HOW TO SURVIVE AN ALCOHOLIC MOTHER (WITHOUT HIDING UNDER THE BED)

They say your childhood has to last a lifetime.  If that's true, I'm in a world of hurt.

My mom was an alcoholic.  Not the kind who gets sleepy, funny, philosophical, weepy, or syrupy (we all know that last type: "I love you, man!").  My mom just got mean.  Evil mean.  So mean that she actually flunked out of the acclaimed Hazelden 30-day inpatient alcohol rehab program and bragged about it.  The counselors were probably scared of her.  Everyone else was.  Even the dog.  

The day she died was one of the happiest days of my life.  That same day, I admitted to myself, and Duncan, that no one in the world was better off for having known her.  How sad is that?  Tragic, really, because she was incredibly smart and drop dead gorgeous. But each day, at 5 PM, cocktail hour started, and things got really ugly.

As I've gotten older, I've come to appreciate what a loss I suffered, not having a mom.    There's an orphaned, gnawing hurt that raises its ugly head when I least expect it, despite the passing years.

A few years ago, Duncan and I went to see the movie Julie and Julia with his mom.  It was a great movie.  If you haven't seen it, you should.  It's about a newlywed who takes it upon herself to cook a Julia Child recipe each day for a year.  When the movie was over and we were leaving the theater, Duncan and his mom were abuzz in chatter about his fond childhood memories of his mother's cooking.  Duncan reminisced about the smells and comfort of home-cooked meals.   He recounted coming home from school to find his mom at the stove, with the Julia Child cookbook propped open on the counter.  For him, Julia Child was an important part of growing up in the 1960s.   A Thunderbolt Kid kind of thing.  Right there, in the theater lobby, he hugged his mom and thanked her for being such a great mom.  I witnessed the bliss.  

When Duncan turned to look at me, I was crying.  I tried to turn away and hide my face.  I wished for a "Dream of Genie" moment, where I could close my eyes, nod my head, and disappear.  But it was too late.  Duncan stood there, dumfounded.  After 30+ years of marriage, that doesn't happen too often.  My behavior was so unexpected that even my best friend had no idea what was going on. Or what to do.  His mom stood there, stunned.   Then she started paying an inordinate amount of attention to a bloody Bruce Willis poster.

You see, my memories were totally different.  My mom never cooked (unless cooking includes taking an oddly-colored salmon loaf out of a can).  She was never a Julia Child wanna-be.  I doubt she even knew who Julia Child was.  Suffice it to say, my life was more like Night of the Living Dead than Leave It To Beaver.  To put it mildly, my mom wasn't warm and fuzzy.  She lacked the "memory-making" gene.   At least good memories. 

I've tried hard to make Duncan's mom my mom, but it hasn't worked.  She's the epitome of what a mom should be: loving, gentle, kind, and nurturing.  Her hands, now aged, have a grace and touch that, in my mind, define motherhood.  But in the end, although I love my mother-in-law dearly, I've come to realize that you can't go home again.  A mom is like a puzzle piece, with unique edges.  Once that puzzle piece is lost, it's not possible to interlock with someone else.  You can't create a substitute for the loss.  The only option is to resign to the fact that there will always be a hole in your life.  And your heart.  

In ninth grade, I came to the life-altering realization that I had an important choice to make.  I could choose to be a victim for the rest of my life, or I could move on.  I chose to move on.  That decision, and my experiences at summer camp, in many ways, define who I am.  More on both in blogs to come.

Suffice it to say, it hasn't always been easy, but Duncan has been a huge help and I think that our sons would say that they survived their childhood unscathed.  In my (ever humble) opinion, they've thrived.  Ironically, Duncan did all the cooking when they were growing up, and often relied on Julia Child.  I chose to bake, however, because I liked to lick the bowl.  

None of us are scar-free.  We have all had to deal with some kind of challenge in our lives.  But we have plenty of great years ahead, and we need to cherish them.   I'm so proud that, despite the challenges of my early years, I've learned to  embrace the ordinary moments that make life extraordinary.   Motherless, but triumphant.