Mothers Love

If yelling could define a home from the outside, ours would be hell on earth. The morning crisis is always different, but the flavor runs the same; today, her hair “won’t cooperate” she says, 30 minutes late to work, not including her hour and a half drive just to get there. She cries in the mirror and pounds her fists on the vanity top, exclaiming that everything she does is ugly. Ugly is a word she’ll only use about herself, but it’s one she projects onto everyone around her. Even if she doesn’t brand you with it, you still feel it, you still see it in every attempt made and every glance in the mirror. If your clothes don’t fit just right, surely she’ll point it out. A hair out of place is a sin, a smudge of lipstick on teeth a failure. Failure. Another word she won’t use, but somehow the feeling blankets you. It lays heavy on 8 year old shoulders the same as it does on 29 year old aches. You might make it to shore, but failure will be there to cover and smother you. Not enough, not enough, not enough. Her hair is pulled half back and clipped down now. She’s out the door, tears still streaming down her face. It’s summer vacation, your job is to sit in this special hell and dwell on how the morning unfolded. What could you have done differently? How could you have played caretaker better? Appealing to what you think she wants is never the solution. Any comfort that spills from your lips will be shot down; not enough, not enough, not ENOUGH. Not good enough. Not pretty enough. Not smart enough. Not kind enough. Eventually you learn, nothing will ever be enough. Not for her, and soon, not for you.