In my early 20s, I muddled through a few failed romances and was increasingly dismayed as each one came to an untimely end.
After every breakup, my mother would give me a hug, nod sympathetically and then with complete sincerity, turn to me and quietly ask, “Well now, do you think he might be gay, honey?”
This was asked of the lead guitarist in a popular college band, the blue-eyed, blonde, all-American boy, the popular fraternity boy and the angst-ridden fellow art student. None of them were (or are) gay. That is the power of a mother’s blind love — to believe that anyone who wouldn’t want to date her daughter must surely play for the “other team.”
At the time, it drove me batty. “No!” I’d fairly shout, “No he is most certainly NOT gay.” Again my mother would nod, sigh heavily and then murmur under her breath, “”Well I’m not so sure. He could be gay. I think he is, sweetie.”
At that time of my life, I was no prize catch. I was a dating catastrophe who was at least a decade away from a mature and honest view of relationships. Gay or not, men were wise to steer clear of my immature antics. Yet my mother continued to be like a dog with a bone, coming back always to the potential lack of attraction for ANY woman — not for me in particular — that was certainly the root of the problems.
I get it now. Something must happen when we become mothers, some kind of switch must be turned on that makes us a little blind to the messes that our children can be, and allows us to see only the good in them. It starts when they are tiny infants. We see their adorableness rather than the red-faced, squalling creatures that they sometimes are.
They can have snot dripping down their noses and a diaper full of the foul smelling aftermath of a pureed turkey lunch, and still we see their sparkling eyes and, wait, is that an itty bitty new tooth? How precious! But when others hand you THEIR messy offspring your stomach involuntarily lurches with something that verges on disgust.
Toddlers are a testimony to a mother’s blind love. Back when Gigi was about 3 years old, I took her running through the city one summer day on errand after errand. We zipped from Cherry Creek all the way out to Park Meadows and made multiple stops in between, all in the heat of a sweltering August day.
And then I took my exhausted child to a packed ice cream shop. Just as we stepped out the door with our treats, Gigi’s scoop slid from its cone, plopped down her dress in an unruly detour and landed at her feet. Gigi looked at it, looked at me and began to wail — the snotty, tear-pooling, tonsil-baring wail that is the hallmark of toddlers.
Suddenly, the crowd opened up in biblical fashion so that everyone could put a Red-Sea’s amount of space between my keening child and themselves. They looked at her as if she were a pint-sized, chocolate-splattered Carrie. I’ve seen other children in this state. It isn’t pretty. But when I looked at my child I saw the disappointment, the fatigue and my own failure in not getting her home for a nap that day. To me she was a lovely girl — albeit one in need of a change of clothes, a Kleenex and a snooze.
Teenagers test a mother’s blind love even more than preschoolers. I remember perpetually glaring at my mother with a surly scowl during my teen years. Maybe my mother simply kept her eyes averted. Or maybe when she dared to glance my way, she simply conjured up the sweet child from which I’d grown. Whatever the case, I’m not sure how she found anything to love about me during those tumultuous times. But she did – because that is what mothers do.
Happy Mother’s Day! Mothers may your love be fierce, may it be powerful and may it sometimes be blind. Also any man who doesn’t want to date Gigi in the future will be gay.
Of that I am sure.
Siobhan Sprecace lives in Englewood.
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