During a recent meeting at Mary’s RTC we discussed what steps would need to be

We also dressed for dinner and broke out the expensive silver and china for holidays. My Mother sets a proper setting, placemat and all, to eat in front of the TV! If anyone could give Emily Post lessons in decorum, it would be my mom. She faces everything with a serenity and grace that I just can’t muster.

Her make-up and Hair are always flawless. Her jewelry is perfectly matched with her outfit. My mom’s shoes are to-die for. When she got an eye infection this year, I realized that I was probably seeing her without make-up for the first time in my whole life.

In order to go to the ER for an emergency, she will first dress appropriately and touch up her lipstick. Then she stops to pick up lunch. After that she calmly proceeds to the emergency room, like a proper lady. Even when she broke her arm! No fuss, no tears, perfect composure. She’s like a glamorous movie star from the 50s. So perfect.

My mother has perfectly coiffed hair at all times. Her blonde matches my own, but that is where the similarity ends. She has shiny, obedient coif arranged perfectly around her face. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her with a flyaway except maybe right after a wash. I have wildly curly hair that I attempted to tame in my teenage years. I flat-ironed the curls, set it in rollers, attempted blow-outs and relaxers. As I got older I grew it longer and just left it down to fly free. Why fight nature? My hair does it’s own dynamic thing.

Unfortunately, she ended up with me for a daughter. I was a messy child. I’m a little cleaner now, but I never dust, and sometimes my bed goes unmade. I wear flowing skirts and very little make-up (if at all.) My skin care regimen consists of soap and sun screen. Fingers crossed I end up with my mother’s complexion which is somehow impervious to the passing of time.I listen to Bob Dylan or Phish. I eat with paper napkins. My elbows are forever on the table and sometimes I even sit cross-legged during dinner.

One Thanksgiving, she called me and asked what my centerpiece was. I was confused. I said, “Isn’t that where the food goes?”

While out at the grocery store on a sweltering August day last week, I donned my summer uniform of bohemian maxi-dress and flip flops. As long as the clothes feel soft and allow me to move easily, I’m happy. This used to be an added bonus when Mary was violent and attacking me. It allowed me to dodge and dart away. Now she is in a residential school and my days of darting are behind me.

I don’t have to look over my shoulder anymore. I’m not as likely to scan for exits and double check that the police are a speed-dial touch away on my phone. I can wear my long and flowing dresses without long-sleeved cardigans in the melting summer heat. The reason is simple. I am no longer covering arms awash in multi-colored bruises from a violent child.

A elderly man approached me in the frozen food aisle and let out an appreciative whistle. At a certain age I think people can get away with just about any behavior and still seem endearing. He told me it was a long time since he’d seen a “real woman” dressed “properly in a dress or skirt.” He claimed my husband must just “love all over me” (spoiler alert: he does!) and that he was lucky not to have a woman always in pants. I thanked the man dubiously as I helped him reach the steam-able carrots. It occurred to me that I might tell him I wear pajama-jeans in a completely un-ironic way in the Fall. Obviously he assumed I was dressed up rather than the truth which lies somewhere around my ambivalent attitude towards underwear.

Maybe I am more like my mother than I think. I certainly Hope I grow to be just like her as I age. My mom may be different than I am in many ways. However, she supports this family without another thought. She moved with my stepdad halfway across the country, braving frigid New England winters and high taxes, just to be close to us. No matter what drama our family was experiencing, or how bizarre this family/herd-of-chickens gets, she is with us. In my darkest hour, I am not alone. My mother is the tree trunk to my spreading branches. I want so badly to be this way for my own daughter.

Unfortunately, I haven’t managed it yet. I can’t. My daughter is living in a residential therapeutic setting. Someone else tucks her in at night. Someone else restrains her when she rages. In her darkest hours I am simply not there. I wish it could be different. It can’t.

How will she view our mother-daughter relationship one day? If I’m not the trunk to her branches, will I be the house next door? If I am not Mary’s steadfast base, am I at least Mary-adjacent? I hope so. I hope that one day she is comparing our preferred music and fashion rather than wondering why we lived apart. I hope her memories of me are not filled with being abandoned or pushed away.

It is hard to do this from a distance. I try but even in her physical presence, a gap divides us. How will she view me one day? Only time will tell.