Did your mother have any unfulfilled dreams or regrets that you were aware of?

Mom never talked about any aspirations, dreams, or regrets, at least not that I can recall. I think she wanted to be an aristocrat. Her family definitely had the money, but being farmers, they weren't refined in their ways. When my siblings and I were growing up, we were always pressed and pleated just so, every hair in place and the corners of our mouths wiped clean for presentation. We were taught to be seen and not heard, unless we were asked to display our charming manners or brilliant intellects. We were groomed as dolls and performers. Our life was a perpetual tea party for the public eye, even though at home was quite a different picture.

Mom liked being a trophy, I think. She always wanted others to be impressed by her abilities and her life. As the wife of a Baptist pastor, she would greet the members of the congregation with beaming face and perfect grace. She idolized Jackie Onassis in those days. She organized potlucks and parties that would make the church ladies "ooh" and "ah" over her imaginative decorations and her perfect presentation. She would have fit in beautifully, had we lived in Stepford.

As I mentioned before, we children were her accessories. My twin sisters were dressed and treated alike in every way, much to their resentment. My brothers raised as perfect masculine figures. They were given every benefit of being raised in a patriarchal home. By the time I was old enough for school, my siblings were already moved out of the house and on their own, so I was left as the remaining pet for my mother to preen. I was dressed in white button-down blouses with wool plaid skirts or, for church  and parties, I had a large collection of frilly pink and white dresses, each with its own matching pair of bloomers. For special occasions, There were at least one or two princess-like gowns in my closet, but these only came out for pictures, Christmas, weddings, and funerals. Each of these outfits were coordinated with a pair of white tights and either white or black patent leather shoes, depending on the season.

When Dad moved out, mom was a mess. She had lost the arm she clung to. She still maintained the act, despite the fact she was no longer the trophy. Days dragged on, one after the other, and she slowly became more and more depressed. Many times, she wouldn't even bother getting out of bed. She was a poor housekeeper under the best of circumstances, the only exception being when company was expected and on those days every corner of the house was made to sparkle, but during her depression, she stopped cleaning altogether and she hoarded things like newspapers and magazine articles in knee-high piles on the floor.

But I digress.

Mom never fulfilled her dream of being a storybook princess and I think she regrets not having the wherewithal to have stolen her own portion of the family fortune, such as her brother and sister did.

But that's a story for another day.

What are the three most important life lessons that you learned from your mother?

As discussed previously, my mom just isn't very good at doing things on any sort of normal human level. Thinking about the life lessons she's taught me brings to mind plentiful scenarios in which she did precisely the opposite of what any person with reasoning ability and a pinch of empathy would do. This brings me to the most important life lesson I've learned from my mom:

1. Even bad examples are worth learning from.
   
   There were times when we'd go without when it was just Mom and I in that house. She worked hard and did her best, but her priorities were all wrong.  She worked two jobs and I was a latchkey kid. Frequently, she'd pick me up from school, dash through a drive-thru with a Dollar Menu, and drop me off at home, with no time to spare before she needed to be at her other job, usually temp work for adult education, such as GED and program placement testing. I'd get home, do as much homework as I could keep my focus on, which admittedly wasn't much, call friends, and sit outside with a book and a cigarette to watch the sun set. Living "alone" as a pre-teen sounds pretty glamorous, but there were definite issues. Mom had stopped grocery shopping a long time ago. This posed problems when She didn't have time to run through Taco Bell for my dinner. Throughout the week, I'd steal pocket change from her, $2 here or $5 there, so that I could walk to the local convenience store for dinner. There was an outside chance I'd be invited to dinner at a friend's house once in awhile and those opportunities were taken with deep gratitude, but mostly, I was on my own.
   
   Money became tighter as time went on. One summer, we went entirely without electricity, because Mom had spent all of her paychecks on a new wardrobe for work. It goes without saying that Arizona summers are hot, but sitting through one without air conditioning was dreadful. I'd sleep in my underwear on sheets that I'd soak in the bathroom sink. The evaporation kept me cool enough to sleep through the night, but just barely. I'd stay after school as long as possible or linger around other air conditioned places as long as they'd let me, before going home and entering the oven I called home.
   
   I know she did her best and I am grateful to have had a roof over my head and clothes on my back, but I was fully aware that I was not being given the chance at childhood that my friends took for granted. While I longed for a different life, I was dedicated and determined to keep my mom above the sinkhole she was creating for herself and it was when I realized that I was doing her job for her, that I also realized that she had given me all I needed to be a strong, independent woman--I just had to avoid her bad example.
   
2. Love hurts.
   
   Taking care of my mom was a difficult balance. I had to go through the motions of adolescence, finish school, act like a normal enough child to retain a few friends for sanity's sake, keep Mom's schedule for her, find productive outlets for myself and make room in my mom's schedule for them, keep mom together enough emotionally to get her through each day, and then keep as much of my self-respect intact as possible, while I took the blame for absolutely everything that went wrong in and outside of our home. I was a perpetual whipping boy (girl?) for everything that distressed or disrupted my mother in any way. Each day I'd get yelled at because she was running late and I hadn't helped her to get ready sooner. Each night I'd get yelled at because she was stressed out and I was the nearest victim. It seemed that every moment in between was filled with more blame and more hurt, over and over and over again, every single day.
   
   We had good moments, of course, but they came few and far between. We'd go to the dollar movies or to the park and have a good day of it. The relief was always welcome, but it never lasted long. She was so wrapped up in her own world, I'm certain she never noticed how much I'd aged in the few years she and I lived alone. But I was responsible for her. I had to take care of her no matter what, because if I didn't, who would? And I loved her so much, she was still my mom, after all, but while she had me to take care of her, I only had what was leftover at the end of the day to take care of myself and I was soul weary and heart thin. It still hurts to think about the years I lost to that arrangement, but I'm not sure I would change anything if I could go back and do it again. I was there when she needed me most and that is all that matters.
   
3. It's okay to love someone from a distance.
   
   We were never good at the whole mother/daughter thing. Our roles became blurred and we almost constantly battled for power. I learned that I couldn't live with Mom, or even stay in the same room with her, for any amount of time if I valued my sanity and my self-respect. However, she had given me a lot. I was a determined young woman. I had unusual confidence and was well-spoken. I could handle stressful situations, even talk to people in positions of power (e.g. debt collectors, administrative offices, etc.) with relative ease. I knew how to keep myself fed and I was street savvy. I was an active learner of all life had to offer. I owe all of these traits to my mom, for without her I would not have had to learn these things.
   
   So yes, I love my mom, very much in fact, and I have much to be thankful to her for, but that didn't help the guilt I felt when I could no longer take care of her. I had reached a point when I needed to take care of myself and leave her to her own devices. I couldn't take her blame anymore and I couldn't keep getting upset every time she messed up. I had to leave her to take care of herself, because I needed to be me.
   
   The distance from her always had strings attached. I'd always get phone calls from her, begging for help with this or accompany her for that. When I didn't give her what she wanted, she'd always lash out. If she knew where I lived, I'd get unannounced visits. She was always lonely or depressed or desperate about one thing or another. I tried to be passive, but it slowly soured to passive aggressive. I harbored some resentment for the privilege I felt was owed to me. Later though, I came into some situations that I couldn't handle on my own and it was then that she really shined. She kept faith in me and helped me in every way she could. She, of course, made it the most painful and humiliating process possible, but she honestly tried to be the mother I needed her to be and there isn't enough gold on Earth to repay that kindness from her.
   
   I'm nearly 3,500 miles away from her now, but looking back I can see that we both made mistakes. The distance has actually rebuilt our relationship in a way I didn't expect and I have far more tolerance and patience now for her than I ever did before. We can pretend when we talk on the phone that we are just mother and daughter now. We can keep things cordial, even if it means we don't ever have anything more than light conversation. I can love her without reservation for my own well-being, because there's not much she can do to hurt me from so far away and my shoulders are that much lighter, not having to carry her burden.

What trait did you admire the most about your mother?

Mom doesn't have a whole lot of admirable traits. That's not to say that she's a bad person, she just doesn't do things because they are right or good or just for the sake of doing them. She always has an underlying motive. For the most part, I think this is an unconscious thing. She isn't aware that she is as manipulative as she is. She doesn't understand that things can be done because you want to and not because some type of recognition or benefit will be had in the end. I like to think of her egocentricity as that of a 3-year-old, constantly seeking validation and constantly trying to get her own way.

A good example of this was when I was pregnant with my first child, Seren. Mom had invited us down to Phoenix to visit (we lived in Holbrook, AZ at the time), so that we could do some heavy-duty baby shopping. We spent several days there, combing through Babies R Us,  making lists, and discussing what things we thought would be useful. One day while we were looking at crib sets, Mom asked me what I thought about Winnie the Pooh. I explained to her that while the stories are near and dear to me, the commercialization of the series just wasn't something that appealed to me, so I'd just as soon buy something more neutral, than go with any of the Disney-branded paraphernalia. That was the exact moment when the entire mood of the day lost all of its momentum. Later, when we went back to our hotel, we discovered that Mom had bought several hundred dollars worth of baby gear and left it for us to find in our room. Among the items, was a Winnie the Pooh crib set. I called mom and told her how much I appreciated everything, and that it was all just perfect, and that I couldn't wait to get it all home and set it up. Before I could address the crib set, she insisted in her most despondent voice that I could take it back and exchange it for a different one. Of course, this wouldn't do. I have to apologise for leading her to believe I wouldn't like it and convince her of how appreciative I was that she thought so well to buy it for us. The moral of this story is that every question Mom asks is loaded and should be handled as if her feelings are at stake, because they frequently are.

When I think of what trait I admire most about my mom, there are always exceptions like this one that come to mind, but I think what I really admire most about her is her undying faith in me. Every time I was in a situation where my world was collapsing around me, she was there to help in any way she could, even if it meant going without, herself. Even if we weren't good at being mother and daughter, even if we couldn't stand being in the same room together, even when she had nothing to give, she's always been there, believed me, and helped me to my feet.

When I think about my own children, I often fear becoming the person I know my mom to be. I strive to be a better parent in almost every way and I want earn the respect of my children, something I never truly had for my mom until I was much older. However, the one trait I strive to emulate is her commitment to caring for her children. It's in those rare, lucid moments that she truly shines as the beautiful woman I know she can be.

Where was your mother born?

My mom's name is Norma, but everyone calls her Jeannie. She was born in Phoenix, Arizona March 14, 1943 to a rodeo cowboy and his wife. Mom was the oldest of six children, five of whom still survive, and was named after her father, Norman. She was raised on the dairy farm in Tolleson, Arizona my grandparents bought with money scraped and saved from my grandfather's rodeo days.

She used to tell me stories of growing up on the farm. It seemed to me there were nothing but chores in her stories: feeding cows, milking cows, feeding calves, branding calves, castrating bulls, feeding chickens, plucking chickens, feeding horses, breaking horses, training horses, tilling fields, planting crops, harvesting crops, and on, and on, and on. Somewhere between all the work a farm requires, there were also stories of waterholes for swimming, playing in the sun, eating Sunday dinner, and arguing with siblings. I always pictured her as a sort of character from Huckleberry Finn with skinned knees, dirty face, and hand-sewn hand-me-down clothes.

My aunts and uncles speak of my mom as the sensitive child, always needy and always complaining. This seems completely appropriate to me, as Mom is still all of those things to differing degrees. Mom was a lovely young woman, shapely and leggy, dark hair, blue eyes, and pale, lightly freckled skin. I can't bear to think about the type of guy she might have dated in high school or the kind of high-maintenance girlfriend I can only assume she was. She has a confident air about her, but she rarely makes decisions on her own and refuses to take responsibility for her own actions. This is not to say she isn't a good person, she just strikes me as a woman who relied too long on her looks to get through her life. In fact, she is a very loving, considerate person; she just has misguided values.

Mom helped to raise her siblings, the youngest of which are only a few years older than my own sisters. She has mothering in her bones and teaching in her blood. She was a homemaker for most of her life. Having married a pastor, she dedicated herself to raising her children to be perfect doll-like creatures, who were as charming and delightful as she pretended to be. It wasn't until much later, the early 1980s in fact, that she took herself to college and earned a teaching degree. And why wouldn't she do just that? Every female in her line, for as long as is documented, have been nurses or teachers, including all three of her sisters.

Getting Started

I've been thinking of writing an autobiography for at least 15 years, but if I'm to be honest from the get go, I should admit right here that I am lazy and unmotivated. Even now that I've gone to all the trouble of starting this blog with the express purpose of examining the details of my life, I'm being lazy. I don't even want to go to the effort of thinking of my own subjects to write about, so the next 175ish posts in this blog will be based on this list of prompts I randomly came across. Don't expect me to post frequently or even regularly; I suck at that. Quite frankly, it will come if and when it comes, in my own good time, because fuck you. This is my story. This is the unbelievably true story of me.