I Wonder How My Mother Felt

Let me preface this by saying that I adore my mother. She is beautiful, outspoken, intelligent, and practical to a fault. We've always gotten along well. However, as my mother's oldest daughter, I was always a bit, well, different from what I believe she had envisioned.

As a newborn baby, I could be comforted only by my father. Being wrapped tightly in a blanket and snuggled on his chest -- not Mom's -- was the only way I would sleep. As a toddler and a young child, I followed him around like a puppy, always wanting to play with Daddy's wrench set or help string the Christmas lights. As far as sweeping the floor or cooking like Mommy, though... forget it. (I still can't cook!)

Mom has never wanted to travel. She likes quiet, predictability, routine. I, on the other hand, have been to half the 50 states, spent a year and a half living in Europe, and consider traveling and learning about other languages and cultures one of the great passions of my life. To this day, I often hear my mother saying aloud to her friends, "Where did I get this kid?"

While my kindergarten friends were playing House and drawing hopscotch grids with sidewalk chalk, I climbed to the very top of the climbing structure, higher than the boys could go, all the way up to the topmost intersection of wooden beams, the part that wasn't really meant for climbing. I never fell, never even slipped (though some child must have, because the structure was removed when I hit third grade).

(Aside: I once broke my mother's nose by accident, by jumping up off the floor while she was standing next to me. I was about eight, and didn't know she was bending over me.)

My mother is a tiny and petite A cup -- she didn't even top 100 pounds until she went to college -- and has never exercised beyond her daily morning walks. I am a muscular 5'6", a 36DD, and have eagerly tried practically every sport there is, from horseback riding to skydiving.

My mother has dark brown eyes and nearly black hair, which she has always worn longish. I am a carbon copy of my dad -- hazel eyes and light brown hair -- and have always kept my locks trimmed as short as I could get away with. As a teenager, I recall her telling the hairdresser not to cut it as short as I had asked for, whispering that she didn't want me to "look like a dyke."

My mother's school performance was always on the good side of average, As and Bs and the occasional C. Somehow, I learned to spell my name with alphabet blocks before I could walk, began reading at age two and a half, was accepted into the Gifted program at age seven, attended magnet schools, completed the International Baccalaureate program, became a National Merit scholar, and got a full scholarship to college.

My ninth-grade female friends only went to gym for the purpose of checking out the guys -- all the ones I was beating at basketball. When they tried on each other's makeup, I wrote stories at my desk. And during lunch period, while everyone else was sitting in the courtyard gossiping, I joined the boys on the football field for knock-down drag-out games of Ultimate Frisbee, and returned to class dripping sweat.

My mother got her period at age twelve, and was overjoyed to have finally 'matured'. A box of maxipads mysteriously appeared in my closet when I was eleven -- and stayed there as I passed twelve, thirteen, fourteen. At fourteen and a half, I finally got my period... and sobbed for an hour, dismayed at the incontrovertible evidence of growing up.

I remember a seventh-grade classmate, part of a group who spent their free time tormenting me, slipping a note into my locker that said, among other things, "WE KNOW YOUR [sic] GAY!!!" I didn't even know what the word meant.

I wonder if my mother knew about me? She was the only one of my family and friends who was surprised when I told her -- but did she really not ask herself that question even once throughout all my years of growing up? My room was literally plastered with Shania Twain, I drew cartoons of my camp counselor in the margins of my notebooks, my Spanish teacher's name came up in literally every other sentence at the dinner table when I was 17... How can you live with a child for 18 years and not know on some level? I always felt like I was keeping a secret from her, for all those years when I wasn't sure... but did she really not have her suspicions?

I wonder how she felt, as I was growing up and following a path so different from her own? Proud, I'm sure -- I know I've accomplished a lot in my life, and I'm grateful for all my gifts -- but did she ever feel resentful, dismayed, jealous, disappointed, confused? My gut says that she did, maybe does to this day... and that makes me wonder if I'm another disappointment to her even now?

As much as I want to deny that... my gut kinda says yes to that one, too.