Betsy

I don’t pay much attention to Mother’s Day.  When the kids were little, and I was married to their father, there was always something wrapped up and waiting for me, but with two grown boys who don’t yet have wives to nudge them, occasions like this tend to pass with little or no fanfare.  But it’s not me that I’m thinking about today.

Let me introduce you to Sarah Elizabeth “Betsy” Johns.  She grew up in the Depression, but her father owned a gas station, and she came out of that era relatively unscathed.  It was other things that left scars.  A chemical imbalance, which today would have been easily fixed with medication, but was left unattended and resulted in a lifelong, low-grade depression.  She was beautiful, but, my siblings and I always suspected, somewhat under-noticed in her family of seven.  She never had a drop of alcohol in her life, and as three of the five children in that family became alcoholics, she obviously made the right choice. 

Something in her makeup or in her family of origin – really, a combination, I’m sure – left her with a deep sense of insecurity.  She was negative; you could go to a restaurant and have the meal of your life, but all she would remember was the waiter who forgot to bring coffee with her dessert.  She played favorites, and I was not one of her favorites.  She had a laser-like ability to hone in on people’s weaknesses and vanities, while overlooking their fine qualities. My father, a good man whose occasional lack of sensitivity and attentiveness very much mirrored the times, could not keep her propped up.

All four of us, but probably me in particular, have occasionally been dismissive of Mom , joking that we pretty much became who we are by observing my mother and deciding what we DIDN’T want to become.  And there’s some truth to that. But the older I get, the more I appreciate the gifts.  Silliness and laughter.  The knowledge that no one in the world will ever love me as much as she, in her own way, did.  A college education – she felt the lack of hers acutely, and wanted to ensure that all four of us carried that advantage through life.  Although unable to practice it herself, she believed in the “attitude is everything” approach to life, and constantly reminded us “The only way anyone is going to think you’re great is if YOU think you’re great.”  

I think about Mom whenever I watch “Mad Men.”  The stifling, homebound lives of the women, the absolute entitlement of the men.  The helplessness and lack of options in the face of philandering husbands and leering bosses.  I watch it for entertainment.  Mom lived it.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.  I’m sorry you didn’t get all you wanted out of life, and weren’t able to fully enjoy the wonderful things that you did have.  I now know how hard it is to be a good parent.  I know you would be happy to know that all four of your children really, really know how to enjoy life.  And I’m sorry I never gave you enough credit for that.  I love you.