My mother did not believe that children should be seen and not heard.
She believed that they should be seen, and heard, but in a way that shone brightly upon the parents. One time I was to play in a piano recital. We had fish for dinner that evening and unfortunately a fish bone became caught in my throat.
Frustrated and unable to remove the bone from my throat, my mother insisted I play at the recital.
The weird thing is I also wanted to play. I wanted to perform despite the uncomfortable feeling in my throat, never mind that, as I now think back, the bone could have become dislodged and slipped into my lungs, punctured my esophagus, or traveled God knows where in my body.
I wanted to reflect brightly upon my mother. I wanted to make her happy and proud of me. And so I played in the recital.
Now fifty-three years old, and a mother of two adult, and one teenage daughter, I cannot help but ache at the depth of yearning for a mother’s love and acceptance that I held so tightly, deep enough to fuel my will to perform in a piano recital with fish bone lodged in my throat.
I was not in pain, but that did not erase the discomfort of this foreign body in my throat, the bone of a trout, that could have easily moved into other places where it did not belong and caused greater problems.
I would never allow either of our three children to perform or do anything similar under those kind of circumstances. Off to the hospital we would go.
And yet I, as a child in that actual situation had worried of the problems I was causing my mother.
Constant anxiety over the problems I was causing my mother formed a central theme of my life and shaped my interactions with her. I felt my presence had brought havoc and extra work into her life.
No matter how hard I tried, I would never be useful to her. I would never bring her joy and wonder. I could not stir her heart to exaltation, the way our daughters, continually stimulate mine.
In this I was a failure.
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