madwoman hanging around the gate, mumbling and laughing. Philomadre decided to go and look for herself. She was amazed to discover that the madwoman was her own mother! Even after so many years, it was impossible not to recognize her. Even dressed as she was, in a heap of the shreds of old rags, her feet unshod, her eyes not focusing on anything that anyone else could see, her teeth mostly gone, and her hair now a shocking white color, sticking out from all angles like a haystack, Philomadre clearly saw that this madwoman was her birth-mother.

She took her mother back to the palace. With the help of her handmaids, they cleaned her mother up and dressed her in some decent clothes. Her mother was given a nice room, with a big comfortable bed and a balcony from which one could see the whole city. Her mother was in such rough shape that it took a long time for her to start looking like her old self again, although older, of course. When she first came to the palace, her feet were so rough that you could strike matches on the bottoms! Even after her appearance returned, she remained completely mad. She never again looked anyone in the eye, never again said a word directly to anyone, or understood a word in return. Why, she never even recognized that Philomadre was her daughter.

Philomadre visited her mother’s room every day. She made sure that her mother was taken care of in every way. She sang songs to her mother, and sat for a long time, brushing her mother’s hair. She never intruded on her mother’s madness, but only watched over her.

“Mother, you never cared for me,” said Philomadre, “but now I will care for you.”

I have written on this blog many times about the way people casually put odes to motherhood on Facebook, or lavishly praise their own mothers as having been saints of some kind. I have tried to tell those people that they are the lucky ones, that not everyone shares their experience, nor shares their fond memories of their mothers. Some of us, like Philomadre and me, had mothers that were an absolute challenge to love, and some of us, some smaller number of us, can manage to put the past behind us and forgive our mothers in their human imperfection. In this, I did my best, but I am well and truly outshone by Philomadre, who is the patron saint of this phenomenon. This story makes me cry every time I tell it, or even think about it. It reminds me of a loss that can never be remedied. I hope, dear reader, that you enjoyed this story, and that your experience growing up with your mother was different than mine.  

We Become Our Moms: Discuss

“As we get older, at some point we become our moms.” I’ve heard this said over the years; I read it in a ‘Net article recently; and I’ve been accused of it myself. Maybe the truth is out there in the gray areas, which is true of almost anything when you think about it.

It has never been evident to me, by observation, that anyone in my experience has actually become “like their mom.” Some people adapt mannerisms from their moms; others may develop some personality traits that they seem to share with their moms; and many may evince similar behaviors in some ways. Everybody though, I’m sure, remains their own person, with most of their characteristics not being shared with mom.

My ex- told my on several occasions that I was “just like my mom.” I took it as a very hurtful thing to say, because we both knew that my mom was a thoroughly disagreeable person. Unless you didn’t know her, that is. She was rather nice, and friendly, to people outside the family. With us, though, she took no steps to hide her misery and she took very effective steps to bring that misery into our experience of the world.

That is a rather important difference between my mom and me. She directed her misery outward; my own misery is directed exclusively inward. I think exclusively, anyway. Some unintentional spreading of misery surely happened. I generally tried to hide it from the family, my coworkers, and others, but sometimes there was no mistaking it. There was no conscious effort to share my misery, however, I never felt the need to inflict it on others for the purpose of either sharing it with them or making myself feel better. My mother did both of those things, with clear intention and often with obvious enjoyment. So, yeah, saying that I was like her was hurtful. That might have been intentional, too.

Even where some characteristics may be shared, there are big differences in the degree and the effects. Oh, it’s enough, already. This is not a confessional blog.

There are things about my ex-wife in my notes for this post, but I’m not going there. I have never had anything but admiration and love for my ex-wife. That and deep appreciation for everything that she has done for me and for our children. She’s been a great mom, and she’s mostly responsible for my having had a very successful family life. But she’s got a mom, too.

When my mother-in-law died, all three of her siblings were at the funeral. When she thought that no one was looking, her youngest sister approached the casket alone. She stood still for a time, and then she shook her head back and forth and said, out loud, “well, Annie, maybe now you won’t have to be angry at everybody all the time anymore.”

I would never say, to my ex-wife or to anybody else, that she was “just like her mom.” That would be a ridiculous thing to say. My ex-wife was a great mother to our children, a much more well-rounded human being, much more ambitious than her mom had been, and generally a much nicer person. But maybe none of us escape completely bringing into ourselves something of what we learned at our mother’s knee.

Mothers are the most significant others, starting before our births, so it is reasonable to think that we may, in ways big or small, model their behavior. We also carry their genetic inheritance, which will influence our personalities. But let’s not go around glibly accusing people of being like their moms, or foolishly suggesting in print that we all, at some point, become our moms. Most people, including me, don’t want to hear it. 

My Mom's Typical Day

If it was sixty-four degrees outside, it was too hot; my mom’s day was ruined.  If it was sixty degrees, it was too cold; my mom’s day was ruined. 

If it was raining, my mom’s day was ruined.  If it had snowed overnight, my mom’s day was ruined.

If my mom even thought about cleaning house or cooking dinner, her day was ruined.

If my mom talked with one of the other moms on the phone, and one of their children had achieved some success or other, her day was ruined.

If something prevented my mom from drinking until late in the afternoon, her day was ruined.

If my mom had to get dressed up to do something, her day was ruined.  If she had to drive somewhere, or walk somewhere, her day was ruined. 

It was easy for my mom’s day to be ruined, and if her day was ruined, then everyone’s day had to be ruined.  Everyone in the family anyway, which generally meant my sister and I. 

And now we must be bombarded with motherhood memes on social media.  Share if mom was your best friend!  Unconditional love!  Mom helped me so much!  Mom enabled my success!  Mom encouraged me!  I miss my mom in heaven!  There’s no end to it.

These brief odes to motherhood are acts of violence to someone like me.  Please believe me when I say that I am very happy for all of you lucky ones who were blessed with loving mothers.  But please realize, you beloved, that your tender feelings are a great sadness to someone like me.  I loved my mom too, but for me, and others, it was a very different experience of motherhood. 

Filial Devotion

The other day I was having a coffee with a couple of friends.  The subject of mothers came up innocently, and one friend, in an effort to be considerate, asked me if my mother was still living. 

“Oh, God no,” I said, “my mother has been torturing people in hell for many years now.” 

Why would someone say such a thing?  Well, I have my reasons.  Before you think ill of me, please bear in mind:  you were not there.

Nothing was ever good enough for my mother.  I got terrific grades in early grammar school, top of the class.  But even a 99% average was disappointing to her.  I usually got the 100%, but even that was not praiseworthy.  That’s what was expected somehow. 

My parents were quick to find fault, quick to criticize, and they were never satisfied.  I was a good boy, generally, and I was well liked by most of the other parents, by my teachers, and by most of the other children too.  At home, I never got any credit for this. 

But just let some little thing go wrong!  Or wrong in their eyes anyway.  Nothing was ever good enough for either of my parents, and anything at all could become an opportunity for disapproval.  I am grateful to my father at least for limiting his reactions to mere disappointment and occasional degrading, sarcastic remarks.

My mother, on the other hand, would wait until we were alone and then start with the screaming and the beating. By the time I started grammar school, all of the wooden spoons in our kitchen had a least one side broken off.  

It was always about them, my innocent actions somehow had no meaning other than the effect they had on them, particularly my mother.  Everything in the world that was bad happened only to make her miserable.  She was capable of real violence.  How could I do such a thing!  Didn’t I love her!  Then would come the worst part.  With an imploring look, and tears in her eyes, she’d say, “don’t you know how much we love you?”  These torture sessions were the only time that she would tell me that she loved me, and then only in this backhanded way. 

This abuse often came by surprise.  Some news would come to her through the grapevine while I was out, some news of a scolding at school or a fight at the playground or the park.  Returning home at any time, any day, there was no way to know what to expect.  It was a nerve wracking crap shoot for me.  She might be reclining on the couch, enjoying a cocktail and watching American Bandstand.  No problem.  Or she might be waiting for me just inside the door, crying already, screaming immediately and clubbing me with a TV tray like some TV wrestler. Often I had no idea of the reason for the beating, and never found out.  

The only silver lining here is that my sister seems to have escaped this kind of treatment, almost entirely escaped it.  She kindly told me recently that the beatings really shocked her and that she remembers wishing that she could do something to help.  Thanks for that.  You’re a great sister.

After I was about ten years old, and my sister six, my father spent twenty days per month or more on the road for his job.  It was a very good job, and he made great money.  At this time he made an emotional detachment from my mother.  Their intimate relationship ended, and he became cool to her and to us, the children.  In effect, he abandoned us.  This did not improve my mother’s mood, he said drolly. The beatings went on all through high school.  

This post is an apology of sorts to anyone who may be surprised, or shocked, at the things that I might say on the subject of motherhood, my mother, Mothers’ Day, anything at all in that genre.  Mothers’ Day in particular usually reduces me to tears, the sense of loss is overwhelming.  The heartwarming stories of encouragement and support, the sincere demonstrations of appreciation and love, it all cuts me to the bone.  So I may seem cruel sometimes. 

Please understand that you do not share my memories; you do not suffer from my nightmares; you have not lived almost your entire life with voices in your head telling you that you are inadequate and that your only chance to save yourself is self-sabotage.  If you choose to find my attitude ungrateful, mean-spirited, or worse, please also bear in mind that you may be wrong.  My response may be the correct one.  I was there.

I say this all now because my mother is well beyond my complaining.  Many others too, separated by the grave from offense.  I was very good to my mother while she was alive.  She loved to talk on the phone, and I called her frequently so that it would not appear that she was doing all of the calling.  I was very kind to her.  My only rule was that we could never speak of the time I had spent in her house, I would change the subject immediately if that time came up in any way.  Even then she only wished to engage in revisionism, or outright exculpation.  I’d get off the phone and say to my wife, “when I die, I’m going straight to heaven, because I was nice to grandma.”

I loved my mother, I love her still. I came to accept her as a flawed human being who had given me the gift of life, even if she made it very difficult to enjoy that gift.  When she died, I felt mostly relief.  For her, because life had obviously been such a torment for her.  For myself too though, because the effort to forgive and forget had been difficult.  I also felt, and continue to feel, a great sorrow that no resolution or acknowledgement had been possible during her lifetime.  And there’s also the fact that anyone who views my life, with all of its failures and shortcomings, will know nothing of the contributing circumstances.  No one except you readers!  All twenty of you!  Thanks for that.