I used to get choked up while watching movies that featured snuggly or nurturing moms. Meryl Streep in Mamma Mia! fucked me up. (Diane Keaton in The Family Stone hit the same. Don’t get me started on Natasha Richardson in The Parent Trap.) My therapist once asked if I’d ever taken a beat to feel sad about my relationship with my mom. I hadn’t. There was spontaneous, projectile venting to my best friends, my brother, my now-husband, and even a few strangers who made a huge mistake bringing up the topic of mothers. But no, I told her, not on purpose at least.
When I was about 8 years old, I remember asking my mom why she “didn’t baby me anymore.” My mom wasn’t interested in the nurturing part of parenting. She said “I love you” and didn’t reject hugs, but she never went out of her way to care for me or get to know me. As a kid, I often felt like I was on my own. That day, I had just come inside after playing with a friend. Before heading home, I noticed my friend’s mom playing with my friend’s hair and wrapping her arms around her. I wanted that, too, I told my mom. My mom replied, “So you want a smother mother?”
