I’ve been thinking about my mom a lot lately. My usual thoughts about how much she would have loved these boys of mine and how much they would have loved her. But also about how, in motherhood myself now, I have grown to maybe understand her a little better.
I had a complicated relationship with my mother. With both of my parents, really. I spent most of my childhood either trying to blend in and not draw attention or, conversely, trying to draw as much positive attention as I could to myself. I was a people pleaser. I still am.
I frequently wondered if my parents really loved me. I know, of course, that they did. But a child doesn’t have that logical reasoning. And I know that sounds dramatic. But it seemed as though by the time I came along, my parents were over the whole parenting thing.