I Am a Disappointment to My Mother

She confirmed it at the mall at Christmas

There is an old family video of my dad cutting the rug with a belly dancer in the living room. We had organized a surprise party for his sixtieth birthday, and my sister hired an entertainer to embarrass him. He wasn’t though, and he gyrated right along with her, shaking his big belly, wearing a ridiculous gold-sequined turban that the dancer had flirtatiously fitted on his head.

The southern Italian immigrant crowd that made up my parents’ social circle was in hysterics; everybody got a kick out of Dad. He loved dancing and was a bit terrible at it, but he didn’t care. He was adorably corny, mugging for everyone, being goofy.

In the back corner of the video screen, though, is an even more darling image. My mother was on the sofa, tears streaming, head thrown back, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

He looked over at her and smiled. Boy, did he love her, my dad. He got such a kick out of her. She would say outrageously funny things usually in southern Italian dialect, or she’d love-slap him on his bald head for no reason, and he’d look to see who was the culprit and she’d stick her tongue at him or wink.

She twisted up her words a lot as English was not her native language. For example, she said “milnight” because she confused “midnight” with “middle of the night.” Mom spoke English but read little, so words were comprised of sounds to her, rather than letters. English was her third language, after her hometown’s dialect and Italian. The malapropism gave her an even more tender quality.

She wasn’t an educated woman and she’d tell you that: about how she only went to the third grade (“Dat’s de way was,” she’d say.) After that, it was sewing school for her and all the other little girls in her southern Italian town.

Despite her lack of formal education, she could be so wise.

One time while I was on the phone with her, a couple of people entered my apartment using a key. They explained that my roommate who was away had said it would be ok; I could feel my anger rising. Through the earpiece, my mother somehow could, too, and I heard her say, “Be nice.” My temper deflated immediately and I welcomed them in. (I later had a word with the roommate.)

People loved my mom. Hugging her felt so good. My mother had large boobs. Size 3000 Z. I dunno, big. I could get lost in her embrace. And I wanted to. Everyone wanted a piece of my mom.

She was a great host. She teased and made silly jokes, made sure everyone was having a good time, and was the most amazing cook. Come holiday time, folks got excited to get an invitation to our house. So much food, so much good food, so much good Italian food! Heaven for the palate — and the courses! One after the other! She’d sit close to the kitchen, ready to gather plates, insisting someone have more lasagna, with her hand already on their plate to take back to the kitchen for another helping.

“Joe, come on, you’re too skinny!”

“Oh, alright,” our neighbor, Joe, would say, his face lighting up with anticipation.

It was hard not to want her attention, her approval. That was the tricky part though.

Because she could turn. Sometimes my dad would come late after church choir and he’d either forgotten or brought home the wrong bread from the store. Depending on her mood, she’d start telling — on bad days, screaming at — my dad that he was no good because he: brought home the wrong bread, or because he went to the choir which was a waste of time, or because he should stay home and help her (with what, I never understood). Other days, nothing. Just, “Ok, Daddy’s home, let’s eat!”

Her mood could flip more times than a flounder out of water.

When my dad got sick, Jenny the nurse would come to check on my dad. One time after Jenny had left, I noticed she’d made an error about the medication. When I told my sister and mother, my mother, with a tongue as sharp as a dagger, retorted, “Who do you think you are? You think you’re better because you went to college.” That seemed to be her go-to put-down for me.

My sister rarely faced her wrath because she followed the unwritten rules and had an instinct for managing my mother’s moods. How she knew what those edicts were will always be a mystery to me. She was and is, and will always be, the good daughter. It didn’t hurt that they had similar interests — shopping, cooking, and gossiping.

One time around Christmas, Mom took me to the department store to buy bras. She wanted to take me to a particular mall because of how beautifully it was decorated for the season. “Look how gorgeous. S’nice, ri’?” Since she was in a great mood, and since it was rare that she and I spent time alone together, and I was, as always, desperate to hear that she was proud of me, I ventured to tell her that sometimes I felt she was disappointed in me.

I have a photo she took of me from that day. I’m wearing a red jacket that she had bought for me from Costco, the discount megastore. My eyes seem to give something sad away or maybe I’m reading into it.

“You never married, no children. Of course, I’m disappointed.” I had given up my crazy Italian temper a long time ago so I didn’t fight back. I mean, I did ask. Besides, I was ashamed of myself and was stupidly hoping to be convinced otherwise. But now I felt worse and was in tears.

“Oh my god, you’re so sensitive. Jesus. I’m just sayin’ the truth, ri’?”

That was the thing with my mom, she seemed to think if it was “true” then it was ok to say. She wasn’t mindful of how her words could sting.

The thing though is feelings are never “true”. They are simply feelings.

She felt bad that I was upset. She insisted we go shopping so she could buy me pretty things. But I started crying again once we got to the car.

It was never going to be the relationship I had always dreamed of, wanted, prayed for. She was not the mom I needed and I was not the daughter she’d wanted.

That’s painful to write.

My mom has advanced Alzheimer’s now. And my dad’s been gone for a decade. She’s much more docile now. She still knows who my siblings and I are but she recently asked my sister who our father was. I do miss her jokes, her silly teasing. That’s gone.

But her words can’t hurt me anymore.

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Terianne aka Miss T is a writer and teacher. She’s fun and you’ll learn!

And now a shout-out to one of the other competitors and her lovely story: Karen Schwartz was burdened by a secret that she didn’t think she should keep to herself. So she didn’t but in the end it didn’t matter; she still lost her friend to suicide. From reading her touching tribute to “Jack” I am reminded to appreciate everything on the more and more frequent days when my “black dog” is sleeping (yay!) and to always be kind because people suffer and appearances won’t tell you. Enjoy her story: