Growing up, my relationship with my mom, Gina, was pretty rocky. My parents split when I was just 5, and I had two younger sisters, Lily and Zoe, who were 2 and 5 months old, respectively. After the divorce, we moved in with our grandparents and stayed there for the next dozen years.
Gina married young, and I was a surprise baby on her 21st birthday. Instead of partying, she celebrated with a giant ice cream sundae, which makes for a sweet story now. Once she became a mom, she had to leave college and jump into full-time work to support us. Thankfully, living with her parents after the divorce allowed her to finish her degree. She was determined and career-focused.
Going back to school meant long nights filled with homework and juggling a full-time job while raising three kids. Most of the time, my sisters and I were with our grandmother, who was there to raise us. We missed our mom and craved her attention, but as kids, we didn’t understand the sacrifices she was making. I often felt alone during those years.
Despite the challenges, I was incredibly proud of her when she graduated with honors. I still remember bragging to my teacher that my mom graduated “Magna colada!” It was a proud moment for our family, and I didn’t fully grasp its significance, but I knew it was something special. Gina even wrote a column for a local paper about our family, and I fondly remember when one of her pieces won an award—I couldn’t stop bragging to my friends about it.
Now that I’m a mom myself, I’m starting to appreciate the challenges Gina faced. But back then, I couldn’t comprehend why she didn’t come home from her demanding job and immediately play with me. I didn’t understand her need for downtime or why she seemed impatient, and as a child, I took it personally. I felt like she was unavailable in ways I thought all moms should be, leading to feelings of rejection.
As I grew up, I went through phases of feeling unloved and resentful. I pushed Gina away, dressing in odd clothes and rebelling to grab her attention. We fought often, and I even ran away a few times. Once I reached adulthood, our relationship improved since we weren’t living together, but it always felt a bit fragile. Old wounds would occasionally resurface, leading to intense arguments.
Fast forward to when I was 26, and my husband, Mark, and I welcomed our first child, a boy named Jack. Gina was over the moon when we announced my pregnancy, and we shared the news through a little Christmas gift. She unwrapped a bib that read, “Grandmas Give The Best Hugs,” and her joy was infectious. She even chose “Lala” as her grandma name.
When we returned home from the hospital, Gina surprised us by cleaning the house and cooking dinner while holding Jack. It was a small but meaningful gesture that made me feel cherished and supported. We began having lunch dates, and she would come over to dote on Jack, encouraging me to take breaks and even feeding him while I finished my meals. We spent hours FaceTiming, with Jack giggling and smiling at his Lala.
When my daughter, Emma, came along a couple of years later, Gina’s excitement was just as infectious. Watching the bond between my kids and their grandma has been one of the highlights of motherhood. It’s allowed me to see the kind of relationship Gina wanted with me as a child, making me grateful that my kids have a grandma who adores them and is always there for them.
Realizing that the grandmother Gina has become is the kind of mom she aspired to be has been both healing and a bit bittersweet. Parenting demands everything you have, and I see now how much she gave of herself, even when she had her limitations.
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In summary, my relationship with my mom has transformed from a challenging childhood to a supportive bond as adults. Understanding her sacrifices has helped heal old wounds, and I’m grateful for the loving grandmother she has become.
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