Throughout my life, I've had my fair share of heartbreak and heartache. I've had best friends come and go over the years, some just because we got older and others because of some conflict or other.
My mom has said my whole life that I should stop putting so much trust in friends because, at the end of the day, my family would be there no matter what. I rolled my eyes every time she said this, especially when it followed with, "so you should be nicer to your sister." She just didn't understand. These were my best friends. They wouldn't leave. For a long time, it didn't seem like they would.
Just like relationships, I think I had this picture-perfect image in my head of having a BFFL—best friend for life. I would find someone, and we would just be friends forever, and she would be in my bridal party, and I would tell her everything. And when I first began watching "Gilmore Girls," I had this idea in my head that my mom could be my best friend. But she told me over and over that until I was living on my own for good, we couldn't be friends.
She didn't want me to see her as anything but my mother, and for a while, I was actually quite offended that she didn't want to be my friend—it took a while for me to become emotionally mature and understand why.
I ignored most of what she said and continued my search for the perfect best friend. The lesson finally dawned on me during my first year at Ole Miss, when I lived in the dorms, alone and lonely. My friends had all but deserted me, and though I missed him dearly, I just couldn't see my boyfriend, Jon, as much as I wanted. I called my mom daily, sometimes crying, to tell her about how awful everything was. I missed her so much, and more than anything, I wanted to come home. That was when I knew that no matter what happened to me, I could always count on her.
It took a long time to finally get it through my head that my mother was only trying to help me and not hurt me. My relationship with her isn't perfect—we're at odds about most things, including fashion, music and food, and we argue frequently. I still complain that she doesn't understand me. She still calls me by my dad's name if I'm being stubborn about something or not listening. Most of the time, I find it amusing. She also thinks I make a lot of excuses—which I do— for why I can't do something or why something isn't happening.
I still forget sometimes how much she's done for me over the years—listened to my teenage angst problems, consoled me when I needed it, and gave me tough love when I needed and deserved that more. She held me accountable for my actions, both negative and positive. She let me fall when it was the only way for me to learn a valuable lesson.
I like to think that she's the number-one reason I'm not out on the streets right now, the one reason I pushed through school and life no matter how many times I wanted to give up. She was sometimes a pretty harsh mother, and though my sister or brother aren't scared of her, I am. I always have been.
It's not that she deliberately scared me into doing right. I just respected and knew her enough to know when not to do something stupid. It's basically the same kind of respect that you might have for God or tornadoes—both beautiful and awe-inspiring, but dangerous to mess with. As is my mom.
That's not to say I didn't push the envelope a little bit—I've had my fair share of groundings. But had I not pushed back a little, I don't think I'd be the same person. It's that push and pull that has strained our relationship occasionally, but also gave us a greater understanding of each other.
I don't think I've ever told her how grateful I am that she raised me the way she did—strict but flexible. She taught me right from wrong and punished me when I deserved it. At a younger age than normal, she lifted my curfew and let me venture out into the world, confident that she had raised me to know when to not do something. She gave me the independence I needed and desired, and I am forever grateful that she took me seriously enough to do that.
She still thinks I'm a weird person. I do things that are not normal to her, like listen to alternative bands and read books like "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy." Chances are, she won't ever understand me completely. To do that, she'd have to understand an entirely new generation of people, and I don't fault her for not wanting to do that. I wouldn't, either. The world isn't the same as it was in the '80s. But part of the independence she gave me allowed me to branch out in different directions, discover new things. She never faulted me for that, even if we oftentimes don't agree on things.
I'm now getting older and starting the slow journey toward full-on adulthood. Hopefully, in the next year, she'll be there when I find my wedding dress and finally leave home. She'll most likely not agree with my choice of dress or house, but she'll tear up any way because her oldest—and weirdest—child is now entering adulthood for real. She'll cheer when I get my own health insurance and find my first house. She'll hate the fact that I want a cat. And we'll disagree on whether I should get one. She also might remind me of how I probably not would be a very good pet owner.
But no matter what we argue about, I will always take her advice to heart because, as she says, she's always right, though I still might think whatever she proposes or says sounds outdated or crazy.
I don't have many friends anymore. Over the years, we've all grown apart, and for the most part, I don't want a best friend anymore. I don't need one. This lesson may have been a long time coming, but I now understand that no matter how crazy I get, no matter what strange things I do, and no matter what happens to me, I will always have my mom and my family. I couldn't ever ask for more than that.
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