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
- Mom’s House Of Tchotchkes
- Mom, This Is The Blog – Blog, This Is My Mother
- Ozark Entertainments – Visiting Mom
- Family Home Curios and Oddities Photo Safari
- If Mom Were Muslim
- My Mother’s Incredibly Christian Clock