Mother-Daughter-Stranger
I went to Ikea with my mom this morning, and as we were driving home she told me if my brother rags on her at lunch about getting a new car (and the fact that there are now two identical cars in my parent's driveway, the difference being the second has four wheel drive) to tell him to be quiet and I when I asked what he was saying, she got in a whole huff about justifying the purchase, and I just kind of smirked next to her. I felt like her need to overjustify the purchase when I hadn't provoked it sort of shed light on her own doubts about it.
I laughed and said "I don't know how I was born of you", lightheartedly. She asked me what I meant and what was so offensive. I dodged the question a bit and said "Well Mom, it's just that things like expensive cars, and prada bags are a symbol of a really ugly part of western culture." And she nodded slightly in agreeance. Before she could say anything, I said "I know, I say this as I sit here with an iPhone, and I do feel guilt about that in some ways."
We went to the liquor store and she bought a 60 of Bombay Sapphire gin and a couple bottles of wine. Sometimes I think maybe she thinks if it's something as classy as gin & tonics and white wine, it's okay. Not that I think it's particularly wrong to have wine in the evenings. I kind of wanted her to hold the 60 and have me snap a picture. Something is funny about her in her pant suit and pearls buying a sixty of liquor, whatever kind it is.
We get back in the car, and a memory resurfaces - I asked my mom if I could shave my legs in 7th grade, and she told me she wasn't sure, and to ask our family friend down the street (who was a warm, empowered lady) what she thought. This, from a woman who shaved her legs religiously. I ask my mom why she had hesitated back then and she said "Oh, well, if you start shaving your legs, you can never stop." and I laughed, because although I won that argument and started shaving my legs, I stopped 3 or 4 years ago.
It's strange, sometimes I wonder what my mom thought her life would look like one day. Are there conflicting values that lie under the surface? I feel once upon a time she took herself for a feminist - went to law school in the 70's, a second-wave career woman. Votes steadfastly liberal. Pro-choice. Artist. Once upon a time, this woman was letting her 11-year-old daughter read Margaret Atwood. She taught me what sex was before I entered kindergarten, but the day I brought home free condoms for my high school from my Planned Parenthood job, she told me to hide them from her husband.
What happened? Was she swept up in the culture of her profession? Of her husband? Does she regret it?
Somewhere in her is she proud of me for holding the values she had lost or now suppressed?
Sometimes I find myself fantasizing about a conversation we have in which I find out all these details. I imagine it happens some time after her husband passes away. In my mind, it happens over lunch, or on a walk, and we are both adults, on equal ground, and she admits to me how much she lost in this marriage. She tells me how she wishes it had worked out, but how proud she is that I grew up such a strong woman. She tells me how she never wanted to hold me back, that's why I had no rules. It was deliberate, but silent support of me, all she could muster from beneath him.
But in all honesty, this fantasy is probably grounded in very little. When we were alone in the car, I tried to make conversation. I dug up bits of my weekend to share, and babbled about my G20 experience, but she said very little, uninterested. She asked me who I went to pride with, and I started to list the friends I was with, but it didn't much matter. They were just names to her. My life is so very far away from hers, and I get the feeling that I'm just not her type, and that's not something that will change. But the older I get, the more okay that feels.
I laughed and said "I don't know how I was born of you", lightheartedly. She asked me what I meant and what was so offensive. I dodged the question a bit and said "Well Mom, it's just that things like expensive cars, and prada bags are a symbol of a really ugly part of western culture." And she nodded slightly in agreeance. Before she could say anything, I said "I know, I say this as I sit here with an iPhone, and I do feel guilt about that in some ways."
We went to the liquor store and she bought a 60 of Bombay Sapphire gin and a couple bottles of wine. Sometimes I think maybe she thinks if it's something as classy as gin & tonics and white wine, it's okay. Not that I think it's particularly wrong to have wine in the evenings. I kind of wanted her to hold the 60 and have me snap a picture. Something is funny about her in her pant suit and pearls buying a sixty of liquor, whatever kind it is.
We get back in the car, and a memory resurfaces - I asked my mom if I could shave my legs in 7th grade, and she told me she wasn't sure, and to ask our family friend down the street (who was a warm, empowered lady) what she thought. This, from a woman who shaved her legs religiously. I ask my mom why she had hesitated back then and she said "Oh, well, if you start shaving your legs, you can never stop." and I laughed, because although I won that argument and started shaving my legs, I stopped 3 or 4 years ago.
It's strange, sometimes I wonder what my mom thought her life would look like one day. Are there conflicting values that lie under the surface? I feel once upon a time she took herself for a feminist - went to law school in the 70's, a second-wave career woman. Votes steadfastly liberal. Pro-choice. Artist. Once upon a time, this woman was letting her 11-year-old daughter read Margaret Atwood. She taught me what sex was before I entered kindergarten, but the day I brought home free condoms for my high school from my Planned Parenthood job, she told me to hide them from her husband.
What happened? Was she swept up in the culture of her profession? Of her husband? Does she regret it?
Somewhere in her is she proud of me for holding the values she had lost or now suppressed?
Sometimes I find myself fantasizing about a conversation we have in which I find out all these details. I imagine it happens some time after her husband passes away. In my mind, it happens over lunch, or on a walk, and we are both adults, on equal ground, and she admits to me how much she lost in this marriage. She tells me how she wishes it had worked out, but how proud she is that I grew up such a strong woman. She tells me how she never wanted to hold me back, that's why I had no rules. It was deliberate, but silent support of me, all she could muster from beneath him.
But in all honesty, this fantasy is probably grounded in very little. When we were alone in the car, I tried to make conversation. I dug up bits of my weekend to share, and babbled about my G20 experience, but she said very little, uninterested. She asked me who I went to pride with, and I started to list the friends I was with, but it didn't much matter. They were just names to her. My life is so very far away from hers, and I get the feeling that I'm just not her type, and that's not something that will change. But the older I get, the more okay that feels.