The Way My Mom is

I can’t say I remember a time when things were different. I have memories of when she was a good mom and all. I just don’t have memories of when she wasn’t an alcoholic.1

I never did understand my mom. Our family was virtually perfect, but that was through the eyes of a six-year-old. My dad worked as a pediatrician and my mom was a stay-at-home mom. I remember my mom as one of the “cookie moms” as I called her. Everyday there would be the smell of fresh baked cookies. We lived near a small park and she would bring me there and push me on the swings. That’s what I can remember from before everything changed.

I don’t know how things changed, I just know they did. I don’t know an exact day either.

I remember one day, when I was like in first grade. I had this spelling list that I had to study. It was the first time I ever had a “test.” It was the night before, and I wanted my mom to help me study. She was busy though…busy getting drunk. Dad came home that night and the first, of very many fights began.

My mom was in and out of rehab for a long time, all throughout second, third, and fourth grade to be exact. Every time she would tell me that she was going to get better. She never did.

Finally, when I was in sixth grade, my father signed for a divorce. My mom, of course, wanted custody over me. I never did understand that. It had been years since she even knew I existed. If she did talk to me, it would always be for some money. Yes, my mom would even ask her eleven-year-old daughter for money for alcohol. 2

By that time, I was considered popular. Things began to change, and fast. I loved my dad so much. I respected him, and knew that he was a good man. I didn’t however, love my mom. People always told me, no matter what, I should always love her. I tried to, really I did…I just didn’t know how to love somebody who didn’t love you back.

My mom was still fighting for custody. The judges never gave in, but she always fought. She was still an alcoholic, and she was still in rehab, for those short months at a time. I thought, if she was willing to fight this much for me, then maybe she did love me.3

One night, accompanied by my dad and my mom’s doctor, I went to where she was living. It was so broken down and terrible. I couldn’t imagine anybody ever living in such places…but my mom was. I walked in and I noticed how messy it was. I just didn’t get it. My mom had always been a neat-freak. Everything in our house was always clean…my mom could just never stand a messy house, but here she was, living in this broken down dump, and it was filthy.

My mom took one look at me, and scowled. I couldn’t believe it! I thought she’d be happy to see me.

“Look at you Lindsay, you’ve changed everything. What are these clothes… and are you wearing make-up? You look like a **,” she said and I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

My dad walked over to me but I shook my head. I had to handle this myself. I looked down at my clothes, a simple t-shirt and a pair of jeans. They were a bit tight, but they weren’t that bad. It was the style.

My dad soon said it was time to go, but all I could do was nod. I couldn’t stay here. I had seen my mom at her worse before, but that scowl on her face, and her comments just broke my heart.

It’s been years since that night. I’m sixteen and a sophomore in high school. I still talk to my mom, not very much though. I try to visit her once every couple months. She still thinks I’m a terrible child, even though I know I’m not. It still hurts every time she says a nasty comment to me. Every time though, I just tell myself it’s the alcohol talking. Somewhere in here, there’s that mother that would bake cookies and push me on the swings when I was little
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