matriarchy

If I'm going to start a new blog, I suppose that I should start at the beginning: my mother. As people often do, I have issues with my mother. At this point in my life they are not nearly so consuming as they have been in the past. However, I made the following comment about her recently in response to someone's blog and have been thinking about her a great deal since........

I'm the fifth of six and wouldn't have it any other way. my mother was not good at "parenting skills"......but she's a fucking awesome person. Her mothering was often laden with her Irish guilt (despite the fact that she has never been catholic. go figure).

she was inconsistent.
she was a workaholic.
she was insecure and codependent.

but she taught me all of the most important lessons that I've ever learned.


I could write chapters, books, and volumes on my mother and could still never explain the beauty, the wonder, and the dysfunction that is uniquely hers. But it has taken some time to come to this place. I recall distinct moments in my life that changed and shaped how I saw my mother. For the sake of maintaining this entry a blog and not a novel, I shall restrict the retelling of those moments to a few. When I was about five years old and she decided that she needed to inform me that my dad was not my father. (I know, that's confusing. Imagine grasping that at five.).

Lee Artho was a jolly alcoholic, to hear my recollections of him. However, I have been aware since the first family counseling session that my mother took me and all of my siblings to, that he was also abusive. I'm sure that the abusive side of him was what she was concerned about the day that she turned to me in the car and said "You understand that Lee is not your real dad, right?". I remember being quite confused, but nodding my head anyway. And resenting her immensely for saying so. In my five year old mind, I thought that she was being mean. As I grew older, I came to understand that she felt that she was sparing me something that she did not have the luxury of sparing my sister. My sister is somehow the only one who understands why it is that I continue to refer to him as my dad.

My resentment toward my mother grew as I got older. She favored my sister blatantly (which she will deny to her dying breath). At every crossroad in my life, my mother inconsistently enforced (I know. that's an oxymoron) guidelines that she felt were necessary for me not to be a hooker like her: I couldn't get my ears pierced until I was 13. No make up until 16 (mind you, she was the one who purposely put me in school a year early meaning that I was in high school at 13). No boys until 16. And no one on one dates whatsoever until I graduated high school. .........somehow these rules never applied to my sister who was smoking pot with my mother at age 14. I resented her so much by the time that I left home that I didn't speak to her for a year.

As a teen, I thought her to be a hypocrite. period.
As an adult, I have a more objective view of her and see that she is beautifully flawed. That she was like so many who perpetuate the dysfunction they are trying so hard to escape. At the height of my disdain for her. Shortly before I moved out, I found myself being pursued by the epitome of white trash. He rode a motorcycle, sported tattoos (two of which were "Shedtown dots". marks intended to signify the wearer is a proud racist.), was a high school dropout, was three years older than me, and didn't have a job. I thought for sure that dating him would give my mother a coronary. Cause her to stroke out right in the middle of the kitchen. I couldn't wait! So when he stated that he was coming by my house (something that I typically would have vetoed for two reasons: I didn't allow my mother to meet boys that I was interested in and I didn't take well to being "told" anything by boys. The second part hasn't changed :)......I said "What time?".

To my dismay, my mother didn't flinch. She was gracious and even showed interest in his tattoos. WHA?!! What kind of mother are you?! I thought. Of course, I immediately lost interest in the pawn (which was her precise intent). At 15 this angered me. At 25 I admired her for it.

I think this is the extent of the Mother Memories that I have the patience and time for today.......part two will be slightly more uplifting. maybe.