Illustration by Marley Allen-Ash
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Through the changing stages of child-raising, I naively believed there would come a time when my work as a mother would be mostly over, apart from emergencies. I’ve since learned there is no retirement from motherhood short of becoming permanently incapacitated. So as my daughters went through their changes as adults, I had to change, too, to get along with them. This startling new reality caught me off guard, unprepared and failing as recently as last year. I want to do better.
As a new mother, I remember obsessing over a book called The First Twelve Months of Life as I tried to keep up with the rapid changes of my baby. Now I’m still going through the hardest and longest transition of all: becoming the mother of adult daughters.
Since the youngest one is about to turn 40, their recent entry into middle age makes me…. an Old Mother of Middle-aged Daughters, or OMOMAD. I’m still trying to figure this stage out.
(As an aside, the only way I could not be old with daughters this age would be if I’d had them when I was a teenager. My mother closed off that possibility when she suspected I might be venturing into sexual activity. One day she took me aside and issued the unforgettable sentence:
“It would kill your father if you got pregnant.” She paused, looked thoughtful, and added, “Or if you married a communist.”
My mother was not one to issue warnings lightly. I immediately went on the birth control pill.)
I have landed on three essential rules to master in order to get a passing grade as the mother of adult daughters. This may not sound like a lot, but for me discovering that these rules existed, let alone sticking to them, has become the biggest challenge of my seventh decade.
The first rule of being the mother of adult daughters is: “Keep your mouth shut.”
No advice-giving, no prying questions, no personal comments or suggestions on eating habits, tattoos, intimate health problems, housekeeping standards, addictive social media, financial management, child-rearing, handling toxic bosses, romantic partners, sibling relations. I got into Big Trouble last year when I weighed in on one of these taboo subjects.
On this rule, I’d give myself a C-. Not a great mark, but better than the F that I received last year when I was told to stay off hot topics by my daughters. I had to apologize to them both in order to do damage control and bring this year’s grade up to a mediocre pass.
The second rule of being the mother of adult daughters is: “Listen attentively.”
I’ve resorted to keeping written track of names of friends, daycare closures, business trips, vacation dates and illnesses. This is important because as an OMOMAD, my memory isn’t what it was. If I lose track of important details of their lives, I may seem to be neglectful, self-centred or sliding into senility. It is a tricky balancing act being the mother of adult daughters. I have to be interested in their lives, but not overly interested, as in intrusive, meddling or interfering. I’d give myself a C on this one.
The third rule about being the mother of adult daughters is: “Limit your messaging.”
This applies to e-mail, texts, WhatsApp and whatever new communication technology is emerging that I don’t know about. I wouldn’t even think about making a phone call to them unless I woke up in a hospital bed in the intensive care ward. Ordinary phone calls have taken the place of long-distance calls, which in my youth were reserved for dire emergencies. My adult daughters are busy. Really, really busy. Some of that busyness might be a little suspect to me as an OMOMAD. As in couldn’t they free up some valuable time with a little less scrolling and posting on TikTok and Instagram, not to mention browsing Amazon? Oh, damn! I just broke Rule No. 1.
In my time, there was an unwritten rule that obligated adult daughters to call their mothers at least once a week to see how they were doing. It didn’t matter how boring or trivial the phone chat was. It was my duty as an adult daughter to call my mother, so I did. Times have changed and I’m trying to keep up. I’ve deleted many half-finished texts and resorted to the “unsend” function on e-mail to make C+ on this one.
I have my hands full sticking to these three essential rules as I gradually work my way out of the Remedial Class of mothers of adult daughters. So if your adult daughter calls you every day to see how you’re doing, if she confides in you and asks your advice, if she gets T-shirts printed up with your photo on them for Mother’s Day, I don’t want to hear about it.
Connie Gibbs lives in Salt Spring Island, B.C.