I Believe in Fairies

This makes me so sad.  The lost opportunities.

My mother has set up the ironing board in the living room so that she can watch the annual Mary Martin showing of Peter Pan with me.

I am sitting on the floor, and the crucial moment comes for me to save Tinkerbelle’s life by saying, “I believe in fairies.”

But I won’t do it.

I know it will become material for my mother’s stories about the “cute” things that Carole says. And I refuse to be patronized in that way.

But I certainly do not want Tinkerbelle to die.

So I have to sit and think very hard “I believe in fairies” and hope that the vehemence of my thoughts is loud enough to save her.

And thus my childhood went, trying to avoid being an emotional “fashion accessory” to my mother, as she bragged about all the delightful things I did and said.

Not that I realized at the time what my motivation was, but I always felt uncomfortable around my mother.

Yet, from a more mature perspective, I can see that she was doing the best she could; she was trying to show others—and, more importantly, convince herself—what a perfect and loving relationship we had by relating these anecdotes of me.

But it wasn’t true.

I wonder now: If she were still alive, could we begin building a true mother-daughter bond?

I’ll never know.

What frightens me is that I fear I would revert to my past feelings about her; the wounds have scabbed over but they have not healed.