The Estrogen Ocean

Shopping with my beautiful daughter today, I was once again reminded of how witty, intelligent and independent she is. Sometimes its like we're not even related, so tightly bound am I to the persona I have adopted as an elementary teacher. She is free to be reckless, out-spoken and charming while I am cloaked in the fog of estrogen-starved middle-age. Not only can she think circles around me, she tries to be very patient with my halting, often ridiculous comments and guess at what I am trying to communicate.
My own poor mother was a victim of a similar fate, yet I am quite certain I was never as patient or understanding as my own daughter has been with me. Maybe it is because Dri's own paternal grandmother was such a loving influence on her in her earlier years, whereas I had no such role model. But recently I was reading from Louise Erdrich's "The Painted Drum" and came across a passage that quite fit the explanation of my relationship with my own mother. It reads like this...
"It is difficult for a woman to admit that she gets along with her own mother--somehow it seems a form of betrayal, at least, it used to among other women of my generation. To join in the company of women, to be adults, we go through a period of proudly boasting of having survived our own mother's indifference, anger, overpowering love, the burden of her pain, her tendency to drink or tee-total, her warmth or coldness, praise or criticism, sexual confusions or embarassing clarity. It isn't enough that she sweat, labored, bore her daughters howling or under total anesthesia or both. No. She must be responsible for our psychic weaknesses the rest of her life. It is all right to feel kinship with your father, to forgive. We all know that. But your mother is held to a standard so exacting that it has no principles. She simply must be to blame."
Having read the passage several times before moving on in the chapter, I must admit I was confronted with past sins concerning my treatment of my own mother.
I would have to say, one of my mother's most loving legacies is that she seemed oblivious to my careless regard for our relationship most of the time. Occasionally, I would go too far and she would rally in return, letting me know in no uncertain terms that I had crossed the line.
I have heard it said that the older we get, the more we become who we really are. I guess the fact that all my mother can do at this moment in time is smile when I walk in her room at the nursing home, shows how really sweet, gentle and loving she is, through and through. I suppose that is all a daughter can ask and everything a mother should be.