Nov 12, 2011 |
Every year on this date, I always say the same thing. “X-amount of years ago, I was thiiiis big….” and my hands extend my imaginary belly. Then I go on to tell the story that embarrasses my Dot. I think it’s every mom’s duty to share the story of childbirth with their children. Loudly. In front of their friends.
But this year, I won’t. This year, I will say only that I was once “thiiiis big”. And maybe throughout the day remind her of the pain she kept me in for six and half hours. I won’t say a word about how the day before, during a stress test, my mom who was visiting me at the hospital saw the monitor tape and we joked about the seismic activity, and then I started laughing, hard, which caused the alarms to go off… we figure it was around a 7.4.
There will be no mention about when I went home and had a cup of tea, I didn’t need a tray. I just set it on my belly. And she decided to wake up and make my tea jump like the puddle from Jurassic Park. Or how she kicked her little heel up and I would have to slam the palm of my hand into it about three times before she moved and I could breathe easy again.
Not one word to her about how, in the middle of the night, I was praising God because I slept through my first contraction and woke up only to realize something really bad just happened. And how, when I called the hospital, the conversation went something like this:
Me: I just had a contraction.
Them: How long did it last?
Me: I don’t know.
Them: You don’t know?
Me: I slept through it.
Them: You slept through it?
Me: Yes.
Them: Did you have another one?
Me: Yes.
Them: How far apart?
Me: About six minutes.
Them: Then you’re okay. You don’t have to leave for about another hour and a half.
Me: Okay, but my water just broke.
Them: You better leave now.
This is my Daughter’s birthday. And today she is 17. I can’t believe I’ve known her almost two decades.
She’s everything to me. For the past 17+ years, my life has been full of teaching and learning and loving and shouting and fixing and hugging and cooking and crying and laughing and watching and playing and holding and letting go and…. being a mom.
I’m not always the best Mom. But I’m the best Mom for her. God gave her to me. When I didn’t deserve His blessings, when I was at a crossroads and could have walked away from Him. But I didn’t. It was, in fact, being responsible for someone else, that brought me to my senses. It was being responsible for her.
No more was this world just about poor little me. Now I had to worry about Baby.
I have always been a single mom. Her dad and I just didn’t work out. It is what it is. And there’s been plenty of heartache all around that subject. But she and I… we’re doing just fine.
It’s pretty awesome to see her learn, and grow, and mature. It’s pretty sad to think my years as her Mommy are coming to a close.
This beautiful child that I have treasured, that I would die for, that I want to share with (and protect from) the world.
She is my everything.
Happy Birthday, Hannah. I luff ewe muchly.
Stunning
Sep 16, 2011 |
by Molly Jo Realy @MollyJoRealy
My mom and I and Dot are all pretty close. Three generations of women living in close proximity (don’t forget the five female felines!). Mom lives alone, just down the street, but we’re at each other’s house often enough. We talk every day, often. Our houses even have the same floor plan, but reversed. (That explains why we zig when we think we should zag.)
It’s pretty hilarious when I call my mom and we both have the same topics in our heads. We both want to make mac-n-cheese on Saturday. We both watch the same news, listen to the same music (Charlie Rich, Jimmy Dean, and Sinatra… now that’s music!). We both order the same QVC kitchen product, at the same time. We both have the same ideas about home decor, although her theme is Country Spring and mine is Coffee House Autumn colors. Even some of our furniture is the same (she likes white, I prefer dark mocha colors). Not all of this is planned. We just like the same things. We just have the same views on life. We are distinctly different, and wonderfully in sync.
Now, I’m not saying we’re identical. She won’t go to Disneyland with us. I don’t read the papers like her. She doesn’t rock out to the Backstreet Boys and I’m not too successful at gardening. We don’t spend every single moment together. She kicks me and Dot out of her house when she’s tired, and I send her packing when it’s time to watch “Friends” with my daughter. We do separate and have our own lives. We just share them with each other. A lot.
My mom’s turned into my best friend. I wouldn’t be who I am without my Mom. She instilled my love of words. I can’t remember her not reading to us as children, or giving books as toys.
I remember once when I was about seven, she came home from the store and gave my brothers toys. Things they could play with, interact with. And I got a Golden Book, something about a puppy. I was so upset. You can’t play with a book. You can’t make it climb things like a stuffed animal. You can’t build with it like Legos. And so I cried.
Until Mom came over and opened the cover, and asked me to read the first page. Aloud. Without realizing it, I had been swept into a world of saving the puppy, or the puppy saving something else, I forget. What I do remember is the feeling of freedom. While my brothers were confined to the physical attributes of their toys, I had the whole world in my hand. I had an adorably soft little critter who looked at me with his tiny eyes. I had the power to help him on his page-turning journey. I had imagination. I went to sleep that night holding my book. I dreamt of the puppy and our adventures together. The next day, I took out my stuffed animals and reenacted the story.
Indeed, my Mom gave me much more than words on paper that day. She gave me life.
There is no greater thrill I have then my mom’s daily phone calls after she’s read my blog or whatever other writings I’ve sent her way, and to hear her say, “You did good today.” It’s those little backpats that make it worthwhile. Because while I write because I can’t not write; and I write because I was born to write; it’s not her approval I’m after. It’s because I love her and the way she raised me that I write, and try to write well. I’m proud of my mom. I love my mom.
And this is my way of returning the world to her. This is my way of saying, “Yes, I can be the person you raised me to be.” This is my way of letting her know she did good, too.
Thanks, Mom. I heart you.
