What My Mother Taught Me

My sister recently tagged me in a Facebook post that read, “My mother taught me everything except how to live without her.” My sister and I were both very close to our mother so I fully understand the spirit in which it was posted. We have both grieved and struggled without her in our lives. My sister, being my mother’s “baby”, may well have been hit harder than me, and that seems unimaginable.

Be that as it may, I disagree that my mother didn’t teach me to live without her. The job of a good parent is to make oneself redundant. That is, to raise independent, fully functioning adults. My mother fulfilled that role, not only with me but with my sister. Emotionally, we miss the hell out of our mother. We can, and do, however, live without her every day and have done so for nearly nine years.

Being the older child, I’m sure my journey has been different to that of my sister but these are the lessons that I learnt from my mother, which have enabled me to live without her.

Ironic as it seems for someone with Panic and Anxiety Disorder, my mother taught me to live and explore without fear. She allowed me freedom from a very young age and I spent lovely long hours of my childhood on solitary bike rides. That freedom extended to walking to and from school alone from the time I was seven. Furthermore, as much as it must have stressed her, she allowed me to visit New York City by myself when I was just 18.

My mother taught me that a woman can be a mother and love her children without making her whole life about them. She had a full work and social life both when my sister and I were growing up and after we’d left home. I know she suffered when we’d both left home but she was also busy following her own pursuits.

By having a life apart from my sister and me, my mother was often out in the evening. This meant that, from my early teens, I was often responsible for organising dinner and clean up, and making sure my sister was bathed, teeth brushed and in bed. My mother groomed me well for my eventual transition into motherhood. The trust she had in me was illustrated by the fact that, when I was only nineteen years old, she made me the executor of her estate and gave me power of attorney.

The fact that I can and do live without my mother doesn’t mean I enjoy doing it. I miss her voice at the end of the phone line. I miss dropping in on her and having a chat over coffee and biscuits. I miss asking her family history questions. I miss telling her about the minutiae of my life. I miss her cooking. I hate the fact that she hasn’t been a part of her grandchildren’s lives. There are so many moments in all four of their lives, I know she would have loved being a part of. I wish that our new “surrogate daughter” could have met her. I wish that, as I went through all my gynaecological issues, she’d been around to tell me about her own experiences and been a sounding board for me to bounce ideas off of. Not a day passes that I don’t miss some small thing about her.

My mother lost her own parents within nine months of each other. I saw her grieve for them. I also saw her pick herself, dust herself off and get on with the business of living. She taught, by example, how to eventually live without her.