Being a Mother Without a Good Mother

This isn't going to be a clean post. I expect for it to be messy, without clean lines of syntax and imagery. I told myself I wouldn't agonize over finding exactly the right word. And I expect this will be hard. After all, it has all been hard. 

Sunday is Mother's Day. I'm looking forward to the day spent with my husband and little guy. Just the three of us, enjoying our time together as a family. Living in the small moments that add up to a happy life. Not without its stress, of course, but a happy life nonetheless. 

I keep asking the universe when I'm going to have an easy year. 2013, 2014, and now 2015 have all been marked by some major event that borders on, if not dipping fully into, traumatic. And now, the afternoon before Mother's Day, I find myself inundated not by thoughts about my own role as a mother, but about the role my own mother played in my life. The woman I haven't spoken to in almost a year and a half. 

I could dedicate an entire book to the reasons why, so I won't do that here, but when I do think about my own definitions of motherhood, my own expectations of myself, how other people perceive me as a mom, my thoughts inevitability turn to the fear that has scarred my heart for the better part of my life. 

After a terrible, terrible event, long hours of soul searching, and hours in therapy, I finally accepted that I did not have a good mom. And when I finally accepted it, took that knowledge inside of myself  and swallowed that bitterness down, I was so ashamed and afraid. Ashamed for the years I had defended her and tip toed around the truth. Because it hurt too much to admit and face it. Afraid of the woman and mother I would become. How much can a girl without a father and now without a mother amount to when she starts her own family? 

Every day I am wracked with self doubt. Am I paying enough attention? Am I responding in the right way? Am I letting myself become too frustrated? Too angry? Should I be doing more? Saying more? Giving more? Should I not do that? Should I not say that? Am I raising my voice too much? Ohgod, ohgod, ohgod. Am I screwing it all up? Will he hate me? Will he grow up resenting me? Will he become an adult and have only memories of Mom being overbearing or irritating? Will he, one day, sit in front of a doctor and talk about all of the ways his mom messed him up, as I have done? 

It is my greatest fear to become the mother my mother was. And I don't know if I'm doing it right. I don't know if I'm a good mom. I hope that I am. There is no self assurance in knowing that once upon a time a woman did right by her daughter, and that now I will do the same. I fear that those old habits have leaked into me like quiet poison, and even now, some small moment from earlier in the day is a tell tale sign of my failure. 

And I mourn. The loss of that little girl who thought everything was so normal. The loss of the person who was supposed to be the touchstone of my life. The loss of the naive young woman who denied the truth. I mourn all of it. 

Somewhere else in this world, I know that she may read this and say that I've gone crazy. That I'm misremembering. That I'm brainwashed or lying or dramatic. And that may be what hurts most of all. 

Years from now, I hope that the pain I feel now is nothing more than a faint memory of hurt. All I can do is hope for it. 

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A Review of The Children of Old Leech

A wonderful, wonderful fellow writer was the first person to introduce me to Laird Barron. That weekend, I lost myself in his strange world, both horrified and fascinated by the mythos he’d created.

The Children of Old Leech succeeds in paying homage to Barron in all of the best ways. I had to read this book in small sips, delaying gratification so that I didn’t squander any of the pleasure. The worlds built in each story vary but that makes them no less terrifying. So many of the stories are incredibly told, but I’ve focused on only a few of my favorites.

“The Harrow” by Gemma Files takes us under the earth, into a place of darkness, a place of old holes filled with things we can never understand. Perhaps one of my favorite stories of this collection.

Orrin Grey’s “Walpurgisnacht” took us inside the shimmering line between that which is seen and that which isn’t and peers closely into the occult world that is just behind that veil. Loved it.

“Good Lord, Show Me The Way” by Molly Tanzer was one of those stories I simply did not want to end. In fact, at its conclusion, I stepped away from the book for a few days because I wanted to stay in that place she had built, the Church of the Broken Circle. Another one to number among my favorites.

T.E. Grau’s cosmic horror in “Love Songs from the Hydrogen Jukebox” was a tripping balls kind of experience that isn’t often replicated in the written word. One of the more specific connections to Old Leech. Fantastic.

It took me a minute to get into the non-tagged dialogue of Richard Gavin’s “The Old Pageant,” but when I did, this story blew me away. The inscription on Donna’s footboard had me shivering from the outset, but that ending. Wow.

Paul Tremblay consistently knocks it out of the water, and his Notes for “The Barn in the Wild” is no exception. Everything here coalesces, rises together to form a perfectly tight story.

Michael Griffin’s “Firedancing” was yet another story that bathed us in cosmic horror. Everything in the center of the earth opened and laid bare.

Daniel Mills’ “The Woman in the Wood” left me shivering. It’s a difficult thing to pull of period dialect in a subtle manner, and Mills hit the nail on the head. Not to mention some truly terrifying imagery. Rushed off to buy his collection immediately after reading this story.

I’d previously read “Brushdogs” in Stephen Graham Jones’ After the People Lights Have Gone Off. I loved it then, and I love it now. Jones may be one of the most talented writers I’ve read lately.

Overall, the collection is stellar. A few stories weren’t exactly my cup of tea, but this is due to personal taste not lack of talent. A worthy representation.   

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