The Bad Daughter

I've been thinking about my mom a lot lately. And that's weird.

You see, my mom and I didn't get along all that well. We weren't very close. In fact, we were in open dispute for much of my life. And, during my teenage years, it was open warfare. So the fact that she's been much on my mind gets me thinking that there must be a good reason. I just hope that the reason isn't my way of punishing myself.

I come from a somewhat large family. There were six kids, two boys and four girls. My parents were blissfully, happily married for over 50 years. Their pleasure in each other was palpable. And they made a complimentary pair. My mom was a woman of action, a real go-getter. An only child in a family that, in a town where unemployment was rampant, came through the Depression unscathed. She was a looker, smart and athletic. Sure of herself and, as an only child, constantly reinforced in that belief. My dad was the youngest of four, from a prominent family in their small steel town. Dad, too, was a looker (and remained embarrassingly handsome until the day he died). But he was more of the pampered pet who wasn't expected to blaze a path through life. He was somewhat shy, but also had a bit of a wild streak. He ran with an older, slightly wilder crowd known for their drinking and rakish ways. In his heart, he always had aspired to be a historian or archaeologist, but World War II sent him into the Air Corps and the aftermath straight into the ubiquitous steel mill here. He and my mom married in 1948 and by 1953, they had four kids.

I was a product of the spectacular failure of the rhythm method. Mom wasn't supposed to have any more kids but, as a Catholic, she couldn't and wouldn't do anything to prevent them other than take her temperature and cross off days on the calendar. It was a dangerous and difficult pregnancy that led to a difficult infant, allergic to any and all milk products or formulas with the sole exception of goat's milk. I was told I cried continuously for the first year of my life and my mother spent every night rocking me constantly. Dad was not much help as he was, by then, working two jobs to support his growing family. Baby sister came along in 1964, after several miscarriages and many warnings from our family doctor for my mom to stop getting pregnant. Fortunately, that last golden child had the sunniest and winningest disposition of us all. Mom went back to college when golden child was three and eventually went on to become a prize winning journalist. Which allowed dad to finally cut back to one job and to get to know what was left of his family, as the oldest children had all gone off to college/marriage/military/career.

Mom and dad both had their favorites among us. Mom was obviously partial to the boys. She favored them, excused them, and rationalized their failures in life until the day she died. Dad was obviously partial to the girls, loving all that female adoration. Both parents, understandably, had a special relationship with my oldest sister. She was diagnosed with Crohn's disease at age 18, almost died numerous times, was hospitalized dozens of times at Cleveland Clinic, and basically went through a physical nightmare for most of her life. They both, also, had a special attachment to youngest sister because...well, she was the youngest. That left my next older sister and myself. Poor Patty! She kinda got lost in the crowd, I fear. She was the last of the four oldest and the homely runt of the litter as a child. I fear that her marital difficulties and attention seeking behaviors are the inevitable result of that experience.

As for me? Well, there is no doubt that I was the daddy's girl among the daddy's girls. By the time I had become a semi-sentient being (around 5 or 6), it was clear that daddy and I had a lot in common. I liked history. I liked politics. I liked war. I liked the machinery of war. I was interested in how to change a tire or the oil. I adored football. I aspired to go to Pitt. I questioned religion with him, a convert to Catholicism. And at this point in his life, daddy finally had the leisure time to explore these things with me. My mom and I, on the other hand, had nothing in common. I didn't sew. I didn't play with dolls. I didn't like or express a desire for babies. I was militant about never getting married. I liked being a little reckless and cultivated a reputation for it. And, because academics and excellent grades came easily to me, I wasn't about to take school very seriously. All mortal sins in mom's book. And though I refused to go to Confession beyond the age of 14, she made sure I did penance for all of them. I was truly the "bad" daughter.

We didn't like each other. My teen years were a blur of screaming matches with her, escalating a few times into actual physical confrontations. I'd do whatever I could to irritate her: date older guys, smoke dope, skip school, smoke cigarettes, drink, stay out late or all night. Mom would retaliate by grounding me, hitting me, calling the cops on me. Dad was always my champion. Not to say that I didn't drive him crazy, too, but he always made sure I knew he loved me and wouldn't let anything really bad happen to me. He let me know he understood me and I adored him for it.

My mom and I eventually came to a fairly friendly accommodation with each other by my mid-20s. But our relationship was never what you could call exceptionally close. And because she was the mistress of snark (where did you think I got it?), she would find ways of letting me know she hadn't forgotten all of that. Her close relationship with X was exhibit number one of that. She always found ways of letting me know that she thought he was waaaaaaay too good for me. She, in fact, said as much, separately, to both of us on her deathbed the night before she died.

When my dad suddenly died on January 2, 1999, I was completely devastated. I still am in some ways. I miss him terribly and I talk to him regularly even though I don't believe in an after life. When my life turned completely upside down, I yearned for him because he was the only person that I knew could really comfort me. Losing X was horrible. Losing X the way I did was obscene. Losing X the way I did without my dad there to catch me was the equivalent of being sucked into a black hole. I was paralyzed in a vacuum. Awful, just awful.

My mom's death, on the other hand, came after a long, difficult struggle with breast and bone cancer. We were prepared for it and it came almost as a relief when we got the call she had passed. We had each had an opportunity to say goodbye and, though our goodbye was not the lovefest that everyone would have liked it to be, I think we both felt a sense of contented closure.

Which brings me back around to why I've been thinking about her lately. What I keep wondering is what she would have made of the things he's done. She made it clear that she thought he was the best thing that ever happened to me. I'm curious as to how she'd judge the whole affair. Would she be as angry and hurt as I was? Or would she blame me?

Sadly, I think it's possible she'd blame me.