I just can't do it. I cannot lie to save her feelings or get on her good side. My experience is my experience. As I learned by having my daughter, it's not easy raising a child. She has different memories than I do. The difference can be startling.
The truth is that I don't have many good memories of growing up as Charleen's eldest child. I have good memories but mom is just not involved. I remember being yelled at, backhanded, lied to, and stolen from. I remember being made to be my sister's keeper, then my other sister's keeper, and then, my brother's keeper. I don't remember ever being allowed to just be a kid. I remember being sent to bed whenever the atmosphere got light.
I grew up in a cigarette smoke cloud. Mom smoked a blue streak whether at the beach, in the house, or in the car. My father smoked, her friends smoked, her second husband smoked, her boyfriends smoked, up until my current stepfather, who has never smoked but tolerated her smoking. I learned from my aunt when I came for a visit that I smelled like a cigarette. Nice! When I was young, my grandparents even smoked.
I grew up feeling more like staff than a loved member of a family. I was ordered about at my mother's beck and call constantly. If she needed her cigarettes, she'd tell us children to fetch them. Glass of Pepsi with ice, empty her ashtray, find her lighter, find her keys, carry the groceries, clean the toilet, do the dishes.. Sweep the floor, scrub out the trash cans, scrub the bathtub, no scrubbing bubbles, no Comet, use your elbow grease.
"Watch your brother and sisters." "Why aren't your chores done?" "The dishes are still greasy. Do them again!"Never a thank you, only expectation. Pointing out my failures, never let me win. Make me beg and plead for any minor freedoms. Out to play? Watch your siblings. Punish me when they inevitably do something wrong or hurt themselves.
I couldn't wait to escape my hopeless existence, my prison life. I left home as often as I could. First, my grandparents would rescue me, couched in terms of summer vacation. Sweet relief! I still had chores but they were more age appropriate. Dusting, vacumning, ironing hankies and doilies, doing the plates and cups (not the pans, glasses, nor knives) and alongside gramma to offer me suggestions. Garbage duty wasn't disgusting. I got to mow the lawn by helping Grandpa with his hands on the handle with mine.
Then I'd get freetime to play. Grandma taught me ways to build my confidence by including me in her hobbies. .She made beautiful and delicate porcelain lace dolls. This was not age appropriate, but painting ceramics was and she taught me. Oh, there's a good mother memory! After discovering my talent, mom took me to Bonney Lake where she paid for me to make King Tut and Nefretiti in gold leaf no less! I wish I still had those. I was 17-years old. And I had returned from my stay with my aunt and uncle.
My grandma taught me many handicrafts she was interested in, including: needlepoint, crewel embroidery, weaving, crochet, Cross-stitch, and macrame'. Grandma did gorgeous china painting but she also did tole painting and painted with acrylics. She taught me some rudimentary tole painting skills by teaching me how to paint a strawberry onto a decorative wood piece. I first had to practice, practice, practice on wax paper.
My mother is an amazing knitter. She taught me the basic knit and purl stitches when I was 16 when I took an interest in one of her afghans. I went on to make rudimentary stockinette stitch scarf in my school's colors. I went on to make a beautiful knit 2, purl 2 tube top. Something I wasn't allowed to buy.
Okay, life got better as I became more of my own person, when I proved my abilities. Oh, I still fetched and carried at her beck and call but I became less willing to be bullied and verbally-abused. One day, quite organically, my sister and I stood up to my mother. She went ape shit, hitting us both but this was nothing new and eventually we learned that she couldn't hurt us anymore. We barricaded ourselves in our bedroom, more to protect her from us. I was done taking shit off my mother. I decided that I was out of there. I wiggled out the window torn shirt and all, and accepted a ride from a stranger down to my job at Wendy's. Once there, a co-worker saw the evidence of my altercation, called her parent, and moved me in.
To say that I'm a hater, would be incorrect. On the contrary, I love my mother. I had many, many resentments and hurts to overcome. But, I did this. I had to realize that my mother is human and as such, is imperfect. I can stew about the way I was raised but that would've diminished any future. That would've been to my detriment. I would have missed out on a lot of happy memories later in my life. My mother did not stay the same. When I could forgive my mother for her human fallibility, I was able to see her attributes. She is very intelligent. I can thank her for passing that biology on to me. Same for my brown hair and eyes.
I've had the joy of knitting and crocheting with her. We used to dress up and go out for tea and scones. We've worked together. We've vacationed together. We've cooked together for holidays. We've traded recipes and patterns and books. I gave her the only granddaughter she's likely to know. I'll be leaving her a wonderful son-in-law.
My mother, it turns out, loves me. And, I love her!
The truth is that I don't have many good memories of growing up as Charleen's eldest child. I have good memories but mom is just not involved. I remember being yelled at, backhanded, lied to, and stolen from. I remember being made to be my sister's keeper, then my other sister's keeper, and then, my brother's keeper. I don't remember ever being allowed to just be a kid. I remember being sent to bed whenever the atmosphere got light.
I grew up in a cigarette smoke cloud. Mom smoked a blue streak whether at the beach, in the house, or in the car. My father smoked, her friends smoked, her second husband smoked, her boyfriends smoked, up until my current stepfather, who has never smoked but tolerated her smoking. I learned from my aunt when I came for a visit that I smelled like a cigarette. Nice! When I was young, my grandparents even smoked.
I grew up feeling more like staff than a loved member of a family. I was ordered about at my mother's beck and call constantly. If she needed her cigarettes, she'd tell us children to fetch them. Glass of Pepsi with ice, empty her ashtray, find her lighter, find her keys, carry the groceries, clean the toilet, do the dishes.. Sweep the floor, scrub out the trash cans, scrub the bathtub, no scrubbing bubbles, no Comet, use your elbow grease.
"Watch your brother and sisters." "Why aren't your chores done?" "The dishes are still greasy. Do them again!"Never a thank you, only expectation. Pointing out my failures, never let me win. Make me beg and plead for any minor freedoms. Out to play? Watch your siblings. Punish me when they inevitably do something wrong or hurt themselves.
I couldn't wait to escape my hopeless existence, my prison life. I left home as often as I could. First, my grandparents would rescue me, couched in terms of summer vacation. Sweet relief! I still had chores but they were more age appropriate. Dusting, vacumning, ironing hankies and doilies, doing the plates and cups (not the pans, glasses, nor knives) and alongside gramma to offer me suggestions. Garbage duty wasn't disgusting. I got to mow the lawn by helping Grandpa with his hands on the handle with mine.
Then I'd get freetime to play. Grandma taught me ways to build my confidence by including me in her hobbies. .She made beautiful and delicate porcelain lace dolls. This was not age appropriate, but painting ceramics was and she taught me. Oh, there's a good mother memory! After discovering my talent, mom took me to Bonney Lake where she paid for me to make King Tut and Nefretiti in gold leaf no less! I wish I still had those. I was 17-years old. And I had returned from my stay with my aunt and uncle.
My grandma taught me many handicrafts she was interested in, including: needlepoint, crewel embroidery, weaving, crochet, Cross-stitch, and macrame'. Grandma did gorgeous china painting but she also did tole painting and painted with acrylics. She taught me some rudimentary tole painting skills by teaching me how to paint a strawberry onto a decorative wood piece. I first had to practice, practice, practice on wax paper.
My mother is an amazing knitter. She taught me the basic knit and purl stitches when I was 16 when I took an interest in one of her afghans. I went on to make rudimentary stockinette stitch scarf in my school's colors. I went on to make a beautiful knit 2, purl 2 tube top. Something I wasn't allowed to buy.
Okay, life got better as I became more of my own person, when I proved my abilities. Oh, I still fetched and carried at her beck and call but I became less willing to be bullied and verbally-abused. One day, quite organically, my sister and I stood up to my mother. She went ape shit, hitting us both but this was nothing new and eventually we learned that she couldn't hurt us anymore. We barricaded ourselves in our bedroom, more to protect her from us. I was done taking shit off my mother. I decided that I was out of there. I wiggled out the window torn shirt and all, and accepted a ride from a stranger down to my job at Wendy's. Once there, a co-worker saw the evidence of my altercation, called her parent, and moved me in.
To say that I'm a hater, would be incorrect. On the contrary, I love my mother. I had many, many resentments and hurts to overcome. But, I did this. I had to realize that my mother is human and as such, is imperfect. I can stew about the way I was raised but that would've diminished any future. That would've been to my detriment. I would have missed out on a lot of happy memories later in my life. My mother did not stay the same. When I could forgive my mother for her human fallibility, I was able to see her attributes. She is very intelligent. I can thank her for passing that biology on to me. Same for my brown hair and eyes.
I've had the joy of knitting and crocheting with her. We used to dress up and go out for tea and scones. We've worked together. We've vacationed together. We've cooked together for holidays. We've traded recipes and patterns and books. I gave her the only granddaughter she's likely to know. I'll be leaving her a wonderful son-in-law.
My mother, it turns out, loves me. And, I love her!
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