Motherly Love

No movement of the lips or eyebrows. I can always tell by the look on her face that my reaction isn’t enough. If I had said a nonchalant “Okay,” with wide eyes and a slight smile, she would’ve gotten the impression that I cared. Unbothered is the look I went for for. I couldn’t argue with her. There’s nothing to argue about. What are we arguing about? A basket of folded laundry that has been sitting in my room for about three days. The clothes will be put away eventually. I always do everything eventually. I feel that if she knows that I’m annoyed by her unannounced entrance into my room to talk about the laundry for the third time, she’ll feel that maybe my annoyance will get me to put it away to stop her from nagging. I didn’t put my clothes away and won’t until I feel like it.

I could tell this was the start of a week-long silent treatment. Day one: the argument. Usually something stupid occurs which causes her to yell at me. I give her the usual blank stare, which she doesn’t like. Day two is the start of the silence. We both make a mutual unspoken agreement that less interaction will occur between us. Day three is where my dad has to play monkey in the middle. He usually goes back and forth hearing one complain about the other. Day four: usually sitting at the table and being able to slice through the awkwardness with my butterknife. Day five would consist of the start of the comedown. Dad’s words would sink into minds and eventually settle the argument between us.

My mother and father are exact opposites of each other. My dad and I have always had a good relationship. My dad usually tries to see both sides of a situation, while my mom is strictly one-sided. We clashed when I didn’t agree with her and I tried to explain my point. My opinion was usually shut down by questions that favored her side. I would try to argue a point that was already deemed wrong, so I started to end every almost-arguement with “Okay.” My dad would always be stuck between us. He couldn’t side with me, and he didn’t want to side with my mom because he didn’t agree. At night, he would come in my room and talk it out with me. He would reveal what she was saying about me, and I would give my defense. At the end of our secret meetings, he would look me sternly in the eye and say, “But don’t tell your mom,” I knew I couldn’t say anything. We weren’t speaking to each other anyway.

All of this occurred when I was transforming into a outspoken overly-opinionated teenager. When I started to become my own person, I started to grow apart from my mom. If I differed with her on subjects, I let her know and she didn’t like that. Along with my opinions, I did the usual teenage defiant acts such as not cleaning my room, taking naps, and generally being lazy. I didn’t let it show that whatever she scolded me about affected me because of my ever growing teenage angst. Even though she’s my mother, I like to be able to stand my ground. I couldn’t let her walk all over me for something so small. I don’t overdo myself to where I am completely disrespectful, just enough to where I am annoyingly blunt. We are both extremely stubborn, which was the root of our problem. We are more alike than we’d like to admit.

It was warm and sunny outside on our drive to the bank. I was riding shotgun while she took the wheel of our hand me down Honda Accord. I was about twelve or thirteen years old. My preteen body was in full effect. Braces were plastered over my teeth and I was even skinnier than I am now. We were discussing our neighbors’ demon child. He was every parent's worst nightmare, so my mom was extra dramatic when she talked about him. I didn’t care enough to discuss him, but I didn’t make that fully known. Endlessly talking about someone isn’t going to change them. The topic has been discussed plenty of times before and I didn’t think we’d ever come to a happy ending. I don’t remember what words we exchanged, but all I remember is that after a few times of keeping my thoughts to myself, I decided to share my opinion. I didn’t speak in a hostile or sarcastic tone. It was only about a sentence. A moment of silence flooded into the car after I spoke. My chest tensed each second nearing her response.

Finally, she said, “Why are you such a little bitch to me, Maddy?”

There was no escape. I couldn’t jump out of the car. Home was too far by now. The neighborhood we were in wasn’t one that I would want to walk alone in. I just kept quiet. How is someone supposed to respond to that? I consider myself a great kid for not getting mad. I don’t really know why I stayed so calm. About a year or two ago, I confronted her about it. She denied it.

“I did not say that to you,” she laughed. I don’t know how she was so casual about something that was so significant to me.

“Yes, you did.” We both laughed about it, and I still laugh about it. I’ll never forget that though.

The October of my freshmen year in high school was the start of the end. My dad and I both knew it needed to stop. She treated me significantly different than my brother. I got a call from my dad when I was on my way home.

“I talked to your mom earlier. She said she’s going to start to be nicer. So, hopefully things will get better.”

At the time, I doubted it. Or at least I knew it would be hard for her. My dad and I both understood that after this long it would be extremely hard for her to retain her feelings. Life between us gradually changed. My mom loosened up and I noticed.

Now, my mom and I are like best friends. We’re constantly together. Like all mother and daughter relationships, yes, we do still have our differences. We’ve learned to let the small things go. I think our rough patch made us closer. It was a learning experience for both of us. We don’t discuss it now, but it still lies underneath the surface. I hope in the future we never find ourselves in that situation again.