Renate and I have been talking about mothers a lot lately, specifically the strange evolution of the guarded, complex relationships that we have with ours. I bring this up because my mother might be coming over to the house this weekend and I’m still not sure I’m ready for her to visit.
She means well. She really does. And her gardening expertise far outpaces mine, which is to say that she knows how to transplant all the random, unidentifiable green things that are sprouting in our narrow strip of garden and I do not. I know that if I try, all the green things will shrivel up and die, just like half my houseplants are doing right now. The simple presence of her green thumb will probably perk the plants up again because that’s just the way it works. Just like I will end up with difficult children because I myself made her life hell until I was 6, and she will laugh at my pain because by God I deserve it.
Bligh said something the other day that made me think. She said, “Life is always an adjustment,” and she’s totally right. I guess I'm still adjusting to the way my mother and I relate to each other right now.