Kathleen Botsford

Death of the Perfect Mother

I am lamenting a death.  A loss so deep inside of me, it takes my breath away.  The one "illusion" I  have held on to, clung to and refused to let go of, was the one of the "Perfect Mother".  In all other facets of my life, I have had numerous deaths of ego, sometimes releasing these identities easily and sometimes after much drama and angst.  This one is a long time coming and I fear it will be just as long and painful a journey home again.  I don't know where the journey will leave me.  I feel raw and exhausted already and the trip has barely begun.  I know the dismantling of ego is a good thing, a quest I willingly and consistently pursue, day in and day out.  But this dismemberment is rocking my heart and soul.  Yes, it is good, it is necessary.  Yes, it is also painful and it is gut wrenching.

I have always known my children will have their own versions of their youth and their parenting.  I have even teased them about it.  Agreeing with them when they called me "mean" and explaining they need something to tell their therapist when they grow up.  Although part of me knew this was true, another part of me lived in a lovely rose colored world; truly believing I was a superior mother in every aspect.  Believing my children would be so grateful for my sacrifices, my wisdom and my selfless love, I would never have to hear a "serious" word about my shortcomings however significant they may be.

My rose colored "bubble" burst this past weekend.  My oldest daughter, Alexandra, came into town to be my date for an extravagant fashion function I was exhibiting at in Chicago on Friday evening before our drive to the Notre Dame game on Saturday morning.  We had a fabulous time as we mingled and gossiped with the movers and shakers in Chicago's fashion world.

As the evening ended, we had one cocktail too many and her 21 years of emotions flooded the space between us.    I was stunned, as if I were in a dreamworld drowning, thrashing for a life preserver.   It took me a couple of moments to catch my breath.  I knew these feelings needed to be heard and acknowledged. I was moving in slow motion, praying for grace and guidance.  Praying for strength and wisdom.   I stayed open and held her while she let her memories tumble out, helter skelter.  I picked them up for her and gentlely handed them back, validated and unjudged.  

Yesterday was the first day I could really "sit" with my own pain.  I spent lots of the day crying and letting go.  The bottom line has yet to be revealed but there is an air of freedom beginning to stir inside me.  Maybe the facade of the "Perfect Mother" is ready to die, to make room for true healing and wholeness.  Maybe this is the beginning of an even deeper and more intimate relationship with my daughter.  One where I can let go of the need to be the "mother", perfect or not.  Maybe this death of sorts will be the birth of a whole new life, one that will be revealed little by little as we remake our relationship into one of two grown and mature woman.

I will always be Alexandra's mother and I will always cherish that role.  But roles are not who we truly are at our core.  We are two people, two souls who lives will always be intertwined in love and pain as only can be when one is part of the fabric of another.  I carried Alex in my body for more than 9 months.  We are a part of one another.  It is time for me to let go of my little girl so she can make her way in this world, on her own terms, with her own choices and decisions, her own pain and memories.  It is time to watch from the sidelines and wait to be invited to participate.  Time to let our past die to make room for a new life.   A life that will carry us into the future with  little rose colored sparkles thrown in for good measure.

Exhausted and Happy

Another weekend come and gone.  The whole family attended the Notre Dame game in the pouring rain.  The house was full that night.  Full of boys and girls laughing and shouting.  Full of college  games and food.  Full of even more football as they cheered or jeered their favorite teams on TV. 

My husband cooked while I did laundry.  10 boys with muddy and soaked clothes.  3 girls just as wet.  The showers were over flowing with young men fighting for the first and therefore the warmest shower.  As the number of  college kids grew and the party shifted into full gear,  my husband and I found a quiet corner for a glass of wine.  We have never had a "second" home.  Now we rent a 4 bedroom/5 bath townhouse in South Bend, Indiana.  Funny, I never thought of a second home in Indiana when I dreamed of my perfect family get away.   Maybe a lakehouse in Michigan or Wisconsin.  For sure a home of any sort in Italy.  But South Bend, Indiana never crossed my mind. 

The past two weekends have been exhausting.  Driving and cooking.  Cleaning and driving.  And the noise!  Who would have thought they could be so loud???!!! 

Young men sleeping everywhere.  On the floors.  On the sofas.  In the beds.  Three in one full size bed!  Three "boys" who stand over 6'4 inches tall!  Three "boys" who weigh over 200 pounds! 

This mother is exhausted.  This mother is happy and content.  These are family moments more real than any villa in Italy will ever be.  As I practice letting go of what was, I open to our new reality.  My children are no longer children.  They are young men and women.  Our lives are forever changing as the mysterious future continues to unfold in delightful and  spontaneous ways. 

This exhausted mom is taking a day off to play in her studio.  In the quiet, all by her full and solitary self.

New Year, More Tears

In 2007 we attended Notre Dame's opening home football game.  We are a football family and have had season tickets to Notre Dame football for years.  It was the first game I had attended without my 18 year old son who was beginning his college career at another fine institution, Indiana University.  The pre-game traditions began.  The Air Force fighter jets fly by was deafening.  The brilliant and moving performance by the oldest college marching band in the country, the prayers, the songs and then the introduction of The Fighting Irish as they explode onto the field in a wildly pulsating sea of blue and gold. 

I started to cry.  Not just a few drips and sniffles.  I was sobbing.   The game was going very badly and Notre Dame fans are very passionate about their team so those surrounding me did not worry a bit.  They assumed I was disappointed in my team's play and continued on cheering and jeering.

But I was broken hearted.  I missed my son.  I missed his laughing eyes and his gigantic boyish grin.  I missed his goofiness and his endearing and incessant teasing.   I missed his knowing the facts on every football player on the field.  Both sides.  I missed his perception of the game.  I missed his critique of the coaching.  I missed his constant and deafening cheering.  I missed the exuberance and enthusiasm  which surrounds him always.

I couldn't shake the tears.  My youngest daughter put her arm around my shoulders, "It's about Stevie isn't it?"  she said.  I shook my head as I  continued to sob.  She lay her head on my shoulder.  "I know Mom, I miss him too."

But that was not all I was feeling.  Who were these young people walking around this beautiful campus on this bright and shining autumn day?  Who were they to gain admission to this university when my son did not?  I was  angry and yes, I could feel bitterness rise up in my throat too.  I was stunned by the shear force of these emotions and  taken off guard.  If I would have tried to articulate these raw feelings to anyone at the time I would have felt ashamed.  I knew the river needed to follow it's course without disruption, so I sat and let the warm and salty tears carry these emotions through to their end.  By the time we left the game I was exhausted but peaceful.  I still missed Stevie, but I knew a bigger plan was in place.  I trusted in that plan. 

Last Saturday was the 2008 Notre Dame opening home game.  As usual we were there.  This year Stevie was there also.  This time as a student.  The first little trickle appeared when I visually found Stevie in the student stands and he blew me a giant kiss.   The trickle moved a little bit faster when the students all danced the Irish gig for the first time that day.  When the traditional  pre-game festivities commenced, the flood gates let go and the tears once again tumbled down my cheeks in mad abandon.  This year's tears were the sweet tears of joy.  My son had achieved his young heart's desire.  He was a student at Notre Dame, his dream since he was four years old.  I was there to witness his initiation.  I was over come with love and gratitude.

My youngest daughter again but her arm around me.  "These are happy tears, aren't they Mom?"  "Yes, honey".  "Okay then.  Can you turn around and watch the game and stop watching Stevie?"  "No, honey."

I did watch some of the game.  But I always kept one eye on Stevie.  I was happy just watching Stevie.  My heart was full.  My tears were gone.

Until the next time.    

This is a Test

The phone rang.  Caller ID: Indiana University.  I hold my breath and answer.  "Hello?"

"Hello, this is officer ____ with the Indiana University Police Dept." 

My heart starts to pound.  I could hear my pulse in my ears.  My head feels like it is about to explode.  Trying to listen through the hammering noise... What???  What did he say? 

"This is not an emergency.  We are placing this call to test our new Emergency  Notification System.  This is not an emergency.   This is a test.  Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. "  

Shaking, I hang up the phone.  An old sponge swells in my throat as I struggle to breath. I try  to swallow and steady myself but the tears are already in motion.  As they spill down my cheeks, I grab a tissue.  I pray this is the closest I ever come to hearing the words every mother, every parent dreads.  Thankfully, this was a test.

My heart breaks for the parents who will receive the real call.

Out of Sort

I am having a grumbly day.  Kind of funky and out of sorts.   I don't like it when these days appear out of the blue.  Nothing has happened.  At least nothing I can put my finger on as a source or catalyst.  It started to creep up on me yesterday.  That antsy feeling when you can't figure out what to do.  Call a friend? No.   Journal? No.  Art? No.  Read? No. Watch TV?  No. Exercise? #@*& NO!   Chocolate?  Well, maybe.  Wine?  Couldn't hurt. 

Letting these feelings wash through me without resistance is quite challenging.  I want to figure them out, analyze them to death and  THEN send them on their way.  Sitting with them is extremely uncomfortable.  But sit with them I will.  I will sit with them and feel them.   I will fidget and squirm, inside and out.  But I won't die.  I will be here tomorrow sitting with whatever feelings I have then. 

Maybe a sea salt bath, some soothing music AND a glass of wine?!   Maybe.     After I sit a little bit more.