I remember like it was yesterday – sitting on the patio of my grandparents’ El Paso home where I spent my summers – wishing on a shooting star to please, please, please let me wake up tomorrow morning and be sixteen.
God, that was a long time ago.
My First Memory
My first memory of my mother was at about age 3. We stood face-to-face; my mother’s hands on my sides keeping me safe while I leaned off the edge of the couch to touch her shoulders. We made eye contact and she was smiling. She smiled into me, down to my soul. That smile made me feel connected, important, safe and loved.
That was the last time I ever felt those things in the presence of my mother.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother. In fact, I worshipped her for most of my life. I thought it was my fault she did the things she did to me—breaking off contact with my family, telling me I’m too sensitive when I called her out for giving me a backhanded compliment or outright insult, and sending me outside to play alone for hours every day in the miles-long dry creek bed that nestled into a valley of rattlesnake and skunk infested oak forests—instead of talking to me about my day, helping me with my homework or driving me into the suburbs to play with my friends.
People often tell me to stop whining about my mother. To “get over it.”
I try, I really do. But sometimes the memories crash in, fresh and spiny, and the hurt is new again. I guess it’s because I still don’t fully understand what makes Baby Boomers so insensitive to the needs of others that I feel the need to rehash my childhood every so often.
These are the links to the posts that result from these regressions into the past. It will probably update often:
Raised by Baby Boomers: Links to the Past…