Christmas progression

As Christmas draws near, I have to admit that I really don't know how my mother did everything that had to be done. In addition to her working full time, there were so many things that had to be done before the annual Christmas trip to Taiwan. There were presents to be bought for her office employees, her friends in addition to all the presents that had to be bought for anyone she could think of that we would and might see when in Taiwan. Then there were the presents for my father, brother and, of course, me AND all of her brothers and sisters and their kids. I think all of this generally started right after Thanksgiving. 

Today, I was doing some Christmas shopping and while I was driving from place to place it was snowing. At certain points, there were the big fluffy snowflakes. The ones that just make you want to stick out your tongue and catch the snowflakes. I was stopped at a traffic light when all the years of Christmas shopping with my mother came flooding back. However, to my surprise, I did not get depressed or as sad as I am known to get when my mother came to my mind. Rather, I smiled to myself thinking that slowly but surely I am, again, stepping into her shoes. I knew this to be true when I found myself in a store contemplating wrapping paper . . . when I was deciding on which Christmas cards to purchase . . . knowing exactly what I wanted from a particular store . . . hemming and hawing over whether a particular item would be suitable as a gift. I did not do that much wandering through stores, but when I did . . . I could feel my mother right there along my side. I could see the process she went through selecting items as potential gifts and realized that I was doing the same thing. It felt so familiar. So comfortable.

Now, that is not to say that everything went off without a hitch because there was a glitch or two. But that's okay. I really don't mind that there was a glitch here or there because I learned how to approach the situation next Christmas. The point is that I could not be happier to be at a point in my life where I am embracing Christmas again and all that it entails. I am moving forward, putting one foot in front of the other. I am embracing at yet another opportunity where I am able to put all that my mother taught and emulated for me into practice. 

More than just memories

4As Christmas nears, scads of holiday memories come to mind . . . the many family trips to Taiwan to visit my mother's mother, the year I discovered that Santa's handwriting looked a lot like both my mother and father's handwriting, the year we opted for Hawaii instead of Taiwan . . . the list goes on and on. There are quite a few holiday memories where I just sit and giggle or groan to myself thinking about the family Christmases. 

One of the most memorable Christmases was the year my family moved to Philadelphia many years ago. Because of the move, my mother made the decision that we would not be going to Taiwan, rather we were staying in Philadelphia to finish unpacking the house and getting it organized. Woohoo!!! I remember thinking that was awesome, because I really didn't feel like going to Taiwan. AGAIN. Not that I don't love my grandmother and seeing her, but the trip does get tiring year after year after year. You know? So, anyway . . . one night, my mother and I were unpacking boxes in the dining room. I have no idea what time it was, but I remember that we were getting somewhat delirious and we'd start laughing for no particular reason. Now, I don't remember the exact order of events, but at some point, my mother ended up in a moving box, legs flopping about, with a moving sticker on her forehead. I remember laughing my head off at her AND taking a picture. The funniest thing is that we were laughing so hard that she couldn't get out of the box.

I had that picture of my mother for years. It reminded me that it is possible that my mother and I get along and have a good time. It often reminded me of the fact that my mother did have a sense of humor and could be ridiculously silly. After many moves of my own once I was out of college, I lost that picture. Or, admittedly, maybe I threw it out in a fit of anger at my mother at some point. I guess it doesn't really matter though, because I have that memory. I'll always have that memory. And nothing, except for maybe Alzheimer's, can take that (along with all my mother mom-memories) away. Sure it'd be great to have the picture just to show other people, but I know within my core that even though my mother and I fought more often than not, there were those incredibly fun and silly times together. 

There was probably a period of time when I was unable to think about happy times with my mother because of all the anger and bitterness that was built up inside me. I spent so much time being angry that I was unable to cherish the time we had together after my mother was sick. I was unable to let go of the anger from the past to just be with her, especially in the end. Going to my parent's house was a struggle because I didn't want to deal with her. Even as she got sicker, my mother still had a way of pushing just the right button and then in less than five minutes we were arguing. The anger was so strong in me, that I couldn't just let it be and try to find a way to cherish what ended up being the last few moments I had with my mother. 

Now, the anger has subsided along with the bitterness. I've found a way to be okay with everything that transpired between my mother and I. It's the only thing I could do so that I can be in a place where I want to celebrate my mother's life and remember all of our happy and silly times together. I want to be in that place so that as my own family develops, I will be able to share stories, good and bad, of the most incredible mother I could have ever had. As each day passes, I understand her life's importance. 

The weak spots

I’ve recently been reading The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan, again. I can’t tell you just how many times I’ve read this book. Nor would I be able to tell you just how many times I watched the movie. I recall that when I first read the book, I saw so much of me and mother in the individual characters. When I saw the movie, I believe I walked out because it affected me that much. I don’t think I ever walked out of a movie before or after that one time. I don’t know what came over me to read this book again, right now, given that there is a list and stack of other books that I want to read. Not to mention that I’m still working my way through two other books. Regardless, here I am reading The Joy Luck Club yet again.

I must admit that reading TJLC again, I now have a different perspective. A different set of eyes reading the book and absorbing the information. I now read lines or portions of the text and either realize exactly what the lesson is or have multiple experiences of my own that can relate to what I’m reading. So, I’ve taken to writing down excerpts that stand out to me as they have given me many ideas to build on for my own purposes.

While I was reading last night, I came across a portion of text that referred to the invisible barriers that a character had created in order to protect herself from her mother’s attacks. Not the direct attacks where it’s clear what the purpose is, but the indirect attacks. The attacks that hit at our very core. Our weakest spots. Now, I am sure that any mother knows how to do this, but in my experience, from what I’ve seen, Chinese mothers seem to have this down to an art. That both of you could be in a regular conversation alone or with others, and without even skipping a beat or tone. That was exactly how my mother could be when we were together.

My mother knew exactly what buttons to push. She knew exactly what to say. And even moreso, she would say her sharp, cutting words in such a regular tone of voice that it would get me at more core like you wouldn’t believe. And it was all the more frustrating when she would do this when we were in mixed company. It’s not like I can have such a reaction when we are in front of others. (In fact, the only times I’ve ever been saved from my mothers sharp words was if her mother was around.) And it got so bad that I never knew if my mother was being light-hearted or cutting with her words. Hitting my weak points seemed to come so easily. She had a way of doing this that I felt as though just about everything she said to me had some sort of hidden meaning that was meant to grind my nerves.

Now, the bad thing about this is that I learned how to do this very same thing. Just as my mother could cut me to the quick in about three sentences or less, I too, am capable of doing the same thing. And I am learning on a daily basis how to not exercise that skill that my mother perfected. It hurts too many feelings and leaves feelings of inadequacy or resentment for which I want no responsibility. At least most of the time I just make these comments under my breath or in my head . . . it's much better that way. I only wish my mother could have seen that when it came to our interactions. I mean, I know that my mother's job was to be my mother and help me better myself. However, I don't think that includes cutting me to the core with her words that she knew would hit me where it hurt the most. I remember the first time I brought home a 92 on a test. What does she say to me? Where are the other eight points. I constantly heard the barrage of questions or wonderings aloud of why I couldn't be more like my brother, why couldn't I have friends like my brother . . . the constant devaluing of the choices I made in my life. The constant disapproval of just about everything. Focusing on all the times I wasn't around with my family rather than the times where I did pull through for my family. I constantly felt the frustration. I constantly felt the sting of my mother's extremely well-placed words.

To this day, I am still recovering from my mother’s ways. The one that has had such a lasting impact is not taking everything that everyone says so personally. That comments aren’t always full of hidden meanings, but that they are exactly how they sound. And that not everyone is trying to cut me to the quick and have me feel small by their words. It is a daily process to keep the invisible barriers down so that I don't respond defensively or passively to what people may say. Words are words. That's it. Not everyone has mastered the art of using words to the degree that my mother has. And even if they have, not everyone sees the benefit in mastering the art of hitting the weak spot as my mother did.

At this point, it is what I make it . . . or not make it. 

I'd like the usual, please.

The times I feel the loss of my mother tends to be around the holidays. Since my mother's passing, my brother, father and me couldn't be more geographically challenged if we tried. And, with the past few years, I've truly learned who are true friends. 

When I was a kid growing up, the Christmas tradition became easy to remember - we went to Taiwan each year, with the rest of my mother's brothers and sisters and my cousins to see my Grandmother. There was no doubt about any of that. As we got older, maybe not all the cousins would go to Taiwan, but for many years, that's all I knew for Christmas. And what an ordeal that would be. The shopping for people we would see while in Taiwan started early. My mother, who was great at selecting just the right gift for someone, took forever when we would go shopping. When all the shopping was completed, my mother and I would lay everything out, going over who was getting what and what gifts were extras. Then, the task became arranging all the gifts in a suitcase so they would stay in their respective grouping. That was what Christmas was almost every year I can remember up until the end of my college years. When the trips to Taiwan ended . . . I don't think I spent another Christmas with my mother. 

There was a period of time where my mother and I didn't speak. I mean it, we really didn't speak. At all. After a couple of years and many interventions, we were able to come to a point where I could tolerate her presence. And I think she may have felt the same way. And though she was sick, I was looking forward to spending some time with her around the holidays. I had missed the usual family gatherings during the time when my mother and I didn't talk. However, in 2000, spending time with my mother around the holidays was not meant to be. I didn't even get a little bit of Thanksgiving with my mother. 

For a few years, I had my own holiday traditions, but that soon came to an end when I came back to Pennsylvania and decided to stay. And now, I find that I feel a little at sea with the whole celebrating the holidays thing. Now, don't get me wrong - I love Christmas and everything that goes along with it. Well, almost everything. I could do with out the egg nog. I love Christmas carols and the Christmas shows. But, I do miss the Christmas traditions. The things that were constants for me at Christmas - shopping with my mother, decorating with my mother, travelling to Taiwan with my mother . . . All these things that I did with my mother.

I know that the past is the past and there is no way for me to go back. And I know there is no way for me to make my present or future exactly the way as my past was. But, there are just those times when I feel so disorganized or disconnected from the holidays because I find that I am missing my mother and want to do all the things that I once did. The flip side is that I can remake Christmas and start my own traditions. And then I only hope that the holidays will become less disconnected feeling and more family feeling. 

I would if I could

Some days it's just not enough to know that everything is the way it's supposed to be. I know that in my mother's last months, she was in a lot of pain and not in any condition that she wanted to be in. And I also know, without a doubt, that she left on her own terms. Because all else was taken from her - strength, health, etc. - she had to have the last say, somehow. In many ways, I am grateful that she decided when she was ready to let go. And when she did . . . I know she went peacefully. But seriously, there are just some days when that just isn't good enough for me. It doesn't bring me a sense of peace. I know her passing is not about me, it's not about her family or friends and the work she left behind. There are some days, though, when it feels too lonely without her here. 

As an adult in the stages of preparing to begin a life with another individual, there are days when I wish she were here to talk to and hear her opinion and thoughts. By her dying, the opportunity for our relationship to come full circle, whether it was meant to or not, was taken. I was robbed. I want to believe that at some point, my mother and I would have come to some sort of middle ground. A place of understanding for each other. A place where we could interact as adults and not just mother and daughter. A place where she could see me as her daughter about to get married, hopefully have children and be with me along the way. To be with me to provide her experience, her wisdom. As things have changed for me in this past year, what is abundantly clear to me is that I wade through this without her. That I go through the highs and lows, the good and bad and everything else in between without her.

I don't deny that there are women in my life who would gladly provide their pearls of wisdom and past experiences to help me along the way. But, to that, I have to admit, I tend to have no interest. I try to remain steadfast with an open mind, but that tends to prove harder than I think. It's just not the same. It's not my mother. I know that it would only be to my benefit to reach out and have an open  mind, but there's always the obvious - whoever that woman may be that I reach out to or seek comfort or knowledge from is not who I really want. I recognize that isn't fair to others and I struggle to resolve that problem. I know this is my obstacle. I want to think that as the pain and sadness lessens, my willingness to be open to others will blossom, if not completely, then just enough so that I may continue to learn from those who have come before.

She was, I wasn't

As my writing takes on different paths, I realized recently that there is a path that I will have difficulty going down if and when the time should come for me to take that journey. I really don't know much about my mother aside from her professional life and the interactions I saw myself. I don't know much about my mother when she was a child, a teenager or adult. I don't know what it was like when her brothers and sisters would stay with her and my father when they came to the United States to study. I don't know how she and my father met or what their courtship was like. I don't know what my parent's life was like before they had children. There are so many things that I don't know that I want so much to know. I know that I would like to know all these things and more - what were the relationships like between my mother and her siblings. How did she feel when she had children. Did my mother ever get into trouble as a child, teenager or adult? So many unanswered questions. These are the things I feel I lost out on given the fact that I no longer have my mother to turn to so I may ask these questions. Somewhere within me lies the curiousity and the want to reach out to my mother's remaining siblings to ask these questions and more. Is it too intrusive or would they welcome the opportunity to share these stories that I don't know about my mother? There are so many things I want to ask my father . . . but he is unable to utter one or two words about my mother without breaking down into tears. Would he welcome the opportunity to share with his daughter how he and my mother met? How they fell in love? How they felt when they had children? 

I want to know who she was so I may learn more about who I am and draw my own conclusions about how similar and different we are. Or maybe how as mother and daughter we complemented each other. Or not, for that matter. I know that I am my mother's daughter in so many ways. But those are characteristics or traits that we share. Do we share any similar stories, though? I want to come to a place where I understand her better. 

One part of her story that I do know . . . I am not the only daughter of Chinese parents who knew all too well that there was one child who was the apple of one or both parents' eyes. According to my aunt, my mother was always number one in my grandmother's eyes. Not one of my mother's four brothers and sisters could outdo my mother or take her place. My aunt explained that they all knew that, so no one ever tried to take her place or change that fact. And, oddly, my aunt didn't seem the least bit upset. She conveyed the story from a place of acceptance and calm. I remember for years it was so obvious that between my older brother and I . . .  he was the golden child. In my parents' eyes, my brother could do no wrong. He was the oldest. He was the male. And seriously, he could do no wrong. It was he who always had the "right" friends, good grades, etc. Me? I couldn't have been more inopposite of my brother, and that's not by accident. Though, I think even as babies and small children, we couldn't have been more opposite. To this day . . . as far as I can see or hear, in my presence, my father generally speaks of my brother as if worshipping him from afar. Not in my presence, though, things are not as they appear . . . but that's for another day. 

My mother was number one . . . her siblings would never be number one. I was never number one . . . my brother was always the apple of my parents' eyes. I think that is one of many factors that contributes to the dynamic of the relationship between my mother and I. Clearly, we don't share that story . . . rather we complemented each other. We balance that part of our independent stories. How awesome is that?

From generation to generation . . .

So, Thanksgiving came and went without much incident. The event was so filled with activity and new things that I really didn’t even have a chance to think about my mother. Although, there was one moment where thoughts of her came to mind. 

Let me set up the scenario: it was the first parent gathering for me and my significant other. And I was completely drowning in nervousness because, well, my father’s wife chooses to not speak a lot of English (though she understands quite a bit) and my father has a tendency of switching to ornery old man very easily. Forget all the other fears and thoughts that were plaguing my mind, those were the two that were really weighing me down. However, not much time goes by and I see, okay, things are going smoothly. So, then, without thinking twice, I begin doing what my mother has taught me so well to do – I begin helping my significant other’s mom with putting food out, etc. I immediately clear after each course. I feel good about this because not only do I want to help, but I know my mother is looking down smiling. The end of the meal comes and the table is being cleared, just as it’s been for every other course. At this point, there are only some glasses remaining on the table and random silverware. I return from the kitchen and am about to sit down when my father’s wife tells me to clear the glasses. It took less than 10 seconds (no joke) for every resentful bone in my body to flare up. I purposely did not clear the remaining clean glasses in the event that people wanted a different beverage for dessert. So, I wave her off saying not now and go to sit down. She then proceeds to physically touch me to clear the glasses. Now, I want to punch her. Ok, maybe not punch her . . . but, I really wanted to look at her and ask who she thought she was because seriously, she’s not the one who raised me or taught me how to conduct myself when having a meal at someone else’s home. This is where the significant other very quietly (and calmly) touched me and asked me to please just do what she asked. For him – I did. Had I been left to my own devices, I would have sat my weary behind down and ignored her. 

Now, let me say . . . I do not disrespect my elders. BUT, do not talk to or treat me as though I have no idea how to conduct myself. This applies moreso to my father’s wife than anyone else. And there I am not joking. To sing my mother’s praises . . . she did an EXCELLENT job of raising me, especially when I wasn’t acting like such a brat. But, when it comes to hosting and being an active participant when at someone else’s home – my mother knew exactly what to teach and show me and how to do things discretely or without having to be asked. 

So, the last thing I truly needed on Thanksgiving night was for someone to try and change what my mother taught me years ago. I take great offense that this woman, yes, I said “this woman”, thought that she had any place in telling me how to conduct myself at the home of my significant other’s parents. This was her FIRST time there . . . this was NOT my first time. I have had Sunday meals there and have helped in the style of my mother each and every time. And I think if something weren’t satisfactory or appropriate about what I did, I would know about it already. 

My mother was the most incredible host along with an incredibly active guest. She instilled every bit of her manners and skills in me, starting from an early age. And I’ve never forgotten a single iota of what she taught me. She would always tell me that if I looked bad it was my fault, not hers because she made sure to teach me everything I needed to know. So, to have some woman who has only been a member of my family for five years attempt to “mother” me was incredibly insulting and offensive. That is the one area where my temper and anger flares. I have one mother and one mother only. And because this woman married my father does not mean I want anything to do with her attempts at mothering me or giving me advice that my mother would dole out. 

Call it childish, call it being close-minded . . . but, I can say with great confidence that between my mother and I . . . there was knowledge on being a hostess and/or guest passed on that does not need or warrant any sort of improvement or alteration. Nor do I want any improvement or alteration unless it is mine.

These are some of the lessons that I have learned from my mother that will be the ones I want to pass on to my children. Without the input of anyone other than me.