The Dream She Wants To Hear  Maureen Moynihan   © Copyright 2023 by Maureen Moynihan

Photo courtesy of awmleer on Unsplash

Before her 26th birthday, my mother had four children.

“Your father would sneeze and I’d get pregnant,” she’d say, part caution, mostly sarcasm, sugarcoating the whirlwind of exhaustion that had become her life.

I, on the other hand, had my twenties for eighteen years. The world was my playground and my mother cheered me on with every plane I boarded. When I returned home, we’d share a bottle of wine, pouring over pictures of the Sistine Chapel or new friends who spoke a different language. Our laughter would spill over until the stars winked good night.

Coming home was always the best part of traveling.

There was never any doubt I would have a family of my own, it just took me longer to get there. I delivered my first child at 40, right after my husband had a cold. Turns out, I inherited more from my mother than her eyes.

But motherhood was not the dream my mother had for me-trapped in a house with needy children and chores that reincarnated the moment they were done. She wanted me to stay wild and free.

It was as if I had betrayed her by melting into the chaos and monotony of motherhood.

Yet the melodies of La Bohème dulled beside the sparkle of my daughter’s giggle. And the Cliffs of Moher paled in comparison to her first steps. How I ached to share that joy with my mother- my friend.

By then, the novelty of being a grandmother had worn off. She’d already endured countless renditions of the same holiday concert and was itching to break free from the well-worn script of domestic caregiver. Intellectually, I understood her position. Truly, I did.

No one wants to be tethered to the abyss of maternal obligation. That’s why turtles lay their eggs and leave.

Still, an echo of betrayal lingered. Drop me in a foreign city and I’d find the best coffee shop within an hour-even without knowing the language. But trusting my maternal compass left me lost. There was so much at stake:

A change in routine could trigger days of anxiety.

Toilet training too early might lead to control issues.

Forget to move the Elf on the Shelf, and you’re the villain

Every decision felt loaded and shadowed by the fear of doing irreversible harm. I constantly craved validation and support from my mother.

Am I doing this right?

Do you think I’m a good mother?

Her opinion meant the world to me

When my marriage dissolved, her absence fermented under my skin until it soured into resentment.

“You ruined your life by marrying that idiot, ” she’d inform me. Her contempt for the father of my children and the life I’d chosen, was unmistakable. It became one more reason to stay away from my home.

Now, alone in the world with two teenage daughters, I visit my mother out of duty more than desire. Like so many other rooms in the nursing home, hers is a kaleidoscope of family photos- captivating smiles from birthday parties, dance recitals, and graduations.

No one hangs pictures of the Eiffel Tower or the Swiss Alps.

“Tell me about your last adventure,” she asks, the spark returning to her eyes.

I bite my lip.

In so many ways, I need my mother. I know it’s not age-appropriate to thirst for her validation and support, I know. Still, I long to whisper: Am I doing this right? Am I a good mother?

Instead, I swallow my tears and tell her the dream she wants to hear.

“The Moroccan markets are an explosion of color and chaos…”

Closing her eyes, she flies to Northwest Africa.