I’m not a particularly good son to my mother, I think.
I do love her. Very much. More than I can articulate actually. I tell it to her on occasion. If you asked my mother I suspect she would say that I am haphazardly attentive. And she would say that she feels loved. Because she is a mother she gives her son the benefit of the doubt.
And I have probably left doubt.
I could do more. I should do more. But I am very self-absorbed. Not selfish. Not punitive. Not spiteful. But self-absorbed. It never occurs to me to do more until well after the fact.
I do live most of my life between my ears. I am marginally more present now than I was when I was younger. The benefits of exercising. It turns out that using your body is a very good way to get out of your head. But you can only make so many purses from a sow’s ear, which is to say I still think a lot. And most of that thinking is not about my mother. Or any other individual really.
And I feel guilty about that.
I believe relationships are a critical part of life. Connecting with others. Sharing experiences. Developing ideas informed by other people. Settling on a philosophy, on a world view, that includes other people’s perspectives. I do spend time thinking about how life works. For me. For others. Individually and collectively. But I don’t spend much time thinking about the people I know. What they may be doing. What they may be experiencing. And, most importantly, what they may be feeling.
Mild transgressions perhaps, at least when it comes to most other people.
But my mother?
Outwardly I am my father. I have his face and his voice and his mannerisms. We share many interests (except opera – he loves it. Really.). I am even-keeled like him. But inside, where my emotions meet my mind, I am my mother’s son. Smart. Maybe even very smart. Perceptive. Attentive to both context and details. We anticipate well, and we connect dots faster than most. And emotions terrify us, because we feel them so intensely we think they will unhinge us. Because emotional control is vitally important to us. I can’t explain why. It’s just very uncomfortable to feel like we aren’t in control of ourselves.
And yet I struggle to find mental and emotional space to consider this woman who is most like me. Who birthed me, fed me, nurtured me, taught me. To whom I owe more than I owe any other individual. I can’t seem to be bothered to repay that debt. Which probably makes me like every child ever, but still doesn’t assuage that guilt I feel.
At least when I think about it.
Our work together started with her fourth-grade California history project. We made a model of a gold-rush settlement called Squabbletown mostly out of popsicle sticks. It took many steps – we had to make the ground, paint it, add foliage, build and assemble the buildings – all of which we crammed into the weekend before it was due. Naturally.