What fabrications they are, mothers. Scarecrows, wax dolls for us to stick pins into, crude diagrams. We deny them an existence of their own, we make them up to suit ourselves – our own hungers, our own wishes, our own deficiencies. Now that I’ve been one myself, I know.
The Blind Assassin
I don’t know why but as soon as I read this in “The Blind Assassin” it struck such a cord.
It is true. When a woman becomes a mother she stops being just a woman, a human, an individual, she becomes a mother, a super hero , the whole family and everything is directly connected to her, affected by her and dependent on her. The success of the husband, the kids the marriage attributed to her along with the blame for any of their failures.
All hung on her like ornaments hung on a Christmas tree. Like a Christmas tree it starts out beautiful and green and will eventually dry and become brittle. It will still hold the ornaments but it will become tired and old. Weighed down by those sparkly ornaments.
It made me think of my mother and all the things that happened to us and her in our life, all the things that went right or wrong. The resentment and the gratefulness I feel towards her all at the same time. Made me realize how selfish we can be and how much we hang on our mothers. Sometimes the weight is too heavy but we never hear them complain.
I love you mom.
Go tell your mom that you love her and maybe unload some of that weight she carries for you.