I’m Glad My Mom Died is the title of a new memoir by a former child actress I’ve never heard of, and it’s a best seller. It has received more attention than any other recent book that’s not about Donald Trump, and the response to it seems uniformly favorable.

For all I know, Jeanette McCurdy is a good writer. But it’s the shocking title that seems to please reviewers most. How daring of her! Good for her! The book is a chronicle of abuse by a terrible, exploitative and seemingly mentally ill stage mother whose conduct sounds like something from a Grimms’ Fairy Tale.

But now the mom is safely dead from cancer and Jeanette is sharing her story of suffering and redemption all over the internet to hearty accolades, not least from others who hate their parents and share her bold sentiment. A piece in the Huffington Post reveals that “it’s not uncommon to feel that way.” Uh-oh.

Naturally, as a mother I find this chilling. As a mother estranged from an adult child, I can’t help feeling the title embodies my worst fears. I know my adult child wants nothing to do with me for reasons only he understands. I mean, I know I wasn’t perfect and I yelled a lot. And abuse is in the eye, and narrative, of the self-proclaimed abused party.

But it pains me to think that my death will actually be celebrated, you know? I guess it won’t matter since I won’t be around to be horrified.

Back when I learned about forums for adult children who hate their mothers, I had to stop looking at their posts when someone admitted to feeling no grief upon losing their parent. They weren’t exactly proud of their reaction, like Jeanette seems to be, but rather a little defensive. The other mommy-haters on the forum reassured the griefless adult child that they looked forward to the death of their parent and the relief it would bring.

Since I can only speak for myself, and my own narrative of my experience as both a mother and an adult child of a mother, I guess it’s not for me to judge these damaged victims of bad parents. But it seems like the title “I’m Glad My Mom Died” is somehow acceptable in today’s zeitgeist (sorry!) of proud victimhood and trauma survivors, whereas the title “I’m Glad My Daughter Died” would never be published, let alone applauded.

Is it because it’s reasonable to hate your mom but not your daughter? What about “I’m Glad My Dog Died” or even “I’m Glad My Neighbor Died’? None of these work, do they?

My guess is it’s because the Awful Mother is now a staple of our cultural landscape, from Carrie to Mommy Dearest and beyond.

Mother’s can’t win, is my feeling. The best of us are still not good enough, although Donald Winnicott disagrees. (More about the concept of the good-enough mother here.) Our mistakes engender bitter resentments that time cannot eradicate for many. But it’s my belief that whatever you do as a parent will be wrong. All you can do is try your hardest to make the best decisions you can, to get help if you see you’re fucking up, and to love your kids unconditionally.

I’ve come to forgive my mother for her shortcomings and her bad behavior with the awareness that she was a complicated person shaped by her own difficult childhood. I’m not glad she died; I’m screwed up but I’m not heartless.

Jennette McCurdy tells an interviewer somewhat self-righteously that she’s “done the work” to earn the right to her title. Whatever that means. Is she sorry she was born? I’d like to ask her that. Because she owes her existence to her mother, which is not nothing.

And now she’s making a fortune by speaking Her Truth about her mother. She also complains in the book about her Nickelodeon co-star Ariana Grande’s greater success, which could lead to another brave best seller if Ariana could only die.

Just kidding! You do you, mommy haters.

Thoughts and insults, anyone?

* Giaquinto di Corrado Bottega, Medea, 1752, Hinton Ampner National Trust

The approach of Mothers Day fills me with a constellation of emotions that are tough to untangle. Maybe they can’t be untangled. Being a mother and having a mother seem like conflicting states rather than complementary ones.

My mom left this photo on my doorstep when I was 37. I know that because on a note she included in the manila envelope full of baby pictures, she wrote: “You piece of shit, thanks for 37 years of misery.”

Look at my innocent little self in that party dress! I wonder what the occasion was. She usually dressed me like a boy. At 21 months, according to her, she already hated me.

My mom was mentally ill but no one ever explained that to me and my sister. We knew she had mood swings and an explosive temper. We knew she was given to theatrical screaming. We knew she had an assortment of pills in her handbag that she sometimes threatened to kill herself with. But I didn’t grasp that she was crazy until the manila envelope appeared.

She was not a good mother. She was divorced early on and unequipped for the job of raising kids. Her own mother was cruel and rejecting; her passive father didn’t protect her. Her sister spent time in a mental hospital and abused her three children. It’s a mess.

But how can I hate my mother? How can I even blame her? What did she know? Now in 2020, what does anyone know about being a mother?

I know mothers who won’t vaccinate their kids or let them watch TV. I know mothers who won’t let their kids eat gluten or dairy. I know mothers who take their kids to shaman healers. I know mothers who abandoned their kids, and mothers who cling to adult children with disturbing tenacity. Everyone is just flailing around, trying to do their best.

I’m learning to strive for compassion when it comes to my mother, and for myself as well. I made so many mistakes raising my children but much more often I did okay. I made sure they knew how much I adored them. I was their advocate. They never had to be anything but themselves. They didn’t have to perform in school or anywhere else to be valued. They knew I admired them. I loved their friends and their girlfriends. I tried to always be honest with them.

I was a good enough mother. It’s a relief to know that.

My life as a mother is still the best part of who I am. My heart is broken but it’s full of love.

Those of you with crazy mothers, try to forgive them. Those of you who are crazy mothers, it’s never too late to apologize or to get some help. Don’t write shit on baby pictures if you can help it. If you can’t, it’s probably not your fault.

May we all find someone to mother and be mothered by, today and always.

I was going to comment on the creepy new interview with Soon Yi Previn, but after delving into her family history, I’m disgusted with all of the players, including that stupid Ronan, who wears blue contact lenses to look more like Frank Sinatra.

Fuck these awful people, especially Mia Farrow, who adopted Asian children like salted peanuts, even getting a congressman to change US adoption law to accommodate her colonialist agenda. Farrow has adopted ten children and given birth to four, married three powerful men who were old enough to be her father, and I think we can say it’s been a mess.

In her interview, Soon Yi makes it clear that she hates Mia, who adopted her from Korea when she was 5 years old. Mia is portrayed as an abusive lunatic. Luckily, Woody Allen came along and started taking an interest in Soon Yi when she was in the 11th grade and they began going to Knicks games together.

One day, Woody showed Soon Yi a Bergman movie (not making this up!) and then they kissed. One thing led to another, and you know, the heart wants what it wants.

But Soon Yi thought it was only a fling. Fucking mom’s boyfriend was probably meant to piss her off, not drive her insane. Next thing you know, the nude spreadeagled Polaroids, the accusations of molesting another Farrow daughter, and therapy for 4 year old Ronan, who either did or didn’t hate his daddy, who is either Woody or Frank Sinatra.

I’m telling you, these people are monsters. Soon Yi and Woody are the parents of two adopted daughters, who are now in their teens and endured a battery of “the best tennis lessons, piano, guitar, ballet classes, whatever.” Soon Yi will have to wait until they give their own interviews to hear the final verdict on her mothering skills.

Meanwhile, she spends her days doing Pilates, going to museums with her driver, and shopping for clothes.

Since the interview was published, Ronan and six other siblings released a statement defending their mother, and Dylan reminded people that Woody molested her. Ronan, coincidentally, is making a career out of outing molesters. It’s like in this family, you are either a Molester or Molestee. Or Frank Sinatra’s love child.

Yes, Woody Allen is a fucker and one I’ve never forgiven for having sex with Soon Yi. She appears to be a hateful spoiled creature who is frighteningly lacking in empathy and not sharp enough to keep her elderly husband away from their nubile daughters. Hello, Soon Yi? Remember that Bergman movie?

Click the links if you dare, and tell me if any of these people are not completely nuts.

Noticing a spike in my blog stats, I traced it to a reddit group or whatever they call it, (subgroup? board?) for people who hate their parents. The parents are labeled “narcissists” for the purposes of explaining why they’re “toxic.”

Someone linked to the post I wrote about Mother’s Day, and people are disgusted by how awful I am. Not only that, but they are discovering that my firstborn child “committed suicide.” Aha, proof of my toxicity. One poster is creeped out by my boast of making good chicken.

Here is the problem, Children of Narcissists. You are viewing everything from a particular lens, and you are not seeing the big picture.

Once you’re a parent, you can see things from both perspectives. You know what it’s like to have kids, and you remember what it’s like to be one. And if you have gained any wisdom, you begin to see that we are all wounded. All of us. Don’t make me quote Hemingway here.

In all my posts called Crazy Mothers Club, you can see how widespread childhood abuse is. It is shocking but true. Those of us who were victims can learn compassion, or pretend it never happened, or join support groups. Before the Internet, we didn’t go around looking for other parents to disparage but that was then.

May I note here that my diagnosis is depression and PTSD, not narcissism?

I wonder what kind of parent can escape the wrath of angry, wounded adult children who congregate in forums to share their stories and single out strangers as perps? I know moms and dads who don’t have great or equal relationships with their children, but are nonetheless loving and conscientious parents. We usually do our best. I would say that even my crazy mother did her best, given her difficulties.

I can’t imaging joining a forum of parents who feel hurt by their estranged children. I don’t like groupthink and I don’t want to expose myself to the gripes of bitter strangers whose circumstances have nothing to do with me.

I wish the best to you reddit people. If you haven’t lost a loved one to suicide, maybe you can research it’s effect on those left behind. In your grief over your narcissist parents, you might also respect that there are other kinds of grief. There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. You know what I mean.

I am here for a dialogue, but not for hate mobs. Been there, done that already. If your parents (or kids) are toxic narcissists, please chime in. Help us to understand. Just refrain from bringing up my darling son or you will go straight to hell.

Love, Sister Wolf

At first I thought that video of the angry Baltimore mother smacking her teenage son was kind of comical. I was a little embarrassed for the mother, who came off like a stereotype over-the-top ghetto mom, screaming about I’ll hit you upside the head!

Now that I see she’s being hailed as a hero, I’m disgusted.

If you see a white mother slugging her kid, you know it’s child abuse. Case closed.

But because it’s Baltimore and the kid is wearing a hoodie, she’s a fucking superstar!

I’m glad that she loves her son and wants the best for him.  I know she must feel desperate. But smacking him and swearing is not okay for one ethnicity and wrong for everyone else. It’s just wrong. It’s violence. What does she do to discipline her other five kids when the cameras aren’t rolling?

Violence teaches violence. To commend this mother is racist.

Anyone?

Carol Coronado, 30, stabbed her three young children to death and then got into bed with them. The children ranged in age from 2 1/2 to 2 months old. That is red flag number one.

Earlier that morning, Carol had called her mother to say she was ‘going crazy.’ Red flag number two.

Carol’s mother was at work so she called Carol’s sister-in-law, Sandra, and asked her to give Carol a call. Sandra, whose brother Rudy Coronado is Carol’s husband, now reports that Carol denied anything was wrong, but did admit to being exhausted. Sandra could hear babies crying in the background, but that was not unusual. She quotes Carol as saying, “Just tell your brother to calm down.”  Red flags #3, #4, and #5.

Rudy’s mother arrived in the afternoon, while Rudy was outside working on his car. She emerged from the house screaming that the children were dead. She had called 911. Police came and led Carol out of the house, naked under a blanket and covered with blood. She was covered with stab wounds, most of them superficial.

Now, this next part is key:

Carol Coronado, who was taking classes on the Internet, stayed at home with the children while her husband went out early each day to sell car parts at the Alpine Village swap meets.

She kept a cluttered home, which triggered some discord with her husband.

“I believe that was their main issue,” the sister-in-law said. “My brother wanted the house clean for his girls. He wanted to come home to a home-cooked meal.” ~ (my italics) Daily Breeze, Larry Altman

Here is the house, described as a former workshop or converted garage. I’ll take the liberty of calling it a shithole.

I’m thinking, Andrea Yates. I’m thinking too many babies, postpartum depression, trapped in a shithole, demanding husband, desperation,  no way out.

What are you thinking?

Yesterday, I was bitching about my hair on facebook, and a friend passed on her mother’s advice about spending too much time at the mirror.

I couldn’t even imagine my own mother giving me any advice, although she did warn me not to have ‘intercourse’ after I started coming home at 3:AM. She was pretty useless in the advice department. She didn’t prepare me for anything except a conviction that I would never, ever, grow up to be like her.

Look at her body language in this picture. She holds me like I’m a time bomb or some infectious agent. And me, I look away anxiously, maybe at someone less scary.

It is pointless to blame your crazy mom for all your shortcomings, and yet. Getting over a crazy mom is a tall order.

An interesting school of psychology maintains that Adverse Childhood Experiences can represent trauma that doesn’t just ‘go away.’ Having a crazy mom is an ACE; enough ACE’s and you are screwed, unless other factors were present to create some resilience. You can get your ACE score here.

“The CDC’s Adverse Childhood Experiences Study uncovered a stunning link between childhood trauma and the chronic diseases people develop as adults, as well as social and emotional problems.This includes heart disease, lung cancer, diabetes and many autoimmune diseases, as well as depression, violence, being a victim of violence, and suicide.”

Bummer! On the one hand, you now have an excuse for being dysfunctional. On the other, it is awful to reflect on your childhood helplessness, or on your own failings as a mother.

Thoughts?

My youngest sister is an anomaly in our family: she is a blond bombshell.  I didn’t meet her until she was 16. One night, she asked me to help with her geometry homework. I was excited to get the chance to act like a real big sister! But the geometry problems seemed to be written in Chinese. I was horrified that anyone was expected to understand that shit. I tried finding a tutorial online but it was way beyond my limited Girlie Brain.

When our dad’s health declined, I slept at his house and got to know my sister better. I already knew that our dad had won custody of her after  years of neglect and abuse by her mother. Being raised by a father in his 80’s must have been hard for her.

She told me abut the time her older sister, who I will call “Tennis,” read her diary when she was 14 and snitched to our dad. This caused a huge commotion, after which Tennis convinced our dad to put his daughter in a foster home.

Eventually, our dad changed his mind and let my little sister come home. When he was dying, she tenderly manicured his nails. He had always liked a good manicure, even a hundred years ago when I was a kid.

Now that our dad is gone, my little sister is on her own. Tennis and their brother, the Weightlifter, keep their distance from her. They don’t like responsibility.

I’m glad I had a chance to briefly bond with her. I think she’s a “survivor,” like I am apparently, often to my dismay. I hope so.

Today is my mom’s birthday and I’m burning a candle for her.

Ever since she died nine years ago, I’ve had a much better relationship with her. I read somewhere that the relationship you have with your mom is in your head, not in any temporal or objective reality. So now that she’s gone, I finally feel loved by her. I feel tenderness toward her, instead of fear or anger. I forgive her.

When my mom was diagnosed with cancer, she was told she had six months to live. My sister and I got hospice care for her, because she wanted to die in her own bed.

A couple of times, she asked me to help kill her. Each time, I explained that I just couldn’t consider it. I did what I could to provide comfort. My sister and I often spent the night with her, and we tried to conceal our anxiety and grief. She declined over the six months, becoming delusional at times and suspecting us of hiring fake rabbis or switching her drinking glass. Near the end, I chewed up food for her and fed it to her like a baby bird.

Finally, the last morning arrived and her beautiful Jamaican nurse called us to hurry over to say goodbye. Her death throes were terrifying and unbearable to watch, but we had to bear it. My sister and I each held one of her hands as she died. The nurse recited the Lord’s Prayer. My sister sobbed hysterically throughout.

Afterwards, we sat in my mom’s bedroom, paralyzed with shock.   Other family members arrived. I turned around in my chair and opened a drawer, not really thinking about what I was doing. In the drawer was her will, and nothing else.

I picked up the will and read the first line aloud. “I, _________, being of sound mind, hereby exclude my two daughters from this will. I do so deliberately, and should they contest it, they will receive not more than one dollar each.”

Mom, you were a funny one. Happy birthday.

Sea has been on the road with Dad, I think to SXSW to hear some awful new bands. She got to hang out with her Asian-ish friend Ronald, but really the main event was her new boots by Maison Martin Margiela, available now at net-a-porter for $1245.00

Do we think that these boots were a free gift from Martin Margiela? Because otherwise, the shoe bill in this family for just the last month is astronomical. Oh well, what’s money, right?   In other news, Sea is super excited about being identified as a “pervert” on a fasion blog. She’s really arrived! She’s practically Madonna! It’s fun to have a naughty reputation! Plus, you can keep hoarding shoes while you cultivate the pervert thing!

I’m getting tired of Sea, to tell you the truth. I only want to keep a tab on the shoe expenditure. The story seems to have stalled, hasn’t it? I need some plot development, some forward movement. I might have to start inventing a narrative for Sea and Mom unless they can crank up the pace.

Sea doesn’t care what you think. She wants you to look at her and her expensive shoes, to hear about Ronnie and all the nice hotels she stays in, but if you have an opinion you can fucking well keep it to yourself. Or, you can leave it here. I will go first:

Dear Sea, I am losing interest in you but all is not lost. Mom’s gigantic metal beetle belt is making me think that maybe Mom is the real story here. Would you feel bad if I start making up adventures for you and Mom? I could have Carol appear at the end of each one to deliver a moral lesson. Think it over. Love, SW.   P.S. Enough with the red hair.