I had a complicated relationship with my mother.

Was she bi-polar or just depressed? Being that she was firmly raised in the suck-it-up-and-keep-up-appearances generation, I don’t think she was even aware of her moods- they were something to be ignored or wrestled into oblivion.

My mother could be my best friend or worst enemy, usually within the same hour.

Which brings me to my mood today- on that day we celebrate our mothers.

There is much to celebrate. She not only supported my love for horses, she immersed herself in it. At times, I wondered if she did it out of love or a desire to control, probably both.

After all, I was one of her accomplishments. She worked hard to have me, sacrificing something precious to her- her dignity- to get pregnant. I was conceived by artificial insemination in a time when it was very hush-hush. Looking back, considering what I know of her history, I realize it truly was a sacrifice- another degrading experience to shove into the hidden corner of her psyche.

If those secrets she buried and hoarded fed the monster chip on her shoulder, well, that was just too bad.

She was a tiny bundle of ambition, who downplayed her intelligence.

She was an unapologetic administrator with an impeccable wardrobe.

She didn’t suffer fools (and we were all fools at times).

Her anger was her strength.

The quest to know my mother drove me to write about her when she was gone. (You can read that here, if you’re so inclined.)

The sad fact remains that I can only consider her complexities after she’s gone, because when she was alive, interacting her was a lively game of emotional chess. The winner kept her sanity and ego semi-intact.

But I loved her. I miss her deeply. She’s intensely present in my latest WIP which takes place against the background of equestrian sports.

I hated being told how to ride by a woman who’d never spent more than five minutes in the saddle.– All the Brightness

She’s both the angel and devil on my shoulders, my mental commentary, my compass- whether I want to do things her way or rebel.

She’s my nemesis and my hero.

She made me over conscious about my weight-

You’re not fat, you’re chunky, Nancie.

She was at every horse show, bought a Bronco so we could buy a horse trailer, even bought a farm which she claimed was her dream, yet she never lived there.

She called me lazy, always berated me for not living up to my potential- I really hate that word now, called me a disappointment, thought my anger was a mental defect without ever considering the cause.

After the initial shock of my teenage pregnancy, she supported my decision to raise my child, providing me a home and support whenever I needed it.

She came when I needed her most. She couldn’t help being herself, but she came and gave me everything she could.

Knowing what I know now, I realize how strong she had to be, and if that strength made her hard, it was a choice she had to make to survive.

She taught me to be strong without having to make the same choices.

Had she lived, my life would look very different. My sister and I joke about that in that funny-not-funny humor we share.

But I miss her. Not the mother I wish she had been, I miss her in all her messy, sometimes cruel, embarrass me by doing the Macarena at my wedding, give-me-the-world-with-heavy-strings-attached generous glory.

Hallmark needs a card for that.