So yeah, Mother’s Day has come and gone, but I see no better topic for this week’s entry, since my mom is an important pillar in the architecture of who I am. I was born when she was 19 back in 1979, and in 1980, well before the norm it was today, she was a single mother. The stigmas back then were much harsher on the paradigm, and learning much later in life of the criticism she faced only added to my perception of her strength. In the beginning, we lived with other members of the family, affording me three distinct, happy childhood phases that I hold near and dear to my heart.
At four, we migrated from where I was born Ontario, Canada to the neighbouring province of Quebec. We moved in with her sister, her husband, and their two daughters to a pig farm a stone’s throw away from the U.S. border. Suddenly, this fated only child was part of a three-kid family, of which one of the cousins was exactly my age. Going to school with a quasi-sister was interesting to say the least, in hindsight, and I was quick to stomp anyone who pulled her hair and she quick to defend me against anyone who tried to mock me for being the ´divorce kid’. Two years and a job transfer later brought the whole clan we lived with over six hour’s commute away and a way of life was over but fondly remembered.
From there we moved in with my grandparents, the second phase, which made my home the focal point for any and all family gatherings. I remember hosting my entire roster of first cousins for Nintendo parties, and once actually pissing my pants laughing so hard when one of them kicked a cabbage patch kid doll across a room and out the second story window. We lived on another farm this time, but without the siblings-twice-removed, I was able to live probably freer than any of the other phases and was likely where I learned to appreciate being alone better than most people.
All this time, my mom worked at a textile mill on rotating shift (all three), and got her shit together nicely. Living with family eased the burden of finding a babysitter and let me make tight bonds with pretty much everyone. Four years of that, and it was off to the third phase. My mom moved in with her boyfriend, and I honestly have no ideal how I reacted to any of that, but the transition in my mind was over quick enough to forget it. Either way, that was twenty-seven years ago and they’re in the business of living happily ever after.
Through it all there was a constant and that was us. We were in it from my day one, right up until I moved out and set off on my own bullshit rollercoaster, which is its own epic series of phases I hold dear… all in hindsight. My ups were high, my lows were deep and my plateaus of content were sustained and pleasant. But in the depths, when the resolve I inherited (or learned?) from her started to waver, she always said ‘don’t be discouraged.’ It was a simple answer to any of life’s riddles, a lifetime of experience compressed into a bite-sized piece of advice that worked on a frustrated kid to a rampaging teen to an impatient adult. To me, it encompasses the axiom that time heals all wounds, with my own added bonus ‘you WILL laugh about it later’, if not forget it outright. I like I think my resolve is pretty solid but we all have our shaky moments, where nothing seems to help lighten the matter. I tap into her telling me this only then, when it’s needed most, since if there’s anything I’d rather not blunt the effect of, it’s that.
Before that last paragraph and this one, I took some time to think on points just writing this all down brought up. A negative point, if there even is one, is that it’s bred what I once perceived to be a naivety that’s led to a lot of problems in my life. When the waning victimhood culture was in full swing and leading up that arc, I was inundated with people trying to win the victim olympics. Since not once did my mom tow that line, I presumed those people had endured great enough hardship to let it bleed into reality, and, like a chump, took the bait, hell, still take the bait sometimes. Now I realize that I’m not delusional (in that sense) but that perhaps she set the bar so high in terms of what kind of people I want (and have) in my life that it’s impossible to believe at first that someone could be so weak… or dishonest. Now let it be known that not once have I indicated anyone in this tale is perfect, just that there is a parameter of quality person we could all be and no matter how you go about achieving that, it takes a lot of hard work and a solid set of personal ethic. That aside, I think of that aspect as more a blessing than a curse, as in another timeline, I could be writing about her putting cigarettes out on my skin or worse still, being one of these soulless sacks she warned me about since as early as I can remember.
In closing, I hope everyone had a great Mother’s Day, with or without she who brought you into this world, and just be grateful for your blessings and count them, honestly, with yourself and whoever else it pays to hear them! Finally, here is a link of my mom and I in 1986, when the internet was just a dream in a book written about two years earlier. Different times, my friend, different times.
This Earth: A Fantasy World 