Catching Idle Butterflies

How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.

One of the greatest blessings I've received from writing this blog have been the responses people have left. They have widened my knowledge and perspective, both on myself and others.

They have also served to give me ideas for other entries, this being one of them.

A few entries ago ("Dead flies in perfume" ) chalaedra left this comment:

”You know, you bring up an interesting point here and I think the verse you picked is very appropriate for our times. My mother and I used to get into all kinds of arguments about things from the past and my issues with her always centered over the negative things she had said and done. When she pointed this out to me, I had to think about it. It was true she had also done many wonderful things and I truly loved her. It was those negative things, however, that still toubled me, even years later.”

This reminded me of a conversation my mother and I had about ten years ago:

“Did you ever go through a stage where you hated me?” she asked.

“Yep,” I responded. “Would you like to know when?”

In fact, the moment she asked me that question, every mistake I thought she made came to the surface. I didn’t realize I had kept a mental tally until then and I wanted her to know them all – in detail.

She didn’t take me up on the offer of hearing my “hate” list, dang it.

But the best part came later, because this is the perfect example of why I thought my mother did a wonderful job raising my sister and I.

She explained to me later, turns out the reason my mom even asked the question was that she had been talking to other mothers (something she had never done before) and they discussed how their children went through stages of hating their parents. This floored her. Her own daughters hating her never once occurred to her.

She first asked my sister and she said, “Oh, no! I never hated you! I love you!”

Mom thought, “Well isn’t that sweet – she’s lying – but isn’t that sweet that she cares enough not to want to hurt my feelings.”

Mom’s response when I said the exact opposite?

“Well isn’t that sweet that she cares enough about me to be honest with me.”

Opposite responses, same reaction.

That’s what I appreciated most about my mom. She loved us equally, but treated and accepted us as individuals. She never once compared her daughters to anyone, never once said “Why can’t you be more like Margaret.” or vice versa, and never once took sides when Margaret and I fought, telling us to solve it between ourselves.

Margaret and I have both tried to thank her for how well she raised us, but -- and I think this goes with every parent -- she sees her mistakes as being greater than her successes. She gives the credit to us being born with strong personalities and she having no choice but to work with them.

Perhaps, perhaps not, but I’m grateful nonetheless.