The Mother Wound

at least jazz does not hate me back

Dogs hate my mother.

The same could be true about the inverse, but if I start an essay telling you that my mother hates dogs without you hearing both sides of the story, my sense is that you will stop reading. Am I right?

My mother once ached to like dogs the way I yearn to enjoy sushi and professional sports and jazz music. I’d love to be the person who skillfully plucks a bit of designer fish tucked into a sweet bed of rice from a platter with two sticks, but I am the cheap date who eats only edamame. Some days, when I drive to the yoga studio and throngs of people wearing jerseys scoot from the free parking zone to the football stadium, I wonder what would have to change in my life for me to enjoy a Sunday surrounded by 50,000 of my fellow fans. My aches are selfish. I don’t so much feel like I am missing out, but feel like I want to be perceived as cool. Her pain is worse, because even though I do feel personally attacked by jazz music, I’m confident the trumpet does not hate me back.

The dogs hate her back.