Mothers Be Good to Your Daughters

A combination of four things has reminded me of the enormous charge I have as a mom and the most important things I need to change (or work on changing—some of my worst weaknesses spring from scars so deep, I’ll be lucky to tame them before I have grandchildren).

It all started with the first thing (#1), my New Year’s mini-breakdown, when I realized that I was terribly angry at myself for my shortcomings, but the anger was spilling out all over my house, my kids, my husband—my most precious things—and creating yet another failure. I traced these feelings back to this multi-generational, mother-daughter history of OCD-like perfectionism and people-pleasing and self-loathing masquerading as humility. I stopped and listened to the “self-talk” soundtrack (please excuse this pop-psych slang—I hate it, but it’s the best term for the stuff you say to yourself all day, everyday, that makes you into who you are) playing in my head and it is so ugly. It’s full of things I would never, ever say to another being, but it’s ringing in my own ears.

Changing my self-talk was the primary goal in my little resolution to exercise and study on my own 3 days a week. Perhaps if I can read some scripture and meditate every morning, I can reprogram myself with some god-like, encouraging words. And if I am exercising maybe I will stop avoiding mirrors and crying when I have to look at myself in this sumo suit I’ve been wearing the past 3 years.

The second motivator (#2) was that one of my dearest friends is going through a similar thing, but her thing is linked to a depression which is linked to an unhealthy relationship with her mom (i.e., her mom is a constant stream of criticism and negativity—the kind of thing you’d cut out of your life, except for her, it’s her mom—there’s no cutting out). I told her about how I had to hash out all this stuff with my mom and how we got to this place where we just—are. Still different, not always agreeing, but not taking everything personally. I was reminded of how long it took to get here, and –sadly—how some of the wounds and the “muscle memory,” for lack of a better term, just never go away. It’s almost unfair how things a mom might say in frustration or a depression-induced haze are etched indelibly into our minds and hearts, forming our self image (and planting the seeds of self-doubt and plain old sadness).

And then that reminded me of this chain of thoughts I have occasionally—if my sadness and inability to cope with certain things comes from how I was (inadvertently) taught to feel about myself, then what am I doing to my own girls? I am all they get. This is it. I, in turn, am their basket-case mother, etching all kinds of things on to their hearts and minds and the cycle will just go on. That is, unless I stop it right here, right now. But what do I do different? How do I keep my own cup full so I can give generously to them, without taking too much time and attention away? How do I balance all the opportunities to serve outside of my family—in church, the community, our build, etc, plus the housekeeping and wife things, and be a better mother? How so I keep my girls from being thirty-something, and finding themselves paralyzed and deflated from an inexplicable broken heart? I mean, my heart is mostly NOT broken—God knows I have the best of everything now—the best husband, hometown, in-laws, family of origin, children, little daily comforts, etc. But sometimes I just crumple up and feel like a scared little five-year-old and why? Why is that tiny little crack in my heart still there???

So thing #3 happened today. I was still thinking about this whole breaking-of-the-cycle when I lay down and read a story today in the Ensign. It was about a mother who could barely handle her little girl and prayed for help. Then her grandmother came to her in a dream and told her to play with her children. You’ve forgotten how to play. Now, I didn’t know how to play as a child, but Heavenly Father let me learn how in college. So I need to remember that. And I also love all the things the Gordon B. and Marjorie Hinckley said about parenting in their biographies. Get to know your kids. Earn their respect and respect them. Listen. Play and Work together. Always try to find a way to say yes. I know my kids are different from their kids and I am not nearly as patient, but it’s good advice, you know? And, if you saw Marjorie Hinckley’s funeral, you know it definitely worked.

So I pondered on that article and drifted off to a nap and when I woke up, the last 40 minutes or so of “The Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood” was on TBS. I saw this movie with 6 of my sisters in the theatre and we almost died laughing. All of us (except my very youngest sister) could relate all too well. The consensus was, “At least mom didn’t drink!” I remembered I loved the movie, but couldn’t remember exactly why, so I watched it. It reminded me that the mother–daughter thing happens a lot. It also reminded me of what my mom said in one of our ‘resolution’ conversations, about me. In the movie, at the end, when the mom and daughter talk on the porch swing, the mom talks about all the years she prayed for God to make her better, to make her more, etc. and then she realized she got her answer. She says to the daughter, “My answer is you. All I wanted to be, all my dreams came through me in you.” That scene kills me. And it kills me even more now because when I first saw it, I could only see it as a daughter. This time, I could see both sides.

And the mother side is sad, too. I think the tragic flaw is that the mother doesn’t realize what her personal demons are doing to her kids. And the daughter doesn’t realize that mothers have personal demons (don’t you remember at some point thinking that your mother existed solely for you, as a mother, and nothing else?). The mom doesn’t comprehend the enormous weight of her words and actions as a mother, and the daughter doesn’t realize that it’s not her fault—that the sadness her mom feels came from decades ago (from her own mother, mostly—interestingly—ugh! The cycle!). I did all the things that Sidda does in the movie—avoided marriage, avoided motherhood (avoided even real closeness) for fear of passing all of the pain around. But I got past the fears, then encountered them again as I try not to pulverize my daughters’ psyches.

Man, does it ever go away? Do we bury our mothers wishing we could have been more and done more for them? Or that they could have loved the way we turned out? Can we ever shut off the soundtrack that keep telling us we’re not cute enough or fun enough or nice enough or athletic enough or clean enough or righteous enough? I think I know the answer to that, and I will find the off switch soon. And I will play with my girls and tell them with my actions and my words that they are the smartest, most beautiful, capable girls God ever made and they can do anything. I’ll let them figure out their limitations instead of creating them.

[PS: Happy 74th Birthday to my beautiful grandmother; thank you for all you have taught me and for your example of patience and love for your children]