Personal Essay: Mama Drama
As an adult in my mid-thirties, I have a lovely relationship with my mother. We text, chat throughout the week, rarely get into real spats, and I know that ultimately, she will retrieve her (fictional?) sawed-off shotgun if I, my child, or my husband need her to. But from my pre-teens until I was around 25, it was a different situation.
My mother and father split when I was a baby, and my mother was charged with raising me solo. She had help from family, (thanks Grandmas, aunties, and all of the freakin’ awesome family and framily around!), but mostly, she was on her own. As a young mother, this undertaking made her tough and independent. She did her best keeping me fed, sheltered, clothed, and educated, all while working multiple jobs and going to school at various points. It was hard for her in ways I cannot possibly imagine, and as an adolescent, it was hard for me, but in a very different way. We were two women—okay, one woman and a girl-child—with strong opinions and sharply different personalities who were still growing into who we were.
Of course, I saw my mother as a totalitarian, and I was a naïve kid. I lobbied relentlessly for independence and freedom, and when vocal reasoning failed, I resorted to letter-writing campaigns. Usually, mama won. One of her most significant achievements is prohibiting me from dating until I was 18, and generally no social life outside of extra curriculars until college. (I couldn’t go to the movies with guys, not even in a group.) While in college, the mom-hand-of-god attempted to exert a level of control, but I mostly dodged it with the grace and swiftness of a matador.
Looking back, what bothered me most is when my mom would shoot verbal razor blades at me, cutting and making it personal. This happened most often when I disagreed with her or—God forbid—when I didn’t take her advice on what she believed was best for me.
One example: My mom sensed I’d started having sex in college, cause yeah, ‘Freedooommmmm!’ Within a few days of me being home on a break, I started birth control, and she sat me down to take a quiz on STIs at our home computer. (Oh mama, that is still one of my funniest memories of you. Also, I did pretty well on that quiz.) During the same break, I mentioned to her that I hoped to earn more money for books and living expenses. She suggested that I braid hair--which I had ZERO experience doing—and I said “Nah. I don’t want to do that.”
This lady’s response: “Oh, so you can spread your legs, but you won’t braid hair?”
To this day, I haven’t figured out HOW those things are related, but damn, mama!
Illustration by Cbabi Bayoc
I tell this story not to paint my mother in a poor light. She was young, I was sort of a kid, and it was a complicated and sometimes stressful situation. Of course, I lived through it, because in the grand scheme of things, my mama was a good one. Even more, I have many good memories from times with my mama, like scary movie nights with root beer floats and hot cheese popcorn.
As I grew into adulthood, I was concerned that if I had kids of my own, especially a daughter, that our relationship would mirror the tense elements of the relationship with my own mother. I absolutely did not want that. Eventually, though, I grew to understand that my relationship with my own kids would be different, and that my circumstances were drastically different from my mother’s. I simply didn’t have the terrible stress and strain that she had for the first 21 years of my life. My mom and I continued the awkward and sometimes combative dance of our relationship, but when I encountered some serious personal struggles in my late twenties, we had a deep heart-to-heart, and our relationship, over time, became much better. To be fair in all of this, I was a really smart kid (thanks mama!), who was a know-it-all, supersensitive, and an artist. I’m sure I was a lot.
Listen, the relationship you have or do not have with your parents is inevitably reflected in your relationship with your children, whether you emulate that bond, strive for something different, or avoid parenthood entirely. Some of these aspects are involuntary, but much of how we interact with our offspring—and generally, with others in our lives—is shaped by thought, care, and intention. I encourage you, in some way, to make sure that if you think want to have kids, even a tiny inkling of desire, that you work through whatever issues you can (through therapy, meditation, conversations with your people), so that your choice is driven by hope and dreaming and love. I did all of those things, and it helped me understand that I can bring all of the wonderful parts of my relationship with my mom to those with my children. If you decide to have children, I hope that the same can happen for you.
