Reminiscence...missing my Mama

I have been thinking quite a lot lately about my mom.  I suppose it makes sense given the fact that she has now been gone from us for 52 days.  She fought a long battle, nine years in fact, against one of the most prevalent diseases around...cancer.  In the beginning it never occurred to me that she would die; in my mind we would always come out on top, we would always win.  I suppose that's also why I didn't pay as close attention as I should have to the details.  Having never lost anyone this close to me, I didn't know what questions I would want the answers to after she was gone, what memories I would wish I had solidified.

But this post isn't about the sadness or the loss I am feeling. Today I am gaining perspective.  As I am in the midst of this relatively new journey into motherhood, I find that I make comparisons between my mom and me, her style as opposed to mine.  She raised us in a different time, a different place within, some might argue, a different culture.  Where I spent the bulk of my childhood in one house, Maya has already lived in three houses in her three and a half years.  While I lived in a neighborhood where we could ride bikes down the road or into town without adult supervision, my girls aren't allowed in the back yard without my being there.  A different world.  Whereas the cultural diversity of my surroundings was about as white bread as they come, my girls have friends of many colors, myriad homelands and speak numerous languages.

Despite the differences, however, I find that there is wisdom in the way my mom "mothered".  There are powerful nuggets of brilliance that I can use in my own mothering now.  See, looking back, I have no recollection if my mom wore makeup or styled her hair when I was a kid.  I have very few memories of the clothes she wore or if she was fashionable.  Sure, as an adult I can make judgments about what she looked like as an older woman, but when she was in the thick of caring for me as a kid, these things didn't matter to me.  I don't remember her ever worrying about how manicured her nails were or if her toe nails were polished.  And oddly enough, as attuned to scents as I am, I cannot for the world remember what she smelled like, unless it was just bar soap and Mama.

What I do remember is that she read bible stories with character voices that would rival any stage actor.  She sang silly songs with me that are seared into my memory so that when I hold my baby girls on my lap these same songs pour out of me word for word.  Instant recall. She must not have minded my getting dirty either, because I clearly remember making and serving mud pies from the front ditch.  She let me run outside without shoes because I remember getting stickers in the bottom of my feet on a regular basis. My mom loved flowers, plants and gardens so much that she let me pick out seeds to water in order that I could see them grow.  And she would hold me tight, snuggled up in a simple quilt watching a lightning storm cross the Wyoming sky.  She would whisper, "Isn't it beautiful?!"  

On days when I am lucky to squeeze in a shower and my hair is still wet at the end of the day because it's been up in a messy bun all day, or when I catch a glimpse of my makeup-free face, maybe I need to put aside the judgment.  When my underwear don't match my outfit because I just grabbed my clothes in my haste to snuggle with my still-warm cherub, I need to realize what is important in this moment. And when I am sad that I can't afford that new cute pair of jeans because we have chosen for me to stay at home with the girls instead of my working full-time, maybe, just maybe I should be grateful that I am the one Maya comes to for "mama magic" to soothe her ouchies.  And I am the one that Kyra's eyes light up for when I enter the room.  

I sure do miss you, Mama.  I miss sharing the details of my life with you, the simple things that no one else really cares about.  I miss your easy laughter and your straightforward manner.  I miss the expectation of kindness and the air of unconditional love you carried.  But I will share these things with my girls as I learn to mother them.  And I will gather them up onto my lap during a lightning storm as it crosses this Pennsylvania sky and whisper, "Isn't it beautiful?!"

 

A Change of Heart

It's been six months since I discovered that I am pregnant...a seemingly impossible notion at the time. I had only been in a committed relationship with Kenyon for seven months at the time and was thoroughly wrapped up in the whirlwind of fun that a new man brings. We were dating, just enjoying each other and loving the freedom of feeling young and new. I knew this was an amazing man and loved loving him...with really very few thoughts of where it might lead.

Reading the pregnancy test, I was convinced that I had somehow taken it wrong; there must be some mistake. "I can't get pregnant; it's impossible!" I took a second one to be sure and, there right in my hand, those two pink lines screamed out the truth. I was pregnant. It's such an odd thing to be a 38 year-old woman and to "accidentally" become pregnant. It's the sort of thing that younger people do, that my students do. I've always been such the planner, the responsible sort that would never face this type of situation. Yet here I was, feeling a little sheepish at the thought of my own reality.

And I cried...for a while. This was not my plan; this was not what I had in mind at this point in my life. I wasn't entirely sure what my plan was, but it didn't include this.

Fast-forward to this sunny March afternoon while I am sitting here waiting for one of my more diligent students to finish a project for my reading class. Ordinarily I would be thinking about her literacy and how to improve her comprehension. Instead, I am sitting here while my own little girl is playing hopscotch on my bladder, watching from the outside as she deforms, reforms my stomach with her own stretching. And I am so in love with this little creature within me that I can hardly contain my bursting heart. I simply cannot wait to hold her in my arms, to look into her face and watch her own expressions change as she thinks her most incredible thoughts. I want to feel her little hand wrap around my finger as I've seen other babies do and know that there is something connecting us for a lifetime.

I no longer worry so much about the expectations of others; I don't really care if people think it's odd that I "accidentally" got pregnant. And someday when Maya is counting out months between my wedding to her daddy and her birth, I don't really think I'll care much that she knows it wasn't the plan. See, plans are overrated. I never would have been able to feel this phenomenal tug from within me toward this incredible little girl. I would never have felt the blessing of being her mom...because I would have planned her away. What would I have missed?

There are so many women who complain about swollen ankles, sore backs, lack of sleep and interesting changes to their otherwise normal bodies. And, yes, these things have happened to me too. But when I think about the relatively short while that Maya shares my body compared to the lifetime of sharing our lives, this is pretty minor. I'm enjoying our journey together, liking the idea that we are really never alone. I talk to her and tell her how beautiful she is, how much her daddy loves her and how much fun we are going to have in our lives together once she decides to join us out here.

Until then, I'll keep watching her from the outside, preparing our home for her arrival. I'll keep wondering what color her eyes will be and if she will have dimples; I'll crave the sound of her laughter and look for books for us to read together. She is my serendipity, my joy and my God-sent gift.

A long week...

So here I am, sitting once again in this chair I love, wondering at the time that has escaped me this week. At the beginning, I remembered my Dad's birthday and knew I needed to send something. Yet here it is, Friday already, and I never got anything in the mail. Yikes! I hate that I feel like that interminably on-the-run hamster in the cage on the wheel. I wonder what, if anything, I got accomplished this week and think that it's just lucky that I made it to the end. I'm exhausted!

Nonetheless, I want to celebrate my Dad today. I can't believe he's already sixty-nine and marvel at how the perception of age changes as I age myself. He is going to be young in my daughter-brain forever, I think. I love him more than I can ever say out loud. I'm lucky to have him and to have been raised with his sensibilities. I love the way that he gives to people, the way he looks for avenues to serve those around him. I don't want to analyze his motives, I just love that he does it. He's human, but he loves me. He always has made me feel as if I was the world to him, like he wanted to know what I thought about things. By his very presence and attentiveness, he made me believe that my words were important, that I had something valuable to say.

I honor him this day and many other days to come. Happy birthday, Daddy!

Papasan Chair

I am thoroughly loving my new papasan chair. It's one of those things I wanted for a long time, perhaps should have gotten somewhere in college as it sort of resembles a bean bag chair and probably doesn't fit the aesthetic environment of a grown-up. Nonetheless, I bought it and I love it!

Sitting here in my office looking out at what has to be a generous love gift from God, I am reminded that the tears from last night are not any less significant, just a little more removed this afternoon. Kerry and I were reflecting on our relationship wondering just what we are doing and where we need to go from here. We need an emotional break, I think, and he agrees. I am not entirely sure what that means, practically. I am liking the freedom that comes with no labels, though. We jumped so quickly into being quasi-engaged that we didn't have the chance to simply be. So we are now.

Anyway, I digress. The peaks of our mountains are shrouded this afternoon in a cotton candy clump of clouds. It's as if we all are in a funk and the mountains are sympathetically in agreement. I like that. The worst thing is when the weather outside mocks the inner turmoil by being all sunny when you just want to curl up in your bed for another couple of hours. Adds insult to injury, as they say. I like the parallelism this cloudy day offers my bruised heart.

There is so much to do and so little motivation to get anything done. I just want to cocoon here in my cozy papasan chair and watch the clouds. Maybe I'll make some juice or get some popcorn. Whatever it takes to make this my day...I'll do it for me.

reminiscence

I know that as human beings, we often want what we perceivably cannot have. The grass is always greener, sort of thing. And I suppose some of that is just that we want the pretty package without the underlying discomfort it may bring. Take relationships for example. You've been in a relationship with someone for a period of time, say even a few years. You have gotten beyond the initial honeymoon, gooey, "love you forever", smoochie phase and have moved beyond it to the "I don't mind if I burp in front of you" phase. You've seen each other naked and not just in the candlelight. Then you glimpse the greener grass (tighter ass?) and wonder, "what if...?" It's normal, right? The wondering?

I'm not at all saying that I want something else or that what I have is dissatisfying at all. I just think that this time around I want to be sure that this is "the one". Now, I have to say that I am not a believer in soul mates or the "perfect one out there" for each of us. I think that many people in our lives are potentials and could work out if both partners want it to. I've given up on the fairy tale and sometimes want to kick Cinderella in the head. I'll admit it. Because in my experience there are no Prince Charmings who will ride in on a white steed to rescue the damsels in distress. Get up, damsels, get yourselves out of the mess and be prepared to do your own battle with your own dragons! The princes are simply those partners who are willing to stick with it past the strike of midnight, the ones who are not enchanted by the pumpkin carriage.

Where was I? Sorry, random rabbit trail there. Anyway, I guess I am wondering how to know if I am with the person who will be able to be in relationship with me long-term. Are there any guarantees? No, I guess not, I'll answer that one on my own. Perhaps it is just the day to day choosing that makes it so. Sometimes it scares me to think of jumping into marriage again and I wonder if it might be better just to remain tentatively perched...perpetually "significant" to each other. But I want the whole thing, I want the kids, the shared house, the...but when? I'm not sure. My guess is that neither is he. So that's not so bad, then is it. Same place for the now and who knows about tomorrow.

on my own

I spent most of the day today at Balboa Park in San Diego. I have to say this is one of the most beautiful spots I've seen on this vacation. The gardens and lush hills provide a backdrop for exploration that embraces me as I ride through on my bike. Traveling light, I had only an over the shoulder bag giving me limited space for purchases, something I will be grateful for when I get my credit card bill.

One woman in the United Nations Building was so open and friendly; I loved sharing a quick smile and kind word with her. The gentle greeting from her was a bright spot in my day and she probably won't even know about it.

One thing I noticed is that as a lone participant in the visit today, I had very little human interaction despite the numerous other people who were there. Even when I was walking within arms length of the others, we did not even share a hello. What does this say about our culture? I remember how the shop owners and travelers in Italy were open to visitors, almost encouraging an interaction regardless of any mutual background or heritage. There, we just wanted human contact and it arrived in the least likely of places. Sitting at a table in a local cafe, I found a quick, friendly conversation. This was not the case today. The only people I talked with were those who wanted money from me for purchases or for the Environment California group.

Wait, I have to add one other interaction. A boy at the Japanese Friendship Garden was excited about his new hat he'd gotten here in San Diego and wanted to share it with anyone who might be interested. He was developmentally delayed. What does he know that the rest of us have forgotten? His openness was refreshing somehow, a reaching out that I didn't even know I was missing.

What do I miss? Talking face to face with someone I love about nothing in particular. I am coming to the end of my vacation having spent tons of time with my family but it seems like the time was spent going and doing. I didn't have enough time just one-on-one. Some, yes, but not enough. I miss the quiet conversations. I think my favorite times were spent in my parents' hotel room talking politics or in my sister's room talking about family dynamics. I liked the times one-on-one in the car with my sister-in-law and the gentle conversations with my brother on the couch. I crave those moments. Is it that we are so busy moving that we end up avoiding the human connections and then we get so used to being disconnected that we begin to believe that is the norm?

So as I return home, what can I do to seek out the conversations I am craving? How can I find the friends who are equally interested in making the connections, long-term connections that I desire? More to ponder.

life path

Sitting here in a hotel in Berkeley, I am reminded of the place this city has in our history. How people across the decades have protested, spoken out and changed their world by their words. And I wonder, what power do my own words have here. Do I embrace the luxury of free speech this country affords me? Do I use my words to make a difference? Or perhaps I have taken this right so much for granted that I have given up my own voice in exchange for complacency.

Whatever the reality, it ends now. I hereby make a promise to myself that I will no longer give up my voice, not to a culture that does not embrace my differences, not to men who would prefer that I fit some pre-determined mold, not to a church who has not yet reached out beyond the labels that feel comfortable. My voice is my own, and, frankly, may be the only thing left to my name in the end of this game called life. My words may be my legacy, and so it begins.