When I say I'm an only child, most people quickly assume the picture of a nuclear family and that I was quite possible spoiled. On the contrary, I grew up in an extended-matrifocal family where my grandmother was the head of the household. Within that structure was my mother and I, part of three generations of family living under one roof. This family structure is very common where I grew up and is a remnant of a rich African history that highly regards community and interconnectedness within the family unit. Growing up as the first within an extended family comes with a unique set of experiences. You are never the center of attention quite like you would be in a nuclear family, something I sometimes wished for.
I am the product of a relationship that never saw its full potential. My mother had me in her later teenage years and ended the relationship with my biological father when I was still a toddler. When I think of how young she was when she became a parent, it is unimaginable to me. I did not become a mother until I was in my early thirties, and even then, I felt somewhat unprepared for the challenges of motherhood. I admired her ability to choose her parental obligations to ensure that she gave me the best life possible. She was lucky in so many ways to have my grandmother—the matriarch—who was very involved in raising not only her children, but their children.
I remember one time in my early teens, my mother and I sat on the east facing porch of my grandmother's home under a moonlit sky. She said to me, "I never left, because your father is already not part of your life. I didn't want you to have two parents who weren't there."
I was one of the lucky few. While some of my cousin's mothers migrated to the United States of America, my mother stayed. Her words meant so much to me then as it does now, because she at a young age saw the importance of staying. Two of her siblings made the very difficult decision to leave with the hopes of creating a better life and eventually reunifying with their children. The decision she made when I was younger is responsible in so many ways for the kind of relationship that we have have today. It is one of love, care and respect.
I was her responsibility and her priority. I was also a priority to the members of my extended family. Growing up with a large family meant that pivotal moments when I felt like the luckiest kid in the world included my grandmother, uncles and cousins. My cousins replaced brothers and sisters, and my uncles took on a fatherly role all under one roof. My big family felt safe and my small family—my mother and I—felt like what I needed to become the woman I am today.
***
It was my grandmother who ensured that my cousins and I made it to school on time every morning. My mother usually worked an early shift at a hotel in the north. It was my mother who brought me a Cadbury chocolate whenever she went out at night and left it on my pillow as a surprise for when I woke up. I cannot tell the story of being the first and only without telling you about the relationships with these two amazing mothers, my mother and my grandmother, who fulfilled their responsibility to me.
To my grandmother, I was one of many, but to my mother, I was one of one. During one of our many conversations, my mother revealed that after having me, she made a promise to herself. She would not have any more children unless she got married. Well, she got married, but it was well after her child-bearing years, so she was stuck with just me.
I did not have to compete for love and attention. My mother is mine and I am hers, but there is the unspoken reality that every adult only child must face. We will someday become the primary and possibly the only caretaker of our aging parent(s). That thought has lurked in the back of my mind, but it has become even more prominent now that I’m a parent and whenever I see more visible signs of aging in my mother’s face. Knowing that one day, I will be solely responsible for my mother is a reality that I look forward to sharing with her, yet scares me at the same time.
***
I am your quintessential first born child. I possess the characteristics that birth theory attributes to us: leaders, organized, high achieving and/or an overachiever, structured and mature. I am not sure how much my absent father contributed to this, but I developed people-pleasing and perfectionist behaviors as a way to navigate the world. I realized from a young age that being the smart one was my golden ticket and the way to be noticed by both my maternal and paternal family.
I went to an amazing high school and to show my gratitude I worked hard, even though I didn't always hit the mark. My mother was there to finance the additional support when I wasn’t doing so great at math with tutoring lessons. Being an only child meant that my mother’s hopes and dreams were concentrated on me. Every achievement felt momentous because it’s not just my success—it was hers too. But with that shared pride comes a weighty sense of responsibility. There’s pressure to be the best, because unlike kids with siblings, there was no one else to share the burden of living up to my mother’s expectations.
I do not recall what happened on that particular day. It may have involved me wanting to see my then boyfriend or quite possibly not wanting to go to school, but I remember telling my mother, "You need to have another kid so you can focus on them." Here I am alive to tell the story tells you my mother is a gracious woman. Unlike some friends who were getting spanked for even the slightest indiscretion, my mother sometimes took a gentler approach. She was quite honestly an anomaly for a Gen X mother, making some of my friends envious of me.
As I got older, we developed a very open relationship, one where I could talk to her about almost anything. When I began dating in my twenties after moving to New York City, she was the person I would provide information to about anyone I was seeing. I would text her the name and the license plate number that I would quickly memorize as I walked past either the front or back of the car of anyone who came to pick me up. When I finally moved out and got married, we would talk almost every day and it has been that way for as long as I can remember. We are joint to the hip like best friends, but with the respect given to elders.
***
Now that I am in my early forties, the weight of responsibility has shifted from succeeding as an adult to possibly caregiving somewhere down the line. So many times I look at her and see a glimpse of the future. The realization that I will someday be the only person responsible for my mother's well-being is overwhelming. There will be no sibling to share decisions with, no one to balance financial burdens, no one else to sit by their bedside during hospital stays. It will be just me.
That future looms larger as my mother ages. She is beautiful, and young and vibrant now and we only have a little less than a twenty year age difference, but I see her getting older with each passing year, and I feel a subtle but ever-present sense of urgency. I need to and want to prepare—financially, emotionally, and logistically—for the day when I’ll take on the role of a caregiver. The idea is daunting. There’s fear of inadequacy: What if I can’t balance my own life with hers? Will I ever have to make the decision to send her into assisted living? And then there’s the fear of loss: What will happen when she's gone, leaving me without the one person who shaped my entire world?
***
I am watching the way my mother loves and cares for her mother, who is about to be an octogenarian. Even though they are separated by distance, my mother makes it a priority to talk to my grandmother every Sunday and in between. She is the example of a great daughter and has shown herself to be nothing less than an amazing. There has always been respect from my mother to my grandmother. As one of seven with five still alive, she can find comfort in knowing that there are others to share that responsibility. I on the other hand will have to experience this alone.
The thought overwhelms me, but there is strength in recognizing and accepting the magnitude of the responsibility that is coming my way rather than denying it. Over the years, I’ve found comfort in talking about my fears with close friends who understand. I will also find support groups for caregivers who are or will be in a similar situation. I know I am not alone in feeling this way.
Amid the anxiety, there is a deep sense of gratitude. The fact that I will someday be the one to care for my mother is a privilege—a chance to give her more love and show her appreciation for the sacrifices she made for me. I know there will be hard days, but there will also be moments of connection and gratitude. In the dual reality of immense love and intense pressure, it will be a profound opportunity to pour into and receive from the person who loved and cared for me the most.
Photo of Mother and Daughter, Renata Poleon, 2012
Kommentare