One of my children, (I will refrain from using names or ages to protect the innocent) has a recurring dream about Hitler. Yes, Hitler. We have tried to pinpoint what led to this dreamland interference… but, nothing stands out — no books, no documentaries, no school discussions. I know if some dream therapist is consulted as to what this dream means, he will say that Hitler represents me, the mother — it’s always the mother’s fault.
The list of things that we blame on our mother’s is endless: my clothes are too small, my clothes are too big, my hair is curly, my hair is flat, I missed the bus, I don’t like dinner — endless.
But, we somehow manage to carry on.
I’ve decided this must be due to the thing known as unconditional love. We know that our children can blame everything that goes wrong on us and we will still love them, we will still come back to them, we will still allow them to blame us. Of course, until I was a mother myself I was on the other end of the blame.
In the 1950’s, autism was blamed on mother’s. I found this explanation in Wikipedia (What? You know you use Wikipedia too.):
The term refrigerator mother was coined around 1950 as a label for mothers of children diagnosed with autism or schizophrenia. These mothers were often blamed for their children’s atypical behavior, which included rigid rituals, speech difficulty, and self-isolation.
The “refrigerator mother” label was based on the assumption — now discredited among most, though not all, mental health professionals — that autistic behaviors stem from the emotional frigidity of the children’s mothers. As a result, many mothers of children on the autistic spectrum suffered from blame, guilt, and self-doubt from the 1950s throughout the 1970s and beyond: when the prevailing medical belief that autism resulted from inadequate parenting was widely assumed to be correct.
Can you imagine, a disorder as wide spread as autism blamed on mothers? As a mother, we really have some ground to make up. Or do we? Maybe this is our time to re-claim a guilt-free existence. To stop accepting the blame for all the world’s ill-fated ventures. To let the chips fall where they may. (Yes, I know — not going to happen.)
Today alone, I will be given and accept the blame for: my oldest daughter’s room being painted a color she no longer wants (yes, she picked out the current color just last year), my son’s unfinished book report due tomorrow (yes, he received the assignment two weeks ago), and my youngest daughter’s favorite pink Dora popsicles are all gone (ok, I do have to take responsibility for that one).
When my mother first became ill and moved in with us, she was in a wheelchair. If she needed to get up at night, she would call and I would come. This night, when she called out for me, I was completely in the state of disorient that can only be described as that lack of sleep when you first bring home a newborn and everything sounds like an echo. I raced down the stairs still in my semiconscious state and missed the last two steps. I slid down hard on my bum — it hurt. My mother immediately apologized saying it was her fault for needing my help. I laughed. She laughed. Why is it so easy for us to accept the blame?
I can still try to blame things on my mother. It’s her fault that the laundry I folded for her some nine months ago is still on the dryer, with no one to wear it. It’s her fault that her purse with all its contents is lying in the bottom of her closet with nowhere to go. It’s her fault I stare daily at that half empty bottle of perfume because I can not bring myself to toss it out.
At some point, I’m sure we all become adults and accept responsibility for our own mistakes, for our own short-comings, for our own happiness. To blame is easy, to accept is not. But, to move on is the key.
As the mother, I know I’ll be given the blame — as the mother, I know I’ll accept the blame. So, I’ll pick up paint chips for the bedroom, I’ll edit the book report, and I’ll go to the store for pink Dora popsicles. And, when Hitler makes his way back into dreamland, I will be waiting to chase him away. When it’s all done… I’ll get the hugs and the kisses and the love. Which is really what matters the most.
I saw a commercial for “Beautiful” last night and started to cry – I closed my eyes and could actually smell her, I think. I miss her too…a lot.
Can’t wait to be home in a few weeks!
Love,
Katie
See you in a few weeks — I’m thinking pumpkin black bean soup for Christmas Eve.
Ooo…festive! Sounds yummy!
Wow, Becky. This is beautiful. I (all too) often try to imagine what my boys will blame me for later. The schoolmate birthday parties I gave up on when they were still little, the lies I didn’t tell them (in hindsight maybe you should lie when a five year old asks where babies come from), the fact that I was in no position to teach them how to cook…
I just keep hoping that they’ll see through all that to the part of me that loves them more than anything else.
You’re kids must be the luckiest kids alive Judy, to have you as their own. I’m lucky to have you as a friend.
Sniff. Sniff. You gave me chills, Becky. Too true.
Thank you for reading Jennifer! You’re kids are adorable.
Becky, this is a lovely post, full of everyday truth and heart. I enjoy reading your blog.
Thank you Marilyn — it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy knowing you’re reading these.
Becky, I drop by everytime I know you wrote a new post and it’s always worth it!
Thank you Maria — We need to coordinate our twitter time!
This is beautiful.
I was going to try to make you feel better about the bad dreams, but dreaming of Hitler “symbolizes oppression, fear, manipulation of power, and absolute control. The dream could be brought about by a situation where you are feeling helpless or by someone who is overly controlling or is making you feel less than human.” (dreammoods.com) yowch! Doesn’t mean it’s you, though. 🙂
Thank you so much Leighann, and I knew the Hitler dream was about me and in a bad way!
I thought you said you wouldn’t make me cry this post! My heart aches for your loss of your beloved parents, especially while you’re still so young. I was also the one who had to sort through, discard, forward on, and keep my mother’s things. For two years this month, I have boxes full of her kitchen stuff from floor-to-ceiling on one diningroom wall because I just can’t face going through it again.
My daughter’s 38 and still blaming me for things like her getting an allergic reaction to ant bites, yet we have a really close relationship. (And I don’t accept the blame for that one.) You are so right – the hugs and kisses and love are what matters the most.
Thanks Dani — you are such a sweetheart! I’m working on the witty post still!
Absolutely beautiful, Becky. I’m thinking Barbara would be proud and delighted to take the “blame” for your writing talent.
Thanks Laurette — you know, my mother’s grandfather was a writer. He wrote beautiful poems and prayers — I still have some of them.
I, too, like to drop by to read your blog when you announce that you’ve posted a new one….and I’m always glad that I did. This post is particularly beautiful.
I can appreciate the loss of your mother as my own passed away nearly 9 years ago. I have all of her jewelry, most of which I will never wear because it’s not my style, but I just cannot bear to part with it.
Best wishes to you!
Deb
Thank you so much Deb. It means alot to know people are reading these and sharing their own experiences. Thank you! And, I have so much jewelry of my mom’s. I think maybe my daughter’s will wear it one day because it’s not my style.
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