In Daughters Begin Dreams of Mothers

"Tell me about your mother," Freud would say. I do not know where to begin.

A lover of coffee and chocolate, a singer of made-up lyrics, a maker of chocolate cake so decadent it sends any child into sugar spasms for days. A connoisseur of literature, of laughter, of wild hair. Throughout my childhood, I yearned to be and feared of becoming all that was the mysterious mother. "Oh Empress Mother," Jacy and I would refer to her as, at first in joy, then through gritted teeth.

As a practitioner of sarcasm and the perfect eye-role, I resented all that was unconditional. My mother never pressured me to be anything; she only loved what I was. It's funny, how I shuffled through my entire life waiting to be approved of, hoping to be adored, but when I had it right in front of me, I kicked it to the ground. I needed justified adoration, reasons to be proud of me, not just because I existed. I feared becoming worthless in everyone else's eyes because I was special in someone's eyes. There would be no motivation to change, no push. I would fall stagnant, victim to the world's cold wind of rejection.

She valued hard work over recognition, over status. In her rejection of the authority of "full professor" status or other notions of prestige, I deemed her apathetic to the world's expectations. I said horrible things. I watched her face fall. Addicted to rage, I continued to lash out more, partly because I did not understand her antics, but mostly because I saw myself in her, her in myself. The lines became less clear. I did everything for the sake of her attention--surely an eating disorder would gain more concern over an autistic brother--but the lines blurred aggressively, out of my control. The tension of our relationship became fiercer, my accusations harsher.

I did everything to "fly out of the nest," but really, I fell out. Pride didn't really get me anywhere, and justified approval felt no more fitting than unconditional love. It almost felt colder. In the throes of adolescence, I almost looked at my mother as though to say I dare you to stop loving me, I dare you. She never did. She'd be there through the sobbing phone calls when he stopped liking me, through draft after draft of English papers, through the pains, but never the joys. She went through it all with a positive attitude, and a love that never waned. Only now do I realize, I never said thank you.

I thought, at sixteen, that if I could just exit my mother's house, I would exit her thoughts. We both struggle with the ability to let go, and I assumed that by ripping out all ties, life would be easier somehow. But less connections, as it turns out, don't call for a straighter path. A lonelier one, perhaps. When she acknowledged and fully accepted my desires to be disconnected, I realized that it was the nature of unconditional approval, laughter, and love that I missed most.

I can't re-do those six years of my life. But I can say thank you to the mom who initiated dance parties to Prince and The Talking Heads, to the mom who taught manners but allowed a designated "rude day," to the mom who facilitated play dates, parties, and growing up.

To the moms out there, us daughters may act like we'd do anything to not be you, but we yearn to become what we don't yet understand.

Namaste.