My mother always wanted a girl. But growing up, I knew I wasn't the perfect little girl she'd always wanted.
My mother was (and still is!) quiet, clean, and orderly. I was (and still am!) loud, messy, and disorganized. She dolled me up in dresses and curled my hair; I changed into jeans and brushed my hair straight. She wanted me to take piano lessons and win Bach competitions; I wanted to take riding lessons and compete in horse shows. We were such opposites, I felt like a complete disappointment.
And I had the nagging sense that if only I'd had the mother I always wanted -- one who would enjoy me rather than criticize me -- my life would be so much better.
*****
2006. A major holiday. Daniel and I are staying with his family, and I'm supposed to cook several dishes for our huge feast. Thinking my recipe cards (typed on 4 x 6 cards and laminated -- wedding gifts from my Perfect Melancholy mother!) are in my purse, I drive 45 minutes to the nearest grocery store.
At Safeway, I reach for my recipe cards...only to find them missing. I call the house, but nobody answers. Going back for them will take me 1.5 frustrating hours. Call Mother pops to mind.
No way! I think. She'll criticize me for forgetting the recipe cards and for failing to make a grocery shopping list. And I hate it when she criticizes me!
But criticism wins over wasted time. I flip open my cell phone. "Mother, you won't believe where I am or what I need..."
Sure enough, she chides me, "Didn't I teach you to make a grocery list?" Then she reads ingredients and quantities as I scribble frantically on a crumpled envelope dug from the depths of my purse.
I'm about to end the call when I realize I need clarification. "What kind of bread crumbs should I get?" I ask, scanning the shelves. "Plain? Garlic? Italian?"
Immediately, my mother launches into a spontaneous commercial for the exact flavor and brand that she knows is best (describing the box front with amazing accuracy!)
Her voice has taken on a new quality. It sounds like...eagerness? I test my theory by asking about the canned milk. Same response: perfectly detailed instructions that help me find the precise product I need.
I try again. And again.
Forty-five minutes, my mother has guided me through the entire store, helping me select every single ingredient on my list. There's no mistaking the tone in her voice, now: pure enjoyment.
Suddenly it hits me: my mother misses me. The one thing we did share while I was growing up was the kitchen. Every Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas dinner, I was her assistant. Nobody else was even allowed in the kitchen; it was just Mother and me.
And I realize something else, something I never "heard" as a child, so hyper-sensitive to the slightest criticism. I realize that my mother's habit of telling me what to do and how to do it isn't evidence of disappointment. On the contrary, her zeal for perfection is a reflection of how desperately she wants everything to be "just right" for me. It is evidence of how much she loves me.
*****
My mother is not the mother I always wanted. But one thing I've learned is that she is the mother I always needed. She is the perfect mother for me, after all.