Mom vs Dad

Looking back over this blog, I realized that it gives the impression that I was raised by only my father. This is not so. I have a wonderful mom, too. My memories of my dad are in the forefront now because he is gone. I like to think about these times with him; they bring me some comfort from my grief. There are days, in this process of grieving, that I can't imagine living the rest of my life on this earth without him. I just don't make as much sense of this world without his reference point. My dad was my touchstone, and I am floundering for another one.

My mom got the raw end of this deal. My dad and I were always compatible and he was always my hero. I used to ask him if he could beat guys up. I, of course, thought he was the strongest, smartest, best man on earth. It was silly, he being 5' 8" and about 150 pounds soaking wet. Also, he didn't run around beating people up. Dads and daughters have special relationships.

On the flip side, moms and daughters have exceedingly complicated relationships. My relationship with my mother is no exception. The power struggle that occurred between my mom and me in my teen years was epic. I'm surprised we survived. I am certain that my dad would not have handled my teenage rebellion with as much patience as my mother did. I talk about my dad a lot. But it was my Mom who I went to for soft hugs and tenderness. It was my mom who, after the sixth time I went wedding dress shopping, pulled my dress from the rack in five minutes--and it was perfect. When my sister died, my mom was the softest place for me to land. Mom coos and cuddles in the best way.

I am still very much engaged in a parent-child relationship with my mom. She still tells me to wear my coat, and to drive more carefully, and she still feels the need to tell me what to do. This was not so for my dad, who began treating me as an adult when I was about ten. In this way, my father took on a different role in my life. He was still very much my father, but more an advisor, mentor, and friend. My mother is still my mom. We slip into our dysfunctional patterns; we get angry sometimes; I am still her child, her baby. She worries like a mother hen. I am a responsible forty-one year old woman, raising a family of my own, and she will still remind me to wear a hat when I go out into the cold. She begins many sentences to me by saying, "You need to . . . ."

This is the mom role. Most of my friends have similar relationships with their own mothers. I explained to her, after my dad passed, that she is not allowed to go. I simply could not bear it. Both of my parents were necessary for me, both bringing different essential pieces that make up who I am. Yes, I idolize my dad; I think he was remarkable and wonderful. My mom is currently reading this and copy-editing, fixing my mistakes and making sure that whoever reads this will have the best possible impression of me. She will send me an e-mail later telling me how to improve my writing and where I went wrong. Aren't I a lucky, lucky girl?