I don’t have one of those warm fuzzy moms.
That’s what I used to tell people. An example: She once snapped “You’re not cold” to my shivering body. She was looking right at my face; should have been able to see my teeth chattering. Maybe she meant she wasn’t cold. Maybe she meant “I wish you weren’t shivering right now. I don’t know what I can do about it.” That would fit the circumstance as I remember it.
Was she warmer to my siblings? Not in a way that stands out. But somewhere inside me lives a recollection of her tenderness toward my sister. The baby.
Yep. I’m the middle child. Whether or not Middle Child Syndrome is real, here are some things I’ve noticed. I end up right in the middle of things over and over. Often, and not always wisely, I put myself there. I am skilled in that space; pulling pieces together from all around me to make things work. Seeing what others need or hearing what they are asking. I made a career using those abilities and am still interested in that role. Like all strengths, it is a blessing and a curse, much like the place it comes from.
A Place of Nothingness
Her dying was hard. The process was long, and she had concerns about leaving us. Our mother was hoping to determine how things would work with my sister and the man she was seeing. Mother wanted to keep my brother sober for good. Mother, it seemed, was scheming ways to control all that. To make things work out the way she thought best.
But “I don’t worry about you,” she said. And in a sad instance of mental editing, the idea that I was doing nothing she was worried about got skimmed down to a pain familiar to me in our relationship: I was doing nothing she was worried about. This is heartbreaking as a self-concept, and I don’t carry it. But I do venture into variations of being nothing.
Flow state comes to mind.
Working in my yard sometimes, I’m unaware of anything but the movement of tools in or on the ground. The same can happen with other projects, especially creative work (some of mine here). It feels like transcendence to melt into a big space—be it the woods or the sea of humanity.
Self-forgetting is useful in being of service in the world. Setting aside judgement, sentiment, or my own agenda for someone is the groundwork for powerful listening. Witnessing. I work at that.
In my most calm times, I can see what is happening as a simple observable fact. Like this: I return from a bit of doomscrolling to find I’ve ruined some hash browns in the skillet. So, those just burned, I might think. I watch my hands as I throw them in the compost bin. Move on to what’s next. Neutral. Not attached.
That same style of raw fact-finding could boil down my whole reason for existence to something this simple …
My Parents FuC<*d
To think, my whole being was set in motion by a certain moment Mother had with my dad. Sperm meeting egg. (Sentiment must re-enter here with an ewww!) That instant created a strong body and brain that would carry around my unique soul and roll with the feelings in my heart—including love for her.
She gave me life. Brought me to the world. No small thing!
Under her watchful eye and razor-sharp commentary, I grew into Susan Walker. Then, moved on to find and tread my own path. To carry on with creating, but not to bear a child of my own.
All that is the backdrop to this time. May. The life force is vivid in Vermont. It is green everywhere. Perennials return, plants are started from seeds. Baby animals stand in fields. Kids are wrapping up a school year, growing up, graduating.
The eighth Mother’s Day without her comes and goes.
I’ve thought about her a lot. Warmly, often enough.
