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2007-05-01 issue:

Mom and me, forever

Love between mother and daughter does not depend on perfect agreement.

by Marathana Prothro

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Last July 9—and every July 9—my mother, Mary Jane Furches, told me, “Twenty-five years ago today, I was in labor for 20-some hours trying to push you out into this world.” 
I  knew I was a few weeks late and that the hot Tennessee summer weighed heavily on my nine-plus-months-pregnant mother. But she accomplished one of the most womanly triumphs known to humanity: She gave birth.

And now she’s waiting for me to do the same.

When I reflect on how our relationship has evolved, waiting is one thing she’s done plenty of. She waited for me to walk and talk. Kindergarten, high school, college, my first job, engagement. I was married at 23. Worrying finished, right? Try walking past the baby clothes at Target with her and tell me it’s over.

The thing is, our relationship will never be over. Not even death will quiet the dynamics of our mother-daughter relationship. One day, I’ll tell my kids, “You know your ‘Mamaw’ grew up in a Southern Baptist church in Tennessee. She never missed a Sunday. When the church doors were open, her family was there.”

I’ll be saying this to justify staying home from church on a rainy, sleepy Sunday, rationalizing she went to church enough as a child for the next two generations to miss a Sunday or two. It’s odd how beliefs evolve and are shared from generation to generation.

Tricky waters to navigate when you’re figuring out what you believe and how you fit into the world as a young adult. I like to think of it as the Bermuda Triangle of family. It may be best to not tempt fate by entering the tumultuous waters where one stream meets another and no one who enters leaves alive.

Maybe parents don’t think about things this way. Maybe they assume their children agree with them on everything because that’s what’s expected. Maybe some parents enviably have relationships that are entirely transparent, and hurt feelings aren’t an issue. Kudos to you.
Or maybe your children are sorting through their own ideas.

It’s no secret to my parents that we don’t view everything the same. I was raised Mennonite Brethren and realized as a teenager I didn’t agree with the theology shared at church. My beliefs aren’t perfectly aligned with my parents’ beliefs.

Some days it’s as simple as saying “What harm does recycling and taking care of the Earth do if global warming isn’t happening?” Other days, it’s as painful as sitting through an episode of the O’Reilly Factor without screaming. And, she likes McDreamy; I like Dr. Burke. We both love Grey’s Anatomy.

I’ve finally figured out it’s OK to tell Mom I think the clothes she chooses for me don’t fit who I am. We don’t talk about our different views, and we’ve never talked about our not talking about this. Will we have a knock-down drag-out battle over it someday? Maybe—I hope not. I bet we don’t. Who’d want to fight when you could be talking about Oprah or baking cookies? Not me. Not my mother. We know we love each other. And for now, that’s enough.

We’re more alike than I realized. I’ve always been my father’s daughter—same nose, same gait, same temper. Mom was helping sew a couple of skirts, and as she took my measurements, I sighed. She looked up at me and said, “I’m sorry, Honey, you’ve got my DNA. You’re built like me.” Yes, I am destined to be built like her. But I’m not destined to be her, think like her or relive her life. I’m glad we’re different, and I’m glad I don’t have to agree with her for her to love me.

Marathana Prothro is a member of Shalom Mennonite Church, Newton, Kan. This article   originally appeared in the March/April issue of Timbrel, the magazine of Mennonite women.

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