The Imperfect Perfect Mom

Mom—it’s a loaded word, in numerous ways, for many of us. It connotes every emotion and state of being from pleasure to vexation. Conversations about mothers make coffee shops, hiking trails, and therapists’ offices hum.

My Mom passed a few years ago, and I think of her often, but our life together wasn’t always idyllic. Karl Jung resurrected the idea of the dark side of human beings with the shadow archetype. Mom definitely had a shadow side, and Jung would have liked that she didn’t keep it hidden—she expressed it, often to the chagrin of her children.

Mom’s shadow side made it difficult to choose a Mother’s Day card. I would pull card after card from drugstore racks trying to find something that honestly reflected our relationship, but Hallmark, American Greetings, Papyrus…they all failed miserably. That’s because my mom, like our relationship, was a one and only.

If Mom had had better access to good healthcare, she very likely would have been treated for depression, alcoholism, or maybe even bi-polar disorder, but she wasn’t. As a result, we kids saw her Mrs. Hyde side more than we would have liked. But, and it’s a big BUT, the sunny side of Mom was something to behold, something to wonder at, and something I cherish deeply nearly every single day.

Mom was give-you-the-shirt-off-her-back kind to man and beast, creative, resourceful, an incredible and inventive cook and baker, an encourager, a light-handed mentor, and maybe even a mystic. She foraged for our food and made the most delicious meals. Her chocolate éclairs rivaled any I’ve eaten in Paris. She seldom fussed in the mirror, but managed to look beautiful without make-up in her uniform of blue jeans and flannel shirt. She decorated our windows at Christmas with Santa, sleigh, and all eight reindeer with paint made of food coloring, water, and powdered laundry soap. She led us on long walks, especially in spring and fall, when we could see life coming up and life dying out. On stormy nights, we would count the beats between thunderclaps, and open the windows, so we could watch the lightning and feel the rain on our faces. Sometimes, Mom lit a candle and held a séance, resulting in my siblings and I shivering with glee and a healthy dose of fear.

One of my last and most cherished memories of Mom was when she was dealing with dementia. I visited her at the nursing home, in Wisconsin, where she lived the last four years of her life. I had picked a vibrant and lush, pink peony from Grama’s garden at our family home and brought it to her. When she saw me her eyes lit up like a Fourth of July sparkler—no shadow to be seen. I handed her the flower and she inspected it. She watched a few ants crawl out from the petals. It was as if they came out to greet her—as curious about her as she was about them. Mom buried her nose in the center of the bloom and inhaled deeply. When she looked up, her eyes brimming with tears, she said, “That smells of home, Grama’s garden.”

By this time, I, too, was crying.

Mom grinned, clutching her peony.  “I love you, honey,” she said. And I knew that that was the truth, and always had been, and always would be.

Today, it would be so much easier to choose a card for Mom. Many of the words and sentiments would be fitting, because I now understand that when love is present, maybe hidden in the dark, but present, it can’t be lost. Not death, not shadows, not illness, can take away true love.

So, on Mother’s Day, no longer tasked with trying to find the right card, I take a moment to say a silent prayer to and for Mom, a song of praise, a poem of reverence, a thank you for her eternal love.