My mother's stories
chapter 26
Too much of a good thing
Nearly two years have passed since I finished the previous chapter of my memoir. I don't know exactly why but I went back to my stories in Russian. They just lay there, unpolished, as though asking me to finish my work. There were actually a few of them and they had been written at the hardest period of my life. Still, my little trips and adventures of the time shone even brighter in the dark background. But the language and the plot were far from being satisfactory. So that's what I had been doing for two years – rewriting my old stories in Russian. It was a slow work, but it was worth it. Now I like those stories much better and I can jump back to my memoir in English with clear conscience. It has been nudging me recently as if reminding me that I am not so young anymore. As a matter of fact, I am not young at all and, surely, it would be more prudent to complete my old projects before coming to something new.
So here I am with an unfinished memoir. Sometimes I think maybe it has been a mistake to start it in English. I could definitely express my feelings and thoughts better in my native language. But I can't change it now, having so many pages already under my belt. I started them in a feeble attempt to comprehend why there has always been so much misunderstanding between me and my mother. Why did she use to step aside when I especially counted on her help or understanding? It seemed at such moments that she was watching me with cold pride as if telling me: ”You have never appreciated me as a mother properly. Let's see how you'll cope with this by yourself”.
Perhaps it's just my imagination playing tricks on me. But the fact is that my mother's behaviour was often a mystery to me. I understood a lot while writing these pages. My mother's desperate reluctance to visit her native village, for example. Before that I had never understood in full measure the significance of her father's execution in 1937 and its connection with my mother's loathing for her fellow-villagers. And now I have the last task in front of me. I have to try to unravel my mother's attitude towards me, her own daughter. Actually, it has always been the main purpose of these memories.
I must admit that, having had a married daughter for so many years, I began to understand this possessiveness and this selfish desire to rule your child's life much better. You can never be free from it. It's almost impossible to erase the inner belief that “mother knows best” and allow for your children's right to make their own mistakes. I am afraid it has always worked like that in the world. So I began this part of my recollections in order to clear up not only my mother's behaviour but my own as well.
As a matter of fact, I have been trying hard not to repeat her mistakes but mostly failed. I did manage to avoid some of them, of course, but instead I made some of my own. As for my mother, she found it was quite natural to interfere with her child's affairs even after that child became an adult. She has never realized that too much of protectiveness is not good. Surely it's not anything unheard of. But the older I became the more infuriated I felt about it. It seemed as if invisible ropes entangled my limbs not allowing me to walk free. I can't be sure even now that I entirely got rid of them.
Nevertheless it would be unfair to blame my mother alone for my lack of confidence. It was me who was attached to her very much when I was a little one. Partly I have to blame the conditions of my early childhood for that. At that time my parents had to rent a small room where the three of us definitely lived cooped up together, sleeping in one bed. I remember it seemed to me very funny when my mother told me once how I used to wake up very early and crawl over my parents, trying to open their eyes with my little fingers. After we moved to the wet flat in the factory region we had more space, of course, but still I slept with my mother for some reason. I don't remember much of that time, but I do recall my great discomfort when she suddenly announced that she wanted me to sleep without her. I got used to it in the end but I certainly didn't welcome this first step to independence.
I suspect I was naughty till I reached the age of five. So maybe that's why there was a time when I preferred the company of my indulgent aunt to that of my mother. The latter was very much against physical punishment, trying hard not to step into her own mother's shoes. She chose to be stern – at least it was her weapon to force me to behave. I remember it hurt my feelings a lot when my kind mother suddenly burst out with rage, her face turning ugly gray in a flash. Nevertheless, it worked and I did try not to provoke her fury too often. Surely it was not easy for me.
From time to time I couldn't help pestering my mother with something or other. That's how I brought on my head those two ugly episodes when she threw away my delicious ice-cream or cut my new dress into pieces. I can't be sure but maybe it would have been better for both of us if she spanked me sometimes instead. Gradually, I learnt from my mistakes. Anyway, our relationship improved a lot when I reached the age of five, the age of persuasion, that is the age when I could be persuaded to behave. My mother used to assure me that I reached my peak of intelligence and goodness at that age. Although I have a feeling that she loved me best when I was at primary school. At least as far as I can remember we were most intimate at that time.
To be continued ...
