Living With My Mom on Mother’s Day

When I was 24 and found out I was, miraculously, pregnant – all I wanted was my mom. At the time, I lived 100s of miles and several states away from her. I was doing what a lot of 20 somethings were: making my own place in the world, becoming an adult, and feeling lonely. But, finding out I was with child made me feel a lot like one – scared of a burgeoning new world and craving safety.

Perhaps this feeling was amplified because I was a single parent before my son was even born. What was ironic about me longing for my mom was that growing up “home” didn’t always feel stable. We struggled with money, divorce, and fights on top of all the typical family dynamics. “Home” had changed since then too. My mom was, at the time, living on a farm co-op and working nights at a ski resort. My father was on the brink of moving in with his mother and dissolving our long-time family mining and gemstone business. Despite this, I moved home to Maine to have my son and to be with family.  

Briefly, the nostalgia I felt clouded over the reality of living in a small, dying mill town with parents who were still trying to figure their own things out. When the clouds parted, I was ready to move back to New York. At the same time, I was eternally grateful for my family’s support with my son. Everyone offering to babysit, buying things for us, and listening to me try to plan our future. My parents put their own deep seeded animosity to the side, briefly, to support me. They were in the same room at the hospital when he was born and once when my car broke down, they even sat next to each other in my father’s truck. This was a miracle; it made me feel like anything was possible.

Maybe that’s why I got up the courage to ask my mother, after researching daycare prices, to move back to New York with me. My mother, who was happiest in nature and by herself, agreed to move to the city that never sleeps, to help me. She was willing to live in a rather small apartment in Washington Heights with me, a friend from college, and my new baby.

Her sacrifice will never be underestimated. Not by me, my son, or by her. It is also, occasionally, at the root of our disagreements.

Eight years and three apartments later, we are still living together. Our roles are cemented. I am the provider and navigator of New York. She brings my son to and from school and babysits whenever I ask. I cook and she does dishes. I am silly and she is more serious. We jostle over household decisions, each of us thinking we know best – or perhaps – deserve the bigger say. Like a couple, we have shows we watch together and favorite restaurants we order from. Unlike a couple, we don’t always find comfort in each other or share the things that are on our minds, the things we need help with.

Maybe that’s why, when I once overheard her tell my cousin that we were “co-parents”, I took offense. Upon reflection, I didn’t know if I was angry with the way that she parented me growing up and didn’t want that for my son or if I was angry with her for taking away the title of “single parent” that I knew I was earning every day and in every way.  Either way, I was angry with her. This led to a blow-up reminiscent of my teenage years. It brought us both back to a place we thought we’d left behind years ago.

A few months later, my son was showing signs of anger that scared us both. Separately, we wondered if he was feeding off of our energy, the tension that was still there. We went to therapy – for my son of course – but in the end, it helped our relationship the most. I heard her, for maybe the first time, talk about feeling overwhelmed with the chores she was responsible for in our family. I realized we both weren’t where we’d hoped we’d be at our ages. I wanted to be married and in a house. She wanted to be working toward retirement and living on a beach. Neither of those things was a possibility for us at the time, and maybe we blamed each other.

In therapy, we learned to stop blaming each other and to make room for our relationship as mother and daughter – not co-parents or caregivers. I tried to plan things for the two of us to do together and to let go of old grudges. She worked on not stepping on my toes when I was being a mom and to treat me like an adult.

Living together as we have, off and on, for nearly 30 years. The one constant has been that we both make a big deal of holidays. With Mother’s day around the corner, it’s not lost on us that  “Mother” is the title we both take the most seriously. Traditionally, we show each other appreciation in the form of gifts and a well-worded card. This year, I hope to give her something different. I want to give her a little hope that, although she will always have a home with me, I am also okay on my own. I don’t need her the way I had when I found out I was pregnant. I need her, perhaps, in a different way. But my life is full now and stable – thanks in large part to her.