I was desperate. Driven by a mad desire to become a mother and heaven help anyone who dared get in my way. Think Sigourney Weaver as Ripley in Alien. I kept my manners in check while folks gave me unsolicited advice and opinions.
Except for my mother, who bless her heart had the audacity to question my mission, from the start, as she had when I’d swoon over each boyfriend or my new destination across the country. I remember bristling at her lack of confidence in me, her seeming disappointment that I just couldn’t have a baby. A baby. Not two, not toddlers. A baby.
And like the petulant teenager I still was at forty-five, I set out to prove her wrong. We became a family of four overnight.
I got my due.
It took me years to get what my mother had meant and what I couldn’t have possibly heard, because my pride and desperation were impenetrable.
I’m only grateful that years later, during one of our many afternoon talks, I brought it up and apologized for getting angry at her. My mother chuckled as she sipped her coffee and said, “Ay, mijita, now you know what it’s like to be a mother. Our children grow up to be our harshest critics.”
Now more than ever do her words resonate.
I miss you, Mom.