The Agony and the Ecstasy of Having a Mother
by Rose Surnow
When I was five years old, I had multiple obsessions: side ponytails, fuzzy stickers, and Teddy Ruxpin, to name a few. But my greatest obsession by far was my mother. I was head over heels, rom-com-style in love with her. I followed her everywhere she went, hid in her skirts, and slept curled in her arms. I was a barnacle and she was my fungusy rock.
I loved her so much that I flat-out asked her to marry me once. I don’t remember this, but she told me that one night she was reading me a bedtime story and I just blurted, “I’m nuts about you! When I grow up, I wanna marry you.” She gently replied, “Aww sweetie, that’s what you think now, but that will change.” My feelings did change thank Christ, and I no longer want to betrothe my own mother. Besides, we’d make a terrible couple: She’s a nerdy scientist who doesn’t drink and enjoys horrible things like birdwatching, and I’m more of a lowbrow, goodtime gal who likes to get crunk.
Now I’m 29 and my relationship with my mom has gone through several dramatic changes. The “Mom as Princess Genius” phase ended when I was about seven. The next phase was “Mom as Mortal Enemy,” which, as was the case with most girls, was also known as my teen years. A hormonal, emotional lunatic, I was very cruel to my old lady during this time. If she tried to hug me I would gag, when she said “I love you” I rolled my eyes, when she asked me how school was I would stomp out of the room and slam the door. I was a real peach.
I remember once when I was 13, I had to put on a nice dress to go to a wedding. When I came out of my room wearing makeup, heels, and a lace dress, my mom said, “Oh Rose, you look so beautiful.” My response was a disgusted, “Ewww, don’t be a lesbian.”
In high school, we would get into Kate Moss/Johnny Depp level fights that involved threats, crying, and cursing. “Why don’t you go live with your father!” she would scream. “Why don’t you grow up and act like an adult!” I would respond. My mom was going through menopause, I was going through puberty, and the house was like one big psychotic vagina.
The worst fight we ever had took place in the kitchen. I don’t remember exactly what spurred this one particular verbal duel, but most likely it had something to do with my “rude tone of voice.” We exchanged insults as my mom washed the dishes, and then as she was drying a steak knife she turned it toward me and said, “You’re like some kind of horrible gang child!” In reality, I was a drugfree Jewish virgin, so “gang child” was a bit of a stretch, and I just burst into laughter at the absurdity of it all, which made her even more angry. Plus, what was the hell was she planning to do with the steak knife? The whole thing was so dramatic and ridiculous. It like we were being filmed for some trashy reality show called “Crazy Moms and Shitty Brats.”
Now that I’m older, I realize that a lot of my anger from that time was just about missing her. I really needed my mom during my teen years, and she wasn’t really there. She was single and had to work full time to be able to take care of my sister and me. Too busy and overwhelmed with her own issues — financial trouble, romance, work — she couldn’t really focus on us. Usually she came home from work around eight, by which time I’d already eaten dinner and was in my room listening to Tori Amos, trying to write slam poetry.
In high school, I had a really hard time. I was a misfit, I wasn’t popular, and I was really lonely. My mom would come from work and ask me how my day was, but I rarely knew how to answer. I hate it? I don’t fit in? I don’t know who to sit with at lunch? Instead, I would just say, “fine” and lock myself in my room.
In college, when I moved out, our relationship got way better. I was still angry and resentful, but I was more open about needing her. I called her to ask advice about school and boys. I said, “I love you” at the end of phone conversations. The anti-mom stance was starting to crumble. Then, as an adult, I spent a lot of time working to heal myself. I carried so much anxiety and sadness from my childhood, and I just didn’t want to hold onto it anymore. And I’ve learned that the happier you are, the less angry you are at your parents. It’s just not as relevant when you’re digging life.
I started writing this essay on Valentine’s Day when I got a little care package from my mom. It included chocolates, a beautiful rose-scented candle, and a note that said, “I love you so much.” She’s sent me Valentines my entire life, no matter what. Whether I’m single or in love, living in the United States or abroad.
Despite the rough times we’ve had and the pain we’ve caused each other, no one in the world will ever love me like she does.
My mom is 60 now, not super old, but not super young either. I call her every time something good happens in my life, if I get a job or a boyfriend or if I publish a new piece, and she’s always on the edgeofherseat to hear about it. She’s on my team. She thinks I can do anything. It terrifies me to realize that she isn’t going to live forever. I can’t imagine a day when something exciting happens, not being able to call her. But I guess that’s what growing up is: realizing how lucky you are for the people in your life. And realizing it before it’s too late.
I don’t want to marry my mom anymore, but I will definitely love her as long as we both shall live.
Rose Surnow is a writer in New York; you can follow her @rosesurnow.
Photo via Flickr/AlbertoAlgerigi
