In My Mother’s Eyes

My Mother And Me – 1950

Notwithstanding my announcement that this blog would be dormant while I spent a few days with my mother in the Ozarks, I had nurtured hopes of posting a poignant anecdote about my mother that would somehow offer a bit of insight into her maternal psychology. No such narrative has emerged.

Although my mother was, by far, the predominant force in raising me, I can come up with three stories about my father and me for every episode that features Mom.  I think that apparent paradox is the consequence of my childhood being flooded with interactions with my mother that formed the background for all my own activities and the matrix of my inner life.  On the other hand, whatever happened between my Dad and me stands out in relief, bracketed by periods during which I was, if not ignored, certainly not in his spotlight.

I don’t recall a time when I wasn’t in my mother’s spotlight.

The photo of my mother and me atop this post, discovered yesterday while excavating a section of  Mom’s collections, goes far toward explaining this phenomenon.

Standard psychoanalytic theory holds that one’s sense of self originates in the infant’s awareness of the mother’s unconditional (and, indeed, unreasonable) empathic care radiating from her eyes. The mother provides a nascent identity for the child, which, if all goes well, is, during one’s  childhood, adapted and internalized as a psychological element independent of the external world.

Now, take a look at that photo. That young woman,  who has recently become a mother while living  in a tiny, poorly insulated, inexpertly constructed home in rural southwest Missouri in 1950, helping her husband try to make a living selling used cars, and tending to the remnants of their failed farm, should, by rights, be as upset as the squalling child in her arms. Instead, she gazes upon him with undiluted, unmixed approval, acceptance, and love.

And I grew up knowing intuitively that, regardless of my mistakes, errors, or misbehaviors, my mother continued to gaze upon me with undiluted, unmixed approval, acceptance, and love.

So,  I have no wonderful stories about my mother today, not because my history with her is empty of touching moments but because that history is too rich and interlocked to provide convenient post-size chunks of inspiration.  It is, instead, the kind of history a son needs with his mother.

Other Posts About My Mother

 

5 Responses to In My Mother’s Eyes

  1. this story warms my heart, thanks for this and the picture is shining a light out there…..i can see the love between you two…..

  2. What a beautiful tribute to a very dedicated and beautiful mother. The photo shimmers with feeling and meaning. And it is an extra special personal tribute by you to travel so far to spend quality time with your mother on this day.

  3. beautiful photo of little Allan and his mother … wished I had such a dear mother ..!!!

  4. Coco Éclair

    If ever there were a tribute devoid of cliché, this is it. How utterly beautiful….

  5. D’accord – with all in response.

    Wonderful words – thank you!

    Best to you and your Mom in the Ozarks :)

    Happy Mother’s Day, everyone!!