Sometimes, Moms Just Know

This week before Mother’s Day, I’m revisiting a regret-filled childhood memory that I now see in a completely different—and more grace-infused—light.

• • •

Let’s say you are the only person in the history of the world who was so embarrassed by your mom in fourth grade that, when she volunteered to be a parent chaperone on the field trip to the state capitol, you specifically asked your teacher if you could be put in a group other than your mom’s.

Let’s say the guilt from this rejection haunted you throughout your life, up until the time when your mom was nearing the end of her life and you wondered if you should apologize for it.

Let’s say you didn’t—that at the time you figured she knew you loved her and the past is the past and that anything you said now would be more for yourself than for her.

Then a couple of years later, when you’re writing about your parents—their lives, their deaths, their relationships with you—you have somewhat of an epiphany. You realize that, as much guilt as you felt about that incident over the years, your mom never once brought it up.

Surely it must have hurt her feelings. She was only human after all—how could it not? Maybe she processed it with your dad, maybe not. But you realize, all these years later, that she never said anything about it to you.

Is it possible that she realized all the changes that were taking place in your mind and body that year? When, at age 10 and a foot taller than everyone else in your class, you started your period? That it wasn’t her, specifically, you were embarrassed about, but maybe life in general?

You don’t remember ever talking with her about the cauldron of turmoil that existed within you during your years of puberty. But maybe, somehow, she knew something of it.

• • •

I have no idea what was going on in my mom’s mind at that time. She still had a whole houseful of children—including several strong-willed teenagers and a young adult who was living at home while going to college—to take care of, so maybe she was too busy to give much thought to the rejection of a fourth-grader.

Maybe this is my attempt to reframe parts of the past to facilitate some kind of healing—a practice I’ve read is not necessarily a bad thing to do after your parents die.

Then again, I’m reminded of grace, and what a powerful thing it is. I’ve felt plenty of guilt over the years, but when I think objectively about the situation, a few obvious facts smack me in the face.

I was 10 years old. A kid with a mom who had her own set of issues, some of which she never dealt with her entire life. I know children can carry guilt about childhood grievances long into adulthood, but in this case, I don’t think it was warranted.

Then I think of my own children at that age. Neither of them ever did anything that came close to requesting not to be in their mother’s field-trip group.

One of them pretended not to know me once, when I came to school to volunteer in her sister’s classroom wearing my hair up like a rooster’s plume. I figured that’s what she was doing, and she didn’t deny it when I pointed it out to her later.

But I didn’t hold it against her—then or now.

In the grand scheme of life, it was nothing.

In my mind, my rejection of my mom in fourth grade was far worse than this, and yet, she didn’t hold it against me. I say this with assurance because I saw her respond the same way to other siblings whose actions may have hurt her. She never stopped loving them, and when they came back around, she accepted them as they were.

She wasn’t perfect, my mom. I have a very clear recollection of a time when her reaction to something I did was unduly harsh. But I also have another vivid recollection of her apologizing for this episode several years later.

That apology made an even bigger impression on me than the original event. All these years later, I remember them both, but the second one lessens the sting of the first.

I made it my goal, when I became a mom, never to let myself get so out of control with my children that I did something I would seriously regret. I regret a lot of things in my life, but I’ve kept this promise I made to myself.

I think my mom would have been proud of me for that, and I’m thankful.

• • •

Over the last few decades, I’ve viewed Mother’s Day from many perspectives—that of barren woman, adoptive mom, mother of two teenagers, newly motherless daughter, mom with rapidly emptying nest. No two women experience this day exactly the same, even from year to year, and wherever you find yourself this Mother’s Day, your thoughts are welcome here.

♥ Lois

P.S. I’m linking up this week with #tellhisstory, InstaEncouragements, Recharge Wednesday, Let’s Have Coffee and Grace & Truth.