My Many Mothers.

Aware of Mother's Day this coming weekend, I've been reflecting on the many women in my life who have acted as mother-figures. I'm sure we all have several of those women who in some way took on the role of adviser, mentor, nurturer, supporter, throughout our lives. Any childhood has the capacity to have been fractured in some way, and in my own childhood, that came from the combination of divorce and my mother's alcoholism. I've spent close to 33 years formulating my vision of my mother as a whole, and still, I feel as if I've only scratched the surface. Maybe we all feel that way. But whatever the whole picture is, she was flawed, and her mothering style left gaping holes which others, thank God, stepped in to fill, either because I sought them out to do so, or they saw the need and did so anonymously and without being asked.

I think my first "surrogate Mom" that I can recall was my 7th grade English teacher, Mrs. Horowitz. If memory serves me correctly, (another thing I've realized lately, coming from an alcoholic childhood, is that some swaths of memory seem almost made-up, they're so fuzzy and soft that perhaps the reality was too hard, and so I created some nicer memories out of necessity) even her first name was the same as my actual mother's, Nancy. Nancy Horowitz, in my memory, was the first woman besides my Mom who singled me out as someone special, and talented. She made me feel like I was special in a good way, like I had something inside that was unique and good, maybe even great. She showed me how to fall in love with words, how words could create whatever lovely existence or reality I wanted. Through her guidance, I could make my life better by simply imagining it to be, and putting the words in my mind down on paper. She made me feel loved, and good.

Other friends' Moms also stepped in to make me feel mothered in ways I just couldn't find at home. I remember a particular set of two girlfriends, Tina and Sam, whose Mom's seemed to sense that I needed some extra acceptance and nurturing. Sam's Mom especially seemed to make it a point to invite me along on their family trips and vacations. To me, she was a vision of glowing golden warmth and vitality. In her I saw what I decided was what an ideal Mom should be; she projected joy and love for her own kids in a way that was different from my own Mom, and it felt safer and less likely to shift suddenly. I think I felt a measure of awe that her kids didn't seem to have to earn her love, it was just always there, heaped upon them for the simple reason that she felt it and she gave it because they were her children. That was one of the first times I witnessed real, unconditional, motherly love.

One substitute Mom seemed to have been rather reluctantly, and innocently ill-prepared, nudged into their role. That person was, of course, my step-mom. Obviously, the only more complicated relationship with a woman that I had was with my "real" Mom, and I could probably write a whole book on the difficulty, felt from both sides, of what accepting a new reality, a new mother-force in my life, was like. I can only say what it was like for me, it was confusing and hard, there was no instruction book or how-to guide on what to feel or how to know what I meant to her. All I knew was that this was who my father had fallen in love with and chosen to spend his life with. I wasn't sure what that meant for me. We had gone to the requisite divorce therapist, but knowing that it was "not my fault" didn't translate to what I was supposed to feel or how I was going to be inserted, already with personality formed, into this other woman's life. Or, if that insertion was going to be welcomed. I didn't know if I was an added bonus, or an added burden. After all, all she knew was that this was the man she had fallen in love with, and he had two daughters with a broken Mom. As I sit here sifting through the memories of that time, I have to say, I am only now seeing what a leap of faith she must have felt that she was making. What a risk that was, to knowingly choose to become the dreaded "step-mom".  To say our relationship had its ups and downs is a laughable understatement. She would have had to have a PhD in child psychology to have been ready for the new life she suddenly found herself in. But she stayed, she made a life of her own with my father, and with me.

 It took me many years to truly accept her, and what she gave of herself. My mother got the credit of being the Mom, the kisser goodnighter, the tucker inner, the Mommy memory I created through both intentional, and subconscious, deletion and addition of qualities and memories desirable, and not. When your own Mom is the best and worst thing about your childhood, the one who took her place, in your other parents life, is shouldered with the task of holding the broken pieces later and attempting to make whole the shattered mess. Out of choice. Out of love. Imperfect, and perhaps unexpected and ill-fitting, as it may be at times.
And for that, I am so grateful that she stayed, when for so long I only wanted her to leave. That is love.

So, as it was, I staggered into young adulthood with few skills or tools for living a purposeful or goal driven life. I guess I sort of just felt as though I barely survived my childhood, with my awkward and furious grabs at motherly love. The combination of feeling motherless and the desire to be mothered led me to become reckless, but desperate for approval.

I myself showered love and care on anyone. I would "take care" of whatever wayward friends needed a couch to sleep on, laundered their days lived-in clothes, made them meals, drove them wherever their ill-considered plans took them. But through all of this, it was me who needed care. As much as I told myself I was independent, strong, a survivor, I was really just a child who needed guidance. I self-medicated, and ran with the absolute wrong crowd, but through it all, I kept reading, devouring books, and kept imagining and writing a better life for myself. The guidance that Mrs. Horowitz had given me in 7^th grade had carried through, and still, deep inside me, I knew and believed that I was special. Somewhere, in my heart, I knew that I was smart, I knew I had purpose, I knew I was meant for something. I just had to keep going.

Enter "Mama Joyce". I think it was an immediate connection, and I actually think that I immediately started calling her Mama Joyce. Joyce was (and is) that kind of person who just exudes competency and safety; I felt, always felt, that Joyce was a beacon in the storm. She had been through more than her fair share of tragedies, but she just kept keeping on. She was still able to see the good in the World, the beauty in music and friends, the humor in circumstances. She taught me so much, where do I even begin? She foremost taught me personal responsibility. That my life is just that....mine. No one elses decisions or actions have any effect whatsoever if I don't allow it. The past is the past, I don't live there anymore. It's my job to be a good human being. It's no one elses' responsibility, it's mine and mine alone. If I continued to look back at all of life's transgressions against me, I was missing the chance to have a good one now. I was raised with empathy and compassion, but sometimes those qualities turned to inward self-pity. Mama Joyce picked me up, shook me off, and said "Okay, you've had a good cry. Now move along." And for that I can never express enough gratitude.

From all these Moms, and my own, I blended together the lessons and gifts they taught and gave. I try to leave out the things that still hurt, but if there's one thing I've learned, mothering means making mistakes. Making mistakes, but owning them and trying to make them right. 

Oh, Moms of the world, whether you have children or not, Thank You. Thank you for giving love, however you express it. Thank you for spotting those kids who need you. Thank you for nurturing dreams and bestowing self-esteem on those who might not see it at first. Thank you for picking up fragments and providing the glue to make something strong and useful. Thank you teachers and friends, parents who choose to love children they didn't bear, stalwart models of survival and joy. Thank you thank you all my many "moms", Happy Mothers Day.You made me the Mother I am.