Refugee Mothering

Posted by Guest | May 30, 2010 | 44 Comments

Natasha Loewen’s mothering post wraps up the UP CLOSE topic of motherhood for May. Natasha lives in central Alberta with her husband, four children, and a large yellow lab. She is starting a 4-year B.A. in English this fall, after a 10-year period of full-time mothering. She recently achieved a goal to have a poem published in a literary journal, and she writes online at BecomingSomething.com. She longs to save Dr. House’s soul and believes she could if he’d just give her the chance.

As a child I once fantasized that my mother, at eighteen, was secretly the town whore. I hoped for men sprinkled throughout the world, all possible sperm donors, and that one day my real father would reveal himself from among them. He would be rich–rich enough to afford a McDonald’s birthday party and dance classes for me. He would be overjoyed to know me. He would have abandoned me by accident, not by choice.

For about two years I suspected that my mother was really my aunt, raising me because she was the oldest of five girls, and the youngest, my real mother, could not bear the responsibility. But, I do have a photo, printed long before PhotoShop, of her swelled belly framed by the cliché red and white, polka-dotted, baby-shower bikini. That’s standard evidence, right? And as I age more rapidly than my age should allow, there’s no mistaking her face on mine.

Only these physical similarities convince me that she is my mother and, to this day, I still hold out hope that my biological father is not really my father (though she assures me he’s the only possible candidate). I have no blood siblings.

She raised me alone on welfare, not including the spring break and summer holidays when she farmed me out to relatives who had no business caring for plants, much less children. We never owned a car. We never traveled anywhere. There were no playdates or piano lessons. We welfare children of teen single moms ran feral, finding fun in the large dumpsters aside our apartment complex, and picking berries in the grassy hill across the street.

All my mother hoped for was a man. All I hoped for was a mother. And so we pretended. We pretended that our insecurities didn’t hurt. She pretended through late-night V.C. Andrews and Stephen King, causing her to sleep away the rest of the day; through television, alcohol, cigarettes, and occasional pot. I pretended as best I could through schooling, friends, and my little red copy of the New Testament that was distributed at school by a local church.

Like all young children, as a young child I adored my mother. She would sing me to sleep and we would argue about who loved the other more. Of course she would always manage to convince me that mothers love their children more than children could ever love their mothers. However, by age six, I doubted, lacking evidence.

My memory is probably selective. I was well-fed, clothed, and housed, but a restful sleep without a drug party booming in the living room was not a guarantee. I don’t remember any cuddly comforts when I fought with my friends or had other insecurities: “Well, I’m not surprised you and Amanda aren’t friends again. I don’t know why anyone would be friends with you.” I remember not one encouragement to higher learning or career aspirations: “Just tell your teacher to f*** off.” I cannot recall lessons about morality–honesty, generosity, service, kindness: “I’m going to steal this and put it in your pocket. That way, if they catch you, they won’t do anything because you’re a kid.”

From about age six on, I mostly only remember bad things. I remember vividly with tastes, and smells, and black, black shadows. I remember thousands of little hurts embedded in my skin and organs, aging me, and embedded in my heart and mind, disabling me in ways that will demand many self-help books and angelic friends.

Now I am the mother. I thought it would be so easy to learn from her mistakes. I had my babies and nursed them from my breasts as much as they sought. I walked them for hours and held them in the shower, skin-to-skin. They slept with me. I poured upon them gentleness and adoration. I taught them to read. I readied them for school and then… they disappeared. And in their places appeared little Natashas who know these elementary school ages so well. I cannot look in their eyes and believe that they love me, and because they don’t love me, because I did not love my mother, I cannot hug them. I am afraid of them, even. How can I trust in something I’ve never experienced?

Then, “the cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon,” and it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. I look at my young, brilliant daughter, for example, so like me in appearance and personality; she seems so far away, writing her own story. I have the power to change the story, but I’m stuck here. Sometimes I do break through the barrier of who-knows-what, this intricate mixture of anxiety and inability to believe in something I’ve never felt, and I take the pen with which she writes and swallow it. I pick her up and dance with her. She beams. And for a moment, I can believe she loves me. For a moment, peace and trust punctuate the thick veil of diffidence and fear that separates us because of me, because of my mother.
It starts with me. Every day is like a new art project. I may have created other paintings in the past that please me, but each time I put brush to canvas I am awash with anxiety and disbelief. I’m no painter. I’ve taken no lessons. So many are better than me. They have natural talent that was nurtured in them. What am I doing? So, after a few feeble efforts, I put away the canvas, ashamed at myself for giving up and yet unable to produce something from nothing. A few months later, I might try again.

As my four children grow, I will no longer see myself in them. I’m experiencing this now with my son. This is the blessing in being essentially orphaned at age twelve, or, as my husband says, in becoming a refugee. While I would have preferred a Claire Huxtable mom, lacking a mom at all is better than trauma after trauma affecting the relationships between my children and me. My story with her as my pretending mother stops at twelve and she becomes just a woman in my life to whom I occasionally speak. The projection onto my children of a scorned and resentful child-version of me will disappear. I will look at them and, seeing only them, I’ll know: Oh, I love them so much! There will be no intricate lines and numbers obstructing my creativity; this mothering is no paint-by-number objective. I will have a clean canvas again, with no memories from which to rebel or model. They will love me, as they always have, but this time I will believe it. Of course, I will always love them more than they love me–real mothers always do.

I am creating my life’s first real mother: me.

Category: Up Close
Tags: a mother's love > becoming a mother > choices > faith struggles > hope > motherhood > mothering > trauma

Comments

44 Responses to “Refugee Mothering”

Emily
May 30th, 2010 @ 6:16 am

You’re doing better than your mom did. And maybe your children will learn from your mistakes and try to do better than you…and so it goes. Hopefully each generation can improve on their personal history…just a little. Sounds like you’re doing a great job.
Jennifer
May 30th, 2010 @ 7:44 am

Thank you for writing this. It struck a very personal chord with me. You are a beautiful writer and your honesty is refreshing.

I wish you and yours all the best.
Christie
May 30th, 2010 @ 7:55 am

Beautiful, poignant, and heart wrenching. Thank you for sharing your story here. I think we all feel that way at times. I know I do.
JulesD
May 30th, 2010 @ 9:04 am

Any woman who looks this deeply into herself and her relationships, is a woman with whom the people in her lives are fortunate to know and be loved by.
Eliana
May 30th, 2010 @ 9:34 am

It is hard isn’t it? And scary to do something you haven’t seen done. Truly, all you can do is love them–and act like it. Good luck.
Melissa M.
May 30th, 2010 @ 11:21 am

Beautiful post, Natasha. Motherhood is the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I feel like I’ve had to wing it the whole way through. I can relate to many of your feelings.

And I, too, wish I could save Dr. House. =)
Natasha
May 30th, 2010 @ 12:42 pm

Thanks, Jules. You’re always unbearably sweet.

Thanks, everyone else.
Lindsey
May 30th, 2010 @ 1:41 pm

I really loved reading your post. It also struck a chord with me. Thanks for writing this. I think there are a lot of us out there who feel the same way–though we haven’t had to endure what you have.

I used to get upset that my childhood wasn’t as perfect as I’d wanted it to be. Why couldn’t I have been born into _______ family? And then I realized one day that it was my job to create that family for my kids. I could be a part of that “perfect” family as the mom. It was liberating.
Ray
May 30th, 2010 @ 2:10 pm

Thank you for writing this, Natasha. It’s hard to read through the tears, but I am grateful for your honesty and courage.

May God bless you to create a mother who will be acceptable to you, and may the recognition that the mother you are creating is acceptable to God be part of that process.
Natasha
May 30th, 2010 @ 2:11 pm

Lindsey, I think that was why I wanted children: to have family and to heal through them. Need is not the best reason to have kids, though, speaking from what I have done.
Susan
May 30th, 2010 @ 2:13 pm

You are amazing. No mother is perfect, and you are doing the best you can.
“Life is the canvans, you are the brush. Paint something beautiful every day.”
thanks for your honest, vulnerable, candid look at mothering.
dalene
May 30th, 2010 @ 2:19 pm

This is one of the best blog posts I have ever read. Thank you so much for your beautifully expressed candor.

On a day–in a week–in a month–when I feel rather torn up about my own mothering and daughter-ness, I am touched beyond words. I’m going to have to chew on this for awhile.
Tracy M
May 30th, 2010 @ 2:29 pm

You rock. So glad this is up- and so glad people can read your story.
Jennie
May 30th, 2010 @ 3:16 pm

This was so moving. For a while after I had my first child I kept my heart so guarded. The emotional intimacy of having a child completely overwhelmed me. I was terrified to let myself fully feel the love that I could sense was percolating somewhere. But one day I just said, “enough!” I was tired of being afraid of those strong feelings. I just decided to abandon myself. It has made me a completely different person. I try to remember every day that unconditional love is the greatest grift I can give my children. I make sure that I give each one a huge hug and say “I love you” at least once a day. Such a small thing but it smoothes over a lot of uncomfortable feelings. I hope after a while they will know it in their souls.

I’m done comparing myself to other mothers because I know that to my children I am the best there is. I just try hard to remember it!

Thank you for this beautiful post.
mom o' boys
May 30th, 2010 @ 3:26 pm

Powerful, beautiful writing. I am truly sorry that you have experienced this kind of pain and loss. While the horrors of my childhood are not of the same magnitude that yours are, I can totally relate to the feeling of having to create something that you have not ever witnessed or been part of. Thank you for sharing this.
Natasha
May 30th, 2010 @ 4:15 pm

Thank you, everyone.

Dalene, wow. Thanks!

Jennie, that’s exactly what I’m doing: I’m guarding myself to protect myself from unrequited love. When they’re little, I can believe that they love me and I can believe that grown-ups love me but this middle portion, this portion tainted by my mother… sigh. Hard.
jenny
May 30th, 2010 @ 6:10 pm

This was beautiful and heartbreaking
and
hopeful.

I don’t have any wild stories of drug parties and shadowy abuse; my parents were good parents–but there are still scars. I sometimes think their parenting styles are a product of the parenting styles of a generation before them–and it never occurred to my parents to do anything different. But I do know this: I knew my parents *loved* me, but I never once felt like I was adored or cherished, and that hurt. Yes, it was hard for them to openly express their love, but to this day don’t feel like they ever felt some of the intense emotions that I feel for my own children. So, like you, in my mothering I am changing things. It’s taken me a long time to get to this point, but sometimes I am able to think about the things that were absent, or lacking, or just plain wrong and see them as a strange sort of gift; an impetus for change. I am keeping the good things that my parents did but in the changes I am making and have made, I feel like I have become a more mindful and deliberate mother.

Best wishes to you on your brave journey.
Miggy
May 30th, 2010 @ 7:18 pm

Very well written and expressed. It’s not just the brutal honesty and heartbreak of it all–because I firmly believe that it’s not just the terrible experiences that are ‘real’–but still it’s the honesety coupled with the exploration. One wouldn’t be good without the other. And I have to say it scared me a bit…I too had great early memories of my relationship with my mom, only to later be replaced by 95% negative memories and experiences…so as I’m in the early stages on mommyhood I’m thinking “I’m doing a pretty good job here…” but now you’ve sorta opened me up to the idea that things could still change…maybe I too will freeze and let fear take over. Not that that’s what you’re doing…. it sounds like you’re dealing with it head-on, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised if I find myself struggling with the same issues in a few years. {Not that my childhood was as out of control and scary as yours…just to be clear}.
Michelle L.
May 30th, 2010 @ 7:59 pm

beautifully written Natasha.

sometimes I think those of us who didn’t feel loved as children have an advantage in mothering- we remember how fragile little ones are and we don’t take anything for granted.
Emily
May 30th, 2010 @ 8:26 pm

Thank you for sharing your story. I appreciate your honesty.
Natasha
May 30th, 2010 @ 8:28 pm

Michelle, that’s what I thought, too. That’s why I thought it would be easy. Instead it just paralyses me because I know how they COULD feel when they grow up because I know how I feel and I’m worried that they’ll grow up to feel even a smidgen of what I do.
Natasha
May 30th, 2010 @ 8:55 pm

Miggy, thanks for your comment. And yes, it’s intimidating to realise that just when you have this gig down pat, your children completely disappear and become different people. Their baby-ness, their toddler-ness, their gawky preteen-ness all disappears. You can’t touch it, you can’t hear it, you can’t see it. It’s like the cruelest of magic tricks. You can’t get too comfortable.
April
May 30th, 2010 @ 9:11 pm

love the term Refugee! So much of what you wrote could have been my own words. I am so afraid they will hate me, sometimes I want to apologize for having them because I am so clearly broken. Maybe it’s because my own mother says, You just wait your kids will hate you too someday. Funny thing is I don’t hate my Mother, I just want to feel like she loves me.
All I can do is love my children and hope they don’t grow up to feel broken like me.
Brett Nordquist
May 30th, 2010 @ 9:29 pm

Natasha, this is one of my favorite posts you’ve written and I’ve enjoyed many. I like that it feels raw. I couldn’t imagine growing up with a mother like you have. Makes me appreciate mine more by reading your elegant prose. Thank you.
Emily
May 30th, 2010 @ 10:15 pm

Wow. What a difficult story. You’re doing well, Natasha. Your children will love you, and one day they will rise up and call you blessed for doing the best you can.
Blue
May 30th, 2010 @ 11:17 pm

i’ve just lurked for a few months, not making time to comment on any posts. but your words so vividly recalled the neglect and yearning i experienced as a child, that i just wanted to tell you thank you for writing and sharing this. and thank you for being a pattern-breaker…for stopping the generation-upon-generation transfer. you are amazing. you’re really doing an excellent job…i can state that safely based on the awareness of the situation with which you write.

i’ve always clung to the hope that i will avoid (most?!?!?) of the mistakes my parents made, and then my children will avoid the ones *I* make, and eventually the youth will be more and more good, more and more prepared to live righteously and make good choices in their lives. They won’t HAVE to experience all the unnecessary suffering that you and I did. that’s my hope at least.

Again, such a wonderful post. Thank you! ♥
Lunasea
May 31st, 2010 @ 12:01 am

That was wonderful and touching. You’re inspiring me. And, bravo for breaking the chain!
Shelley
May 31st, 2010 @ 1:09 am

N. I love your deep feelings and thoughts that you shared in this article. Your honesty and syle of writing makes me want to keep reading. I reflect on my own art work as a mother and how my childhood has affected the canvas. Each day is a new one. Each milestone a healing chapter. We can heal through the love we learn from our children. We can see our innocence in them. keep writing. love.
Norbert
May 31st, 2010 @ 7:21 am

Thanks for sharing this. While many of my details are different, I can definitely relate to the conflict.
Natasha
May 31st, 2010 @ 8:24 am

April, that’s a depressing thing to say, isn’t it? Like it’s inevitable to have hate in parent-child relationships.

Brett, thank you so much. I know I’ve scored if you say so.

Blue, thanks for delurking.

Everyone else, thank you.
Wm Morris
May 31st, 2010 @ 4:32 pm

Very well told.
Carina
June 1st, 2010 @ 2:37 am

Obviously, I love this, as obviously as I love you.
Mendy
June 1st, 2010 @ 12:12 pm

I often feel obtrusive commenting about someone and something I do not know. What I do know is that we need more voices like Natasha’s to be heard under our umbrella of Mormonism. We’re much more than a cookie cutter church with strictly pioneer ancestry.

Natasha this is one of my favorite posts on motherhood. It’s not just the honesty that kept me reading, it was your self-awareness that really hooked me. Thank you for sharing such a personal story with a world of strangers. I’m so glad I got to read it.
Anna Maria Junus
June 1st, 2010 @ 12:44 pm

Beautifully written.

You have broken the pattern. You are giving your children a different life than you have had.

And there are those out there who envy what you have now.
Reese Dixon
June 1st, 2010 @ 11:46 pm

I loved this Natasha. I’ve walked this road too, and it’s one of the silver linings of infertility for me that I had so many years when kids refused to come that I could deal with some of the trauma from my own upbringing.

One think I think of often is how I longed for my mother to love me. How I loved her so much I craved her. How I promised her I’d kill myself if she died because I thought it might convince her. My mother was an awful mother and I still wanted to love her. When the script plays in my head that tells me my child can’t possibly love me, I think back to that longing. I remember that feeling. And then I grant it to myself.

A child wants to love their mother. It’s our job to honor that, and then to let them.

You’re doing wonderfully.
april
June 2nd, 2010 @ 2:56 pm

deeply touched. left with profound hope. beauty emanated. love will. god bless.
Natasha
June 3rd, 2010 @ 9:11 am

Mendy, thank you. That’s very sweet.

Anna, but oh, we do not always know what goes on behind closed doors, hmm? If those people knew all my and our problems, they may not want to trade. Some would, some wouldn’t. And the knowledge that people envy me doesn’t help when all I know is all I experience.

Reese, what you wrote is profound. I cannot go back to that kind of feeling for help, unfortunately. But it’s good that you have that assurance. I definitely think that there’s a craving for a mother that continues to affect me and my relationships.

Thanks, April.
Geo
June 5th, 2010 @ 10:09 am

This leaves me with no words, but plenty to think about. Thanks, you.
Ana
June 6th, 2010 @ 8:06 pm

The only real peace I have found when dealing with my past was when I accepted that my parents are broken and they are not part of my life and it’s better this way. I know that sounds harsh, but letting go of the longing was so amazing. I finally feel free to parent my own children without the shadows.

Obviously, my own path to this will not mirror yours as we are all different so I’m not to try to give you advice about that, but I hope someday you can find peace and let go, too.
Ana
June 6th, 2010 @ 10:18 pm

Wow! I could SO relate to this. Only for me, I am the 2nd generation. My mother was the one who really wondered if her mother loved her and was surprised to realize that not one of us children ever had that doubt about her, even though she doubted her abilities and had to reinvent so much in her mothering. She gave us a much better experience than she had, but it took me until my twenties to fully realize it and forgive her the mistakes she made and get over what I wasn’t given growing up (even though it was better than what she had). Now I find myself having to reinvent some things and overcome inadequacies when I see what other people had growing up that I didn’t have. But it IS getting better the further I go along. And I am SO grateful to my mother for the choices and strength she gave to me then and now.
Ana
June 6th, 2010 @ 10:19 pm

There must be two Ana’s on here because I posted the 10:18 but not the one before!
Natasha
June 7th, 2010 @ 10:35 am

Ana 1: I have done that, too. I did actually meet my father later in my childhood, then moved in with him at age 12, until I left home at age 15 for good. A few years ago I said goodbye to him and haven’t missed him one bit and I doubt he misses me, too. I also said goodbye to my mom for four years. I thought I was ready to reconnect, for her sake. I was wrong. *sigh*

Ana 2: Your comment is encouraging. And yes, that coincidental commenting was weird.
Gina
June 10th, 2010 @ 12:40 pm

Thank you for sharing your story. You’re not alone in the “reinvention” of motherhood. I really lacked a role model in my Mom. I was never sure where I stood with my parents. They decided it was too hard to have me in their lives and have no involvement with me or my children. It wasn’t for lack of trying to make things work, on my part. I’m okay, and so are my kids. It’s their choice, and their loss.
Sue
June 10th, 2010 @ 1:01 pm

A sad, honest, and (in the end) hopeful story.

Thanks for sharing it.

=)