I have written about my mother a lot since I began blogging. She's an irresistible character - the cold but charismatic antihero. I write about her often because she had a big role in making me the person I am today and I like who I've become and the life I've created. If our relationship had been simpler would I be the parent I am? Would I be as compassionate? Would I understand the importance of holding my kids close and telling them I love them every chance I get?
There is no way to know but that is one of the ways I've come to terms with the past.
I see her in myself sometimes. I recognize the impatience and the cold stare that I can deliver but try so hard to keep in check. I see her in my need to control things and in my desire to know what's going to happen.
But, it's not just the hard parts that I see. My mother was a storyteller. She knew instinctually what details to include, what facial expressions would drive a point home. I could sit and watch her tell stories with her sisters and never grow bored. She was also a loud laugher - head thrown back, mouth wide open, hands in the air. I laugh just like her.
So, when I was approached by Autostraddle to write an essay for their series, "True Stories from Unstoppably Extraordinary Lesbian Moms", I knew I would write about my mother. It is my story of making peace with her and making peace with myself.
Check it out here.