Karma and Penance: part 3

...Giddy with excitement, I pulled the tissue paper back and discovered, instead of the dress of my dreams, the dress of my mother's dreams; that is no small gap at 15, the toddlery of teenhood.  That age when one is determined to do it herself!  To find her own way!  To like what she likes, without the interference of anyone, and maybe most of all her mother, whom she is determined never to become!

I was not this self aware at 15.  I could not make any sense of these feelings nor put words to them.  All I knew was that I hated that dress.  Really, really hated it.  It was 1985, and I was completely converted to the church of bigger, blingier, shinier, and shoulderpadier.  This dress was from a different era altogether.  The 1960's, perhaps, with its paired down and quaint cut.  I could not fathom was she was thinking.  Mercifully, despite my selfcenteredness at the time, I was not mean.  I didn't want to hurt my mom's feelings, so I feigned delight.  I thanked her, but then--and this is the behavior that will haunt me to my death--when she asked me to try it on, I...would...not.  Oh, I didn't outright refuse, I just...uum...postponed it.  "Oh, I will--later.  Mom!  I will.  Just not right this minute..."  And then I NEVER DID.  Not once.

I know.  It's awful.  I don't even know what became of that dress.  It hung in my closet as a silent accuser which I ignored.  Sure, I had stabs of guilt every now and again, but I was a determined soul and pushed it further into the dark recesses of cast off clothes, as if I could erase it's existence.  As if my mother, not seeing it, would forget.  As if I would forget. 

I have not.  Twenty-four years later I am more embarrassed by my truculence than ever.  Now that I know what it is to be my mother.  To sacrifice my most precious resource, which is not money, but time, the one thing that I never have in abundance, because I believe it will make my children happy, because I love them, because I would do anything for them.  And I do, which often includes absorbing their inexperienced, unintended, cruelties and loving them despite them--no, loving them through them.

Beyond the hundreds of Christmas gifts that my mother has given me, some that I remember, some that I do not, that is her real gift.  And though she would never require it, I do feel there is some penance to be paid her.  Some payment for the million sacrifices of her life for me, but I know that it is impossible to be even, except in this:  Love.  I don't know where it began, but it seems to flow from one generation to the next.  My love for her is expressed in the way I love my children.  At fifteen I was so determined to never become her, and now I hope I can be all of the things I love and adore about her.  This Christmas I sewed for my children, and whether they appreciate it or not, this kind of karma is a really good thing.