The Thing I Feared Most Happened — And It’s Not So Bad
My mom living here helped me see that when I thought she needed saving, what she needed was for me to be kind and supportive
As a young person, I rebelled against what I thought was my destiny as a Mexican American youngest daughter, which was to take care of my mother in her old age. At that time, I thought old age was 50, and caring for her meant I would never leave my hometown of Tucson.
I imagined endless days with the sun beating down on my sweaty body as I chased after the kids I didn't want, wondering why the husband I didn't like never came home the night before. In my mind, marriage was a trap, and if I stayed too close to home and my mother, I might fall into it.
I did everything I could to make sure that didn't happen. I put myself through college, took the first job offered a thousand miles away, and vowed never to get married or have kids. Flash forward to today: I'm 52, married with two kids, and my mom lives with us. I'm shocked to say that it's not terrible. It's nice.
Once I left home and grew up a little, I understood it wasn't easy.
Rebelling Against the Wrong Thing
My parents didn't have a good marriage, and I thought my dad would be killed in a drunk driving accident, leaving me to take care of my mom. It was frustrating and painful to watch how he chipped away at her self-esteem and would constantly let her down with promises that he'd quit drinking. At the time, I blamed both of them.
"Get a divorce!" I shouted at her more than once. She would leave or kick him out every couple of years; eventually, they'd end up back together. Once I left home and grew up a little, I understood it wasn't easy.
My childhood anger turned to guilt for leaving her in that situation. I imagined what it would be like to rescue her, but I was barely keeping my head above water and in no position to save anyone.
I imagined what it would be like to rescue her, but I was barely keeping my head above water and in no position to save anyone.
It wasn't until I had my two boys, who became tweens and teens, that I fully understood how crappy I was to my mom growing up. I'm embarrassed when I think about how I talked to her then. I wouldn't learn to cook because I didn't want to serve a man, and I said as much.
When I did start cooking for my family, I wanted all of those recipes I grew up with and would call her so she could walk me through how to make albondigas, carne con chile, and her lemon/limeade cheesecake that she had doctored from a recipe found in a magazine from the 1970s. She didn't save the cake recipe, and I've never been able to recreate it. If only I'd stopped for a minute to help and listen.
I Am Still Not a Good Listener
My husband, boys and I went to Italy for a fabulous 10-day vacation a few years ago. I thought about asking my mom to accompany us, but our vacations can be intense. We visited five cities during that trip and walked an average of 6 miles daily.
When we returned, my mom asked what it was like to be in the Sistine Chapel and look up at Michelangelo's fresco. It turns out that visiting Italy has always been a dream of hers. Eighty years old at the time, she'd never been out of the country other than to Mexico, where she was born.
The guilt that it was my second trip to Europe and my mom had never been gnawed on me, so I saved some money to buy us airline tickets and a cruise through Italy. It was scheduled for May 2020, which seemed like perfect timing.
Living With My Mom
She'd experienced years of stress dealing with my dad's declining Alzheimer's and eventual guilt for agreeing to put him in a nursing home when she couldn't care for him anymore because "Mexicans don't do that."
We never made it to Italy. Instead of drinking Aperol spritz with me at a café in Piazza Venezia, my mom sat in her one-bedroom apartment watching news reports of the pandemic. My husband and I couldn't stand the thought of her alone, so we invited her to live with us.
After my dad passed away that summer, my mom packed up her things, left the city she'd lived in for 60 years, and moved in with us in Los Angeles. Suddenly, after all the years I'd spent wishing I could do something meaningful for her, it was happening.
Honestly, I mostly feared that she would drive me crazy.
But in all my savior delusions, I didn't think about what would happen the day after she lived with us. Or any of the days after that. Would she be homesick? Would she miss her life in the desert with family and friends? Would she drive me insane?
Honestly, I mostly feared that she would drive me crazy. And I know she thought I would use my proximity to tell her how to live her life. While both things have happened, her living here has allowed us to get to know each other differently.
I had forgotten how smart and funny she was and how much she knew about history and movies. While I was worried that she would be too isolated living in a new city, I'm delighted that she went out of her comfort zone and found fun activities every week. And when I bite into one of her chicken tacos, I remember that her cooking is much better than mine.
My mom living here helped me see that in those years when I thought she needed saving, what she needed was for me to be kind and supportive. To listen instead of judging her every move and to accept that I don't know everything. But I know she still dreams of visiting Italy, so for her 85th birthday, we'll be celebrating in Rome.
