May 08, 2008

Almost my all female friends have revealed that their relationship with their mother is exactly the same. It’s a mixture of love, hate, affection, need, expectation, and many, many moments of manic, screaming lunacy.

Every where you look, people are consumed by the complexities of the man-woman relationship. Oprah, Sally Jesse Raphael and Dr Phil have been passing out free advice on television; while John Gray and others have inundated the publishing industry with treatises on what men say but what they really mean, and conversely what women say and what they really mean.

Forget that, I say. What experts needs to talk about is the mother-daughter relationship which has -–– given my experience -–– got to be far more the most complex relationship than any other. I can only assume that there are mothers and daughters out there who can talk to each other, and more importantly, understand each other. However, I have yet to actually meet one of these lucky individuals. Don’t get me wrong, I love my mother. I truly do. I just wish I could understand her.

Emotional blackmail was invented by mothers. I guarantee you, no man --– be he father, brother or significant other -–– can make you feel so small and so… worthless, as can that one look from the woman who carried you in her womb. Forget to offer a cup of tea while brewing some for yourself and you will never hear the end of it. She may not remember her own cell phone number, but she will never, ever, ever forget –– or let you forget –– what you said at X o’ clock one evening Y number of years ago when you were a Z year-old teenager with typical delusions of rebellion.

True, she rarely goes shopping without bringing back at least one outfit for you. And at the slightest murmur will readily hand over her newly-bought pair of chappals. She’ll even express remorse that she will not enjoy her upcoming stopover in Rome without you (since you are the acknowledged history buff in the family) but tell her that you have decided to accompany her and your father as far as the ancient city and it’s no! Apparently, she can’t let you ‘waste’ your money for a mere five-day trip to the land of Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo.

Obviously the above are all highlights from my future autobiography –– the one I have been intending to write since I was 15. But the fact is that my story is not unique. Almost every female I meet, in whichever country I have lived in, once we get beyond the niceties, has revealed that her relationship with her parent is exactly the same. It’s a mixture of love, hate, affection, need, expectation, and many, many moments of manic, screaming lunacy.

True, there is that rare species that claims that ‘my mother and I are like sisters. She understands me so well. I trust her opinion completely’. I often wonder what planet these creatures have come from. Most women I know have good phases in their relationship, intercepted by several low and some tense phases. I have often said that given my complicated bond with my mother, getting along with a mother-in-law will be a cinch. Not so fast, my married friends tell me. Mothers-in-law are a whole new ball game.

My mother and I do have our good moments. Many times we have jokingly (or otherwise) acknowledged to each other that our connection is far, far from the fairy-tale ideal. Actually, come to think of it, what fairy-tale does celebrate the mother-daughter bond? There are either cruel stepmothers (Cinderella), dead ones (Snow White) or simply absent mothers (Rapunzel, Sleeping Beauty, Beauty and the Beast, The Little Mermaid).

My own, very much alive, always present and rarely cruel mother once laughingly related to me a fairy-tale-inspired ditty she heard on television:
 

Mirror, mirror on the wall,

I became my mother after all.

I have not slept well since.