Last night, Eric and I received a package from my mother containing our New Year's and Epiphany (Twelfth Day of Christmas) presents. These are family traditions, and are never very large. She sent me some rubber stamping gear, a magnet, and a few Christmas tree ornaments; Eric received a toy hippo and a medical book. We each also got a magazine, which is also tradition in my family for Christmas stockings.

I also received a book of poetry from Mom, and I was only halfway through the note she wrote in the inside cover before I had dissolved in tears. The books was called To My Child : We May No Longer Live in the Same House, but You're Always in My Heart. She had written an inscription in the front, which I don't have with me, but which, paraphrased, said:

Dearest Carrie:
I love and miss you so very much. When I saw this book, I wanted to rip each of these poems out and share them with you one by one, but I didn't want to ruin the book. I want you to know, though, that if I could express myself in words, these are what I would say to you. I love you very much.

She, of course, is very capable of expressing herself with words when she chooses to do so. She doesn't often choose to so, though - at least, not in emotional matters. Her nature is mostly reserved and introspective, so receiving a gift of this character from her shook me to my very core. Yes, my mommy loves me, and she loves me enough to go completely counter to her own nature to show me just how much.

The poems are not "high art;" they're mostly amateur works written as letters to grown children. They all fit the theme of "I loved you as a baby, and I love you as an adult." Some of them talk about how, while she may not always agree with my decisions, she still respects them because she respects me. These in particular struck home with me. Almost six years ago, I was staying at home for the summer, and I remember afternoons spent fiercely writing in my journal, pausing only to wipe away angry tears. I wrote of my anger with my mother, about how she only claimed to love me because I was her blood, and how if we were two adults who met on the street, that she probably wouldn't even like me.

That was a very bad summer. We fought constantly as I tried to establish my own identity separate from the one which she had made for me. I wanted to try different churches, read different books, and discuss different philosophies. I lost weight that summer, because every time we blew up at each other, I would escape for a while by going on long walks. I went on many walks.

In my entries at the time, I can sense a real frustration. I didn't know how to grow up while living under the same roof as her. I thought the only way to make her see that I was a grown woman was to shock her with it, to force it into her face; she responded by trying to force me back into the "good girl" mold, the mold that I had always before accepted without question. We never apologized, really. All we did was to throw some ice on our volatile tempers for the sake of the rest of the family - ice which would melt in hours.

Since I married, she's been strangely silent. We don't fight anymore, but we also don't communicate our feelings. We have strictly factual conversations - names, places, and dates. In the past few months, we've improved and begun to share our emotions, though we've stuck mainly to "fear" and "anger." "Love" has been a battleground to be avoided.

The book - not a white flag - instead, my mother, racing into the minefield with arms outstretched. Her hands are open and relaxed, not clenched into fists. Her eyes don't crinkle in pent-up anger; they're open wide. She's finally seeing me for me instead of as the little girl-image of herself.

For the first time in a long, long time, I feel free from the weight of her judgment. My shoulders feel light.