Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day to all of you out there. I hope this day brings peace, comfort, and a sense of having all that we need!

My Mother's Day was spent like any other day; I cooked and cleaned and baked and cooked and cleaned. My daughter made me a bracelet of plastic multi-colored beads and flowers which now adorns my wrist. I recieved calls and texts of well wishers and made several of my own. A beautiful card from my husband. I lamented that once again I did not make it to the gym but promised myself (and my thighs) that I would surely get there tomorrow.

I had dinner with my family and friends and a cocktail that I now believe was much too big for my own good. I am sure that many of you spent the day in a similar fashion. Yes, it was just a normal day.

I had everything I needed.

And that was the part I liked the best.

The Chair

Over the years I have seen a number of therapists. I can honestly say that most have been a help to me in releasing some of the numbing pain that has built up inside me. The woman I see now has been my therapist for perhaps three years. She has been extremely supportive and never hesitates to prompt me to look deeper into who and what I really am and not the labels that was slapped on me as a child. On my first visit to her office, my pain was so great that I promptly dropped my head into my hands and wept as I told her the story of me. I was embarrassed by my tears but I returned because there was a comfort there in the chair.

I don't believe that we can live through the experiences we have had and never seek therapy or some sort of help to heal the injured body and spirit. We are like broken dolls in need of fixing by a caring hand.

There in the chair I understood that as broken as I was that I would mend. There in the chair I looked around and found a safe harbor where I could state the facts as they happened. I would not be questioned about their veracity, I would be taken at my word.

There in the chair.

The Making of Memories

Not too long ago as I was driving my daughter and a few of her friends to the movies, I began to think about the memories that she will carry with her through her life. In the back seat, their chatter hung in the air like weightless clouds, one brief conversation spilled into another, and their excitement at life's possibilities of the next few minutes grew.

I have tried (and with great success) to build a cache of amusing and tender moments that she (and I) can look back on that will one day bring bursts of laughter and tears of joy. To know that a life has been filled with as much joy that any human can fill it with is a gift as great as any prized possession. To intentionally take away simple joys and pleasures such as those that may be experienced by a child is truly an act that will earn that person a direct ticket to Hell. As forgiving as our God is, there are also acts that are shameful in His sight. My daughter, whether knowingly or not, shares the delights of her youth with me. As wonderful as it is, it would have been nice to have my own.

My elderly neighbor who just passed away used to always tell me there was no point in denying yourself anything in life. Use the good china, take the exotic trips, love now in the moment. You will reach that point in your life where you have been relegated to the armchair, your only vehicle. It is then that you can reach back into those memories and remember a time when there were no limits to what you could do.

I am building those glorious memories for us. One day her children will giggle at these stories, their eyes sparkling and chubby little hands clasped gingerly over their mouths.

Another memory in the making.

The Keeper of Secrets

I used to be a keeper of secrets. Perhaps you were too. There were things that happened in secret that we were not supposed to speak about. To do so meant there would be severe consequences. Worse even than what had happened before. So the secret was kept and in the place of truth lies were told.

"I fell off the bunk bed."
"My cat scratched me."

I never told about how my lips were split. Or where the welts came from on my legs and back, the pain so great that they caused me to limp to school. I never told about who tried to engage me into sexual encounters. I was told no one would believe me, and all he had to do was to deny it. That was all there was to it. The crushing weight of secrets was great, yet we bore them in silence.

I am no longer a keeper of secrets. I speak my truth loudly and with conviction. We no longer fear fists or other objects of abuse for now we are our own protectors. We are bold in who we are. We stand straight and know that we have come farther than some.

I find that there are more of us than one would like to think. Our victory is in our survival and in the normalcy of our daily lives. We mother our children with sacred intent, and we know how precious and delicate they are. They help us to heal a spirit once broken.

And we keep moving.

Forward.

The Miracle of Motherhood

The Lord works in strange and mysterious ways.

So many of us long for connection, that one special link that bridges us to one another and keeps us together forever and ever.

A few years ago when I transferred my daughter from private to public school, I received a notice from the school district that the parents could (in the event of the unthinkable) have identification cards made for our children. It would include all the usual information. I promptly filled out the application, and in anticipation of receiving the card, paid for extras. One for me, one for my husband, one for my daughter to carry in her little girl wallet, and another to keep on the bookcase. It would be there for me, as I dusted and perhaps looked for a book; my daughter's smiling face would gaze up at me as I went about my chores.

Weeks went by and I eventually received a package from the school containing the four i.d. cards for my daughter. I scanned the cards and looked at all the identifying features. Apparently the person who took down my daughter's information found something that I had not. She had a beauty mark between her index and middle finger at the base of her left hand. When she came home from school that day I marveled that this little person that I cherished and loved had a mark that I was unfamiliar with. I thought that I knew every precious inch of her. I was wrong.

A few week ago as I was smoothing lotion over my very dry hands, I looked deeply at my right hand. What was that between the index and middle finger on my right hand?? A small dark mark. I tried to scrap it away with my fingernail. It was still there!
It was a beauty mark, the same as the one my daughter had, but on different hands.

It may not seem like much to anyone else, but my heart burns with the joy of that connection to my daughter. Yes, she is mine and yes, it may be slight, considered a coincidence by many. But to me it signifies something greater. I am the mother, and she is my daughter; flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. Nothing can ever change that. We are one, and always will be. A million miles away from her and I will know if she is happy or sad, sick or well. In silence we can call to one another and I will always hurry to her side.

A mother always will.

The Lost Weekend

Oops, I did it again.

The weekend can not end soon enough. I pray that in my fury that I do not suffocate her in her sleep.

She is my mother ans she is old. She is not weak but she surely does not possess the vigor of bygone days when she was capable of rearranging my face and breaking my bones. My bones have healed but there is a larger part of my being that has not. In a way, I could almost see myself forgiving her. We are told that forgiveness is the first step towards the healing process. There is that one great boulder that stands in my way: her inability to acknowledge her treatment of me.

When I confront her, her thin lips curl into a malicious smile, as if she would like to humor me but cannot. She states, and rather firmly that she did nothing of the sort, and by the way, where did I ever get such an idea??

My sisters, do you know what I am talking about? Do you hear me?

It is her mental illness, her borderline personality disorder that allows her to believe her own lies with such fervor. Her belief in her own greatness is unshakable and I am amazed at the strength of her conviction.

It will take me a few days to recover from the physical, mental and emotional effects of having my mother in my home. I purify my environment by burning sage. It will dispel the negative energy and cleanse the air. Tomorrow is another day and I move on. I have too.

I'm a mom.

The Money Tree

The voice on the other end of the line was meekly faint, like that of a timid child asking for the forbidden cookie an hour before dinner. I had listened to the entire message before I realized it was my mother, calling to ask me for a phone number.

Three months ago against my better judgement but driven by forces larger than myself, I had brought her to my hairdresser to get her hair done. Of course it was at my expense and after three days of regretting my decision, I promptly took her to bus station where she would make her way home.

Sometimes I like to believe that somewhere in the past, there was a connection, a history of spontaneous mother-daughter shopping trips or tickling games that led to out of breath laughing sessions, a bond that time or distance could not break.

Everyone tells me that that's my problem. I want what never was and can't now be.
I decry that theory and tell them that I am trying to do the right thing in the eyes of God. Honor her even though she has not earned this right but only gained it by virtue of my birth.

My mother likes to pretend that she could have ruled the world if it had not been for the likes of those who constantly foiled her plans. Her greatness denied, she has spent the last half century blaming everyone who has crossed her path. She believes she had been wronged in so many ways and takes no responsibility for her own actions which have placed her squarely where she is today. Rather than admit her mistakes it is easier not to recall them at all, as if they had never happened. This includes her brutality of me as a child and adult.

As I gaze at her in her old age I wonder if she ever saw this day coming. That one day I would grow up and remember. Remember every vile word and the numbing pain that ruled my existence. That one day perhaps she might need me for a bit of entertaining conversation.

I don't believe she did.