My mother and I didn’t always have the best relationship, especially during my teen years, which I suppose is not that unusual. However, for several years I barely spoke with her, doubting her love for me. Making myself unavailable as though I was proving the point.
It wasn’t always that way. I have very fond memories of my mom from my preschool years and even early elementary school. After that, things get a little more fuzzy and complicated due to family dynamics and our own set of dysfunctions. Still, I recall working on crafts together, having her help in my Head Start classroom, and later volunteering as my Brownie & Girl Scout troop leader. I also remember the special homemade birthday cakes she baked for me and the Cabbage Patch-inspired dolls she made.
A few years before I got married, we reconciled and I’m glad we did. As a teenager, my angst and anger made sense to me. The perceived slights and injustices. The battle of mom versus daughter. Regardless of the legitimacy of my feelings then, I know now how immature I was.