Helter Skelter

My memories of my mother are of this calm, serene woman who exuded warmth. A nurturing, gentle soul, the only one you wanted when you woke in the middle of the night. I can count on one hand the number of times she lost her temper with me. A woman who would say, "That's okay. It's washable!" whenever I would spill something on the brand-new carpet. Not "What the heck are you doing with Juicy-Juice in the living room!!" or "Do that one more time little lady and I'm not buying anymore juice!" In short, I had the mom I'll never be.

I thought of this today while I was driving out my driveway after getting the belt of my leather car coat stuck in the car door while rushing my two screaming kids to somewhere not that important. I also thought of this while dabbing pink Fruitopia off my white turtleneck after hitting the McDonald's drive thru that I had promised Carter as a bribe for running preschool errands with me. I also thought of this while ordering my son to take the nap he doesn't need just so Mommy can get a few seconds alone with a cup of hot cocoa and one of the hundreds of catalogues that have begun pouring out of my mailbox.

I don't remember my mom acting anything like me. She was calm and gentle. Like I said, serene. I'm a friggin' hurricane. I do everything too fast. I eat too fast, talk too fast, drive my car too fast. I'm a hundred places at once. I'm not your typical mother. I get bored doing crafts, I don't have the patience for coloring, and besides a fondness for William H.'s Macy's narration on Curious George, I don't really like much of what has to do with kids. My mom, on the other hand, took me everywhere I ever wanted to go without complaining. She hosted endless sleepovers. Flipped piles of pancakes. Listened patiently to everything I had to say (which was a lot, in my case).

I am not my mother, which is what some women would kill for. The problem is, I want to be like her. I want to have her patience. I want to be calm. I don't want to be this whirlwind of a mother who drives like a maniac and would rather listen to the Beastie Boys than Barney. I want to be soft and kind and nurturing. But I am a little girl grown up, when the little girl was fussy and opinionated and hot-tempered. And she hasn't changed much.

My definition of a mother is my mother, not me. And perhaps that is what's wrong with my picture. My mother didn't have two kids. She didn't have boys. She was a decade older than I was when she got pregnant. She came from a different time, she grew up in a different world. But she loved me for who I was, not who she hoped I would be. She never tried to make me into anything different. She delighted everyday in the person I was becoming. And if she were here now, she would probably expect me to act exactly as I do. And I hope she'd be proud.

My mother used to have a saying for me:
There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
And when she was good,
She was very, very good.
And when she was bad,
She was horrid.

I guess things haven't changed much...