When my mom died, something amazing happened. I listened as everyone who knew her, my brothers and dad included, remembered her in the angelic terms. She became a saint. She had done no wrong. She’d been unfailing patient and kind and loving. She’d never said a harsh word about anyone else. She’d always thought the best of us, no matter what we did. She endured the stupid things other people did with understanding and grace. She’d never acted out in jealousy, rage or stupidity. She’d never been selfish.
In short, she was perfection.
I have absolutely no clue who those people were talking about.
This is not to say that my mom wasn’t a good person. She really was. But in redefining who she was, I started to feel like we were forgetting the woman who shared our lives. The beautiful thing about my mom is that she was imperfect and she liked it that way.
Imperfection was sort of her thing. A ridiculous number of animals had their lives to thank for my mother’s love of the rejected and misunderstood. Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree? She knew how it felt, too. That the most pathetic tree on the lot emotionally bitch-slapped the snobs at the end of the story made it the best Christmas story in her mind (and, yes, my mother was a Christian- the good, Bible-reading-every- day, accepts everyone kind). People without an ear to listen found my mom a willing participant simply because there was no sob story she’d turn down. And, no, that’s not a sign of (just) her capacity to love, but of a mutual feeling that there was someone else who people often ignored and she was happy to find a similar soul.
And, I will let you in on a secret. It wasn’t some Mother Theresa-like peace that filled her with love for the down-trodden. No. Mom felt a little superior in loving unloved things because she felt like an unloved thing. Mom’s past left her wondering what value she had. She didn’t know, and was always searching for, either camaraderie or validation. Her love of imperfect things gave her a sense of both. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, but if we forget that that was her motivation, we forget her.
Mom. Flawed. A human being.
My mom was not perfect, but she was mine. We loved each other openly. Sometimes loudly and impatiently, but always honestly. And I knew she loved me. Enough to constantly challenge her own image. Mom wasn’t particularly good at examining that and making big changes. But she was better than anyone at championing that in others. When I would charge ahead on a new path or sit down to examine my own life and motivations, Mom could both lift me up and define for me exactly where I’d been going wrong. Not that that was always easy to hear…but it was honest. We could accept it when she made us face our own failings because she was so deeply vocal of her own. That was her gift.
When I look at the sum of my mom’s life, I know she would agree with me in saying that she made a lot of mistakes, but she would be okay with that if it meant my brothers and I made different, and better, choices. She would even say that maybe the purpose of her life would be to make the mistakes so her children wouldn’t have to. Mom was big on finding a soul’s mission and sometimes that meant taking the wrong path so more people will take the right one. There was an imperfect sort of glory in that that appealed to her.
So no, I’m not going to clean up the image of my mom. The dings and tarnish of her life are exactly what made her great…and at peace with her own life. It is her legacy. I am not taking that away from her now.
This is the one year anniversary of my mom’s death. I am going to remember her exactly as she was to me. And miss the hell out of her because no one will ever be that honest and loving with me again.
Except maybe my daughter.
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