Love is a perfectly edited piece of toast

I am so glad I slammed my bicycle into a fast-moving semi-trailer two months ago.

Despite the fact that I had to have 30 stitches and a skin graft on my very damaged foot, which, will never look the same again. Despite the fact that I had to cancel my trip to Spain and return home to Sydney. Despite the fact that it’s meant 2 months of staying at home, hobbling on crutches. Despite all of this, I am so unbelievably grateful it happened because it meant one thing:

I’ve realised my mum loves me.

Most of us, sort of implicitly know our parents love us. But there are less of us who are really close to our parents, who are friends with them, and do get to experience that rush of love. I don’t fall into that category of the lucky.

My mum rarely shows much emotion. Nor is she much of a conversationalist, and we share very few interests. Often (almost always) we seem to see the world in completely different ways. So I had always read into the lack of intimacy in our relationship as a very poor sign. Were we to forevermore be these alienated beings, living side by side, never connecting?

But perhaps I was wrong, or confused.

In these last couple of months in which I’ve been recovering my mum has tirelessly cared for me; bringing me meals to my room, driving me to doctor’s appointments, washing my clothes and reminding me to do my foot exercises. All without a word of complaint, or any hint that she’s at all sick of it.

And for me this expression of unconditional love was crystallised in my breakfast yesterday morning.

You see the day before my mum brought me breakfast and apologised for how the toast was burnt. Apparently the slice was too long so it couldn’t go in the toaster length ways. But when she toasted it sidewards, there was so much sticking out at the top, she thought she’d re-toast it again upside down, but which consequently burnt it.

The next day’s bread was toasted to perfection. As I bit into it, slathered in peanut butter and honey (my favourite), I realised she had carefully cut off two of the ends so now the bread had fit into the toaster. Beautiful.

My time here has made me realise that I had been looking for my mother’s love in all the wrong places. Her love can’t be found in non-existent kisses and cuddles, or long conversation. But in the way she has cooked, cleaned, driven us around, and just generally cared for us and been there for us kids, all these many years. Even in the sometimes wise, sometimes crazy nagging, has been love.

Similarly, I had been looking to express my love for her in all the wrong ways. She doesn’t want to talk (she doesn’t understand anything in my life, it’s all nonsensical to her), she doesn’t want me to take over the household chores, she doesn’t want to hear my lectures about various problems in her life. All she wants is an obedient and respectful daughter. I can handle that.

And I have also remembered one piece of common ground … craft! When I was in school I use to love doing craft. Ever year I had a new thing I was interested in; friendship bands, beaded jewelry, cross-stitch and so-on. It was the one interest my mum and I shared. The one thing we could talk about and she could depart her expertise.

And despite the fact that in my later years of school and post-school I lost interest in craft, my mum would continue to buy me books on scrap-booking, or painting watercolours, or making Christmas decorations. She would take me to school fetes and quietly appreciate the homemade craft and amateur art (but rarely did she buy anything for herself). And the only present from me where she really seemed excited was this elephant cross-stitch I made, and that my sister sewed onto a pillow.

With nothing to do all day these last couple of months, my mum encouraged me to take up knitting. At first I was reluctant – my first attempt many years ago seemed to prove it was not something I had a natural ability with. But I gave it another go and am now onto my fourth scarf! Mum’s even shown me some more elaborate stitch patterns which I’m about to get stuck into.

This whole experience has taught me that you can’t always expect things in your life to follow convention. And sometimes it can still be alright when they don’t.

For a truly wonderful look at the complicated relationship between sons and fathers, listen to this heartbreaking episode called “Go Ask Your Father”, from radio show “This American Life”. From the website you have to pay, but if you email me I can send you a copy.