Moms. 12/02/04
Some little kids create an "imaginary friend" in their minds when they are lonely and find the other people around them to be unsatisfactory companions. I used to pretend that I had this caring, understanding mother that I could talk to and who would hug me.
Someone who was interested in my life. Listening patiently, asking questions to learn more details on whatever I'm talking about and offering possible solutions to the problems, but never in a judgmental or sanctimonious way. Trying to figure out what I mean to say and how I feel when I can't get the words out quite right.
I wish I could have heard, just once,
“Hey, you seem sort of sad. Do you want to tell me about whatever’s getting you down? What can I do to help?”
Someone delighted to see me. A mother who does things for us and takes care of us, not because she feels it is her duty, but out of love and a naturally giving and sharing nature. A person who is open about her own life, never needy or demanding or whiny or commanding, someone who makes it easy and not scary for me to be myself around her, knowing that her main expectations for me are that I be an honorable, self-sufficient person and find happiness.
A mother who is proud of me for who I am and for the goals I’ve set for myself and achieved, not just for the way I look or the grades on my report card or because I'm supposedly smarter or skinnier or more talented than other girls. Someone who realizes what the important things are in life and shows me, rather than lecturing me, about the many different meanings of being successful. Someone who never pushes me into anything.
Imagination has always seen me through the bleak times.
I don't know if this is a healthy thing, mentally. But it used to make me happy. To at least imagine someone being so loving and understanding and nurturing felt so warm and fuzzy.
