Mom loved my grandmother more than she loved me. I felt that in my bones.
My grandmother died a week before my Bat Mitzvah and of course my rite of passage was postponed for several months. In the week after my Grandmother's funeral, Mom and I sat together in our kitchen eating the cookies Grandma had so lovingly made for the party. We were very sad and her delicious treats underscored our loss.
I loved my grandmother and I believe she loved me. Making clothes for my Barbie Doll, going to Poe Park and dancing the Hoky Poky, buying me a diamond ring for my birhtday and best of all, defending me against my mother's anger are treasured memories. My grandmother was talented and creative in her homemaking and emitted dignity, kindness and love. I admire her and would like to believe I take after her.
But, when Grandma died, I had mixed feelings. Along with the sense of loss, there was a secret part of me that was glad my grandmother could no longer usurp Mom’s love and attention. Part of me thought it would be wonderful to finally have my mother all to myself. But at age thirteen, my instincts told me I was ready to separate from Mom. The transferred devotion and attention I hoped for did come, but didn’t have the same impact it might have had earlier in my childhood.
I continued to wear a good girl mask — it was a role I was good at. I continued to draw and paint in school, weekend art courses (which Mom chauffeured me to and from), and on my own. And although I didn’t replace my grandmother, I, by the time I was in high school, had become my parent’s lovely, talented daughter. Mom was proud.
In time, through my art, I would rebel against my well defined “good girl”, 'lovely" roles and test the boundaries of my mother’s pride.
