Ready to Sprout

Just after I accepted my new job and before I had started, my mother called.
“How are you?” she asked, voice full of concern.
“Fabulous!” I reply, smiling. “Absolutely fabulous!”
“But you never call anymore,” she whines.
“And you never call anymore,” I echo.
“Well, I don’t want to be a nuisance…” her voice drops off as she lets her words hang precariously between us, waiting for me to reassure her that she could never be a nuisance.
Instead I laugh, “Oh, but you do it so well!”
Silence.
When I don’t rush to fill it, she does.
“It’s just that we worry about you.”
“Please don’t. I’ve asked you not to, and really, I’m fabulous.”
“Oh.”
Silence.
“Well…is anything new?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I got a job.”
“Really, doing what?”
“I’m going to be working with an outreach program, with survivors of domestic violence.”
“Oh. That’s just the sort of job that I’ve always said you should get. Counseling. Remember how I always said when you were married that you should go back to school and get a degree in counseling? Oh, that’s just your thing. Now I finally have something to tell my friends. They keep asking about you, you know, and I never have anything to tell them.” My mother’s voice is all bubbles and sunshine.
I try to match my voice to hers and smile, “So glad I was able to help you out.”
“Yes, well, you’ll call me if anything new happens, won’t you?”
“Yes, I’ll call you.”
“Okay then, cheery-bye.”

I hang up the phone and my mind is swirling.

When I was married, I had seriously considered going back to school to get a Masters in Social Work. Neither Patrick nor my mother thought it was a good idea. They were both very logical in their reasoning. I already had a full time job mothering. Besides, where would I get the money? You know, it costs money to raise four children. And why, for the love of God, would I ever want to get a Masters in Social Work? Why would I want to work with people who had problems?

And so, I backed down.
I knew that it was easier to stay malleable. To remain the blank slate so that others could write my story for me.
There was really no point in rocking a boat that was already plenty rocky on its own.

A week into my job, my mother called again. It’s a Sunday afternoon and I am busy scrambling to get all the shopping done before the children come home from their father’s house.

“How’s the job going?” she chirps into the phone.
“I’ve got a lot to learn, but it’s going really well.” I try to keep my answer short so that I can get off the phone as quickly as possible.
“All my friends are just so excited for you,” she gushes. “They all agree that counseling is just your thing.”
I try to bite my tongue, but the words escape before I can stop them. “I’m not really doing counseling,” I explain. “I’m working with people who are in violent domestic situations and who need help getting out. It’s more about listening and offering options.”
“Yes, well…counseling. That’s just your kind of thing.”
I give up. “I’m glad you approve,” I concede. “I remember when you thought working in social services would be a fate worse than death.”
“I never thought that!” My mother’s voice raises an octave as she vehemently disagrees with me.
“Yes you did,” I argue. “Remember when I said that I wanted to get an MSW? You thought that would be the worst idea in the world.”
“I NEVER said that! Why would I say such a thing?”
“I don’t know,” I sigh, tired of running in circles on the same wheel. “I think it had something to do with the sorts of people with whom I would be working.”
“Hmm,” my mother sniffs into the phone. “Well, my friends and I all think it’s just your sort job. I always knew you would be good in counseling.”

Last week, my mother and I revisited the subject.

“How’s the job?” she begins.
“Well, I still have it, I still like it and I still have a lot to learn.” I joke, bracing myself for the “counseling” dance that has become so familiar.
“Yes, well I’m sure that you will get it all soon. Counseling is your thing.”
I roll my eyes at the phone and get ready to launch into my standard rebuttal, but my mother rushes on before I can start.
“Actually, I’m calling you with egg on my face, begging a thousand pardons.” I think she is going for a tone that is contrite and I imagine her wringing her hands and forcing tears that well up and threaten to spill over her thick blond lashes.
“For what?” I ask, as I will away the sharpness that has formed at the edges of my voice.
“For what I said about you getting a Masters in Social Work. You were right. I think I was imagining you as the Social Worker of my youth. You know, the Cherry Ames sort of person who worked in the slums. That’s just not what I wanted for you.”

I am stunned!

My mother memories of the past have always been thickly laced with maple syrup.

She does not remember the mother that hit her children with yardsticks and hairbrushes. She does not recall the times that she “forgot” to pick me up, nor the cat fights we had in the front hall when I was seventeen, nor the eleven months of silent treatment she forced me to endure when I refused to move back home after college graduation.

Instead, she remembers the mother who volunteered at the local hospital and pulled strings to make sure that I would have around the clock nursing care after adenoid surgery, the mother who stood up to a teacher in defense of her daughter, the mother who went to every choir recital, the one who made sure that her children had the best of everything.

My mind is racing, searching for something to say. But I don’t know how to respond to this woman, this mother who suddenly seems to understand me.

My mother, apparently, doesn't notice my confusion and she races on, determined to finish what she has started. “...and I realize now that what I wanted, was beside the point.”
“It’s okay,” I finally stammer.
“No, it isn’t,” she argues softly. “What you needed was support…and I didn’t offer any. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” I mumble, my vision blurred by gently falling tears that water the barren landscape of my thirsty heart.
“Yes, well then,” my mother’s voice is suddenly brisk as she rushes to avoid the awkward moment that hovers at the border of our conversation. “That’s all for now. Cheery-bye.”

Click.

And just like that, our phone call is over.
But the seed that has long been awaiting its chance to bloom has been tended. Weeds have been cleared and the soil has been moistened. It remains to be seen whether or not it will blossom, but clearly, it is ready to sprout.