The Final Call

The Complexity of the Mother-Daughter relationship

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I think I was about 12-years-old when it happened. 

My mother and I were arguing, and if you’re a mother of a pre-teen or a teenage daughter you know that this is around the time where girls hate their mothers for every reason and no reason at all.

It could have been that transitioning point in life called puberty, or the fact that I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, who knows what it was. But we started arguing, and out of the blue as I’m rolling my eyes, and telling her what I wasn’t going to do; like most Black mothers, she grabbed for the closest thing in her reach, poor me it was a broom.

As she threatened to beat the black off me, I reached for the phone and threatened to call the Department of Children and Family Services (DCFS) or 911 … A few minutes later my sister was shaking me awake, and picking me up off the floor (Smile). I won’t confirm nor deny if I got hit, but needless to say, I’ve never threatened her again.

Until I became a mother with my own daughter I didn’t realize the complexity of these mother-daughter relationships. We seemed to always be in competition. I was always rebelling because of the seeming injustices I felt she inflicted on me. It’s true, I favored my father more. He was smarter, nicer, more understanding, and never spanked me. In his eyes, I was the favorite, the most well-behaved out of all the children. Don’t all children believe that? To my mother I was some whining brat who was never satisfied. I told everyone I was adopted, that I was descended from royalty and my real parents were coming to get me one day.

Who was this lady, I asked myself?  She was loud, obnoxious, and we had nothing in common, so I thought. She always told me that God was going to punish me, and pay me back by giving me a daughter just like me. I would argue that I was going to be a better mother than her that I would never spank my children, or yell at them. I was going to make every track meet and dance recital, and prepare home cooked meals every night.

Fast forward about 20 years later, and I’m calling her crying because a three-year-old who doesn’t even come past my waist has me in tears. I packed her bags, threw in some fruit snacks and crackers and begged grandma to come get her because she was so difficult. She’s a whiner, bratty, sassy, talks too much, and I just broke down, locked myself in the bathroom, and called my mother incessantly.

How could someone I nursed for two years, made organic baby food from scratch and sacrificed my last dime to get her some of the things she wanted and needed act like this? And instead of words of comfort, my mother said, “I told you so.” I said, so you have been waiting 20 years to say those words—that’s real mature. We both started laughing.

I pleaded with her, that I was a great child, and to my surprise she said I was rotten and acted just like my own daughter.

Go figure.

So now I understand the laws of Karma, not that I’m sitting around waiting for my daughter to grow up and experience the same things she’s done to me (Wink).

The lessons learned and the beauty of this complex relationship with my mother was that I didn’t have to go into the streets to learn the lessons that most of us learn in girl’s locker rooms and bathrooms from other undeveloped and emotionally fragile teens. She gave me and my sisters the unadulterated hard core truths, about men, sex, girlfriends, etc. She taught us lessons that you don’t get from textbooks or from schools. There are no words that can express my appreciation for those life lessons.

As daughters, we somehow forget how much our mothers sacrificed for us. They did the best they could with what they had. I believe she’s a better grandmother to our children because of the mistakes she’s made and lessons she learned from rearing us, and since I was her first daughter, I guess I was target practice (Smile).

I understand why Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) said that a mother is honored three times more than father. She is our first nurse, teacher, and friend, and through her we learn about the world. My mother wasn’t perfect, far from it, I’m not a perfect mother either, but I have learned valuable lessons from her. 

I pray that we all can have the experience of having mothers who let us fight our own battles with siblings, who say nothing, but give us space when our hearts have been broken, who keep their grandchildren even when you don’t ask because she knows you need some alone time. Those mothers who cook all day and are the last ones to eat, who teach you to braid hair, wash your clothes by hand, and never let you say that there is nothing to eat in bare cupboards because she can make a meal out of anything.  I once read a quote by an unknown author that said, “Mothers and daughters are closest, when daughters become mothers.” I fully concur.

May Allah (God) bless us all with the light of understanding, and give us the strength to endure trying times, and forgive our mothers for giving them hell. You only get one biological mother, I was blessed to have a good one, I pray our daughters will feel the same about us one day. If not, at least our sons will.

(Laila Muhammad is a Chicago-based writer, videographer and Final Call production assistant.)