Tag Archives: mothers

forthcoming

Hello,

I am on a ten-month sabbatical working on a book project. I always had a million jobs and a million babies, which have conveniently distracted me from doing that thing I always said I wanted to do–writing. I love teaching. But I teach writing, and I’ve never actually committed to doing it. In just these first three weeks, I have written and read more than I have in years. I don’t exactly know what I’m doing, but as a professor friend recently told me, “You can’t arrange the furniture when you don’t have any furniture.” My bluff has been called, and it’s a little scary. I don’t enjoy not having control over things, but I’m trying to let that go a little, and let this project emerge. Right now, it looks like a series of essays, about my mother and me, about what it means to be a mother, wife, parent, lover. I’m digging deep, y’all, and getting vulnerable, and hopefully writing something that isn’t just an exercise in narcissism. So each week, I’ve decided to publish just a paragraph of what I’m currently working on, to keep myself honest.

So here’s the first paragraph I’m posting. Thanks for reading. Thanks for sticking with me on this inconsistent blog.

From “Leaving”:

When I was four, my mother, Kathy, left my brother and sister and me out on on her front porch. Our clothes and toys were stuffed in garbage bags and slumped next to us. With the slam of a screen door, and the efficient click of a lock, we were suddenly not inside. No grown ups. A different kind of quiet. The sound of air, only, maybe bugs. This was not right. I began to cry. I jiggled the door knob. There was chipped paint, dust on the porch. A chain link fence surrounding a dried out front yard. Clusters of dead grass amid larger patches of dirt. I’ve never been the kind to quietly accept. I began to scream. Tears streamed hot down my face. I tried to look in the window, to fix this. Sally and David were there, of course, but only incidental, blurry within the fog of my rage. It’s the feeling I remember most, like an explosion inside of my skin, a feeling that has since become a close friend. Sally was a toddler, and David only a baby. I was too young to be responsible for them. I was probably scaring them. Even then, my emotions spilled everywhere, infecting everyone. Eventually, my father pulled up, tossed our garbage bags into the bed of his pick-up. This was the end of their divorce. Kathy wasn’t the kind to give up easily either, but the courts had commanded it. She was a bomb, detonated, everything in its radius collateral damage. I never saw that house again.

 

 

 

 

 

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are you my mother?

It will be Mother’s Day again soon. I am not scheduled to have the boys on that day, but Ryan is being more than accommodating. We will feel our way through this holiday like we have done with the past several, and we will be a little stiff but kind to one another. I have no biological mother to buy flowers for and celebrate. I have no stepmother. And though the paperwork is still unfiled, I now have no mother-in-law. The latter was the closest I ever had to a mother.

In P.D. Eastman’s Are You My Mother?, a confused baby bird asks one animal after the next if it is his mother.

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He naively thinks a kitten, a hen, a dog, a cow, a car, a boat, and a plane are his mother. He bumps around from one to the next, growing more and more frantic. He finally winds up on top of a seemingly dangerous, harmful-to-the-environment bulldozer-type machine. He feels panicked and trapped. He pleads for his mother. Fortunately, at the most crucial moment, he is miraculously dropped back into his nest, and they are reunited.

I was 10 when my biological mother died, but only 4 when she left me. I was raised by a stepmother who could be cruel and irrational, who hit me often. Like the baby bird, I bumped around, seeking the nurturing I lacked. I felt fortunate when I met my future mother-in-law at 15, and I eventually became part of her family when I married her son. We are both tall and brunette, with broad smiles. In public, people often mistook her for my mother, and I loved that. She told me she loved me like a daughter, and I believed her.

But circumstances change. People say parents love unconditionally, but I’m not sure I believe in that sort of love. Or maybe it’s the blood that makes the difference. I have moved from one mother to the next, but they either die, or resent, or give up on me.

I get the feeling that it would be much easier for Ryan’s parents, especially his mother, if I could somehow be erased. I understand that this is painful for them, too. Like that photo of the McFly siblings in Back to the Future, maybe they wish I could just gently fade away and disappear.

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The problem is, I am everywhere. I am in all of the family photos from the past two decades. I am at birthday parties for my nieces. Their grandchildren have my DNA. Worse, I am in their memories. I won’t fade away because I exist.

I am no baby bird. I am an adult now, and nothing will drop me into the comfort of a mother’s arms. I only wish I could kill that instinct in me that still longs for that kind of connection. Fortunately, this feeling lives in a tiny corner inside of me, and on most days I don’t notice it. I try to give my boys the unconditional love and connection no mother ever gave me. I am lucky to have plenty of people who love and support me, even if I will never have a mother. I have figured out how to fly, and most of the time I fly just fine on my own.

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write-off

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There have been a rash of burglaries on our quiet suburban street, and the neighbors are whispering suspicions in front of our kids. Who was that dark man in the white car parked outside your house the other morning? It was my brother-in-law, actually, and we were going for a nice suburban jog through these quiet suburban streets. Oh, okay, they say. We should all keep an eye out. Yes, we should. Thank you, I say.

I have a son who is an obsessive worrier. He’s also too smart to fool. The what ifs fire rapidly. What if someone breaks into our house? What if they steal our car? What if they kidnap me? What if they hurt me? What if…? It will be okay. It won’t happen. I promise you it won’t happen. Your dad and I would never let that happen. “But it’s always a possibility,” he says, effectively dismantling any assurance I could ever offer. That night, he runs screaming into our bed in the dark, early morning. I wrap my arms around him and rub his back and he settles into sleep. The next night, he does not want to go to bed, but we convince him that it will be okay. When he’s finally asleep, I sneak in and make sure the blinds are closed tight, that no lurker could see him if they tried.

All of this is to say that I am going to work and I am caring for my children, and I am not spending my days thinking mean thoughts about my stepmother or her son, my half-brother, Jaden.

My father was looking for a babysitter so he can spend a weekend with one of his lady friends. He is at my house for a visit this morning when my stepmother texts him. She doesn’t want my little brother to stay at my house. She is worried that I hate him, that I will be mean to him, that I think I am a better parent. The bar is set very low on that last one. I do not abuse my children. I do not hit my children with high heel shoes, or make them kneel on gravel, or tell them they are worthless, or force them to hug their uncle who touches them inappropriately, so, yes, at the very least, I am a little bit better. “I am concerned,” she says. She is concerned that I will damage him. Oh, the irony! I love my brother Jaden. I am only ever kind to him. He’s not even two years older than my eldest.

I interact with this woman a few times a year. I send her a text message on her birthday. I send her a card when her mother dies. It takes a tremendous effort to squeeze out these tiny kindnesses. This woman was physically and emotionally abusive to me for my entire childhood, and I have managed to say hello and even I love you and continued to call her Mom instead of Lucy at the biannual family gatherings.

For some reason, this was it. We are finished. Here is the dictionary definition of write-off: “an elimination of an item from the books of account.” Lucy, consider yourself written off.

Photo credit: http://www.carfinderservice.com/car-advice/5-steps-in-preparing-a-write-off-interest-for-taxes-on-a-car-loan

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