Former daughter

I count the days since my last drink like I'm a recovering alcoholic.  One, two, three, seven...  Not because I am an alcoholic; truthfully, I occasionally have a glass after the girls finally close their doors at night, but never more than one unless they're out of the house.  

I subtly tell everyone I meet that I've never done a single drug or smoked a cigarette.  No, not even weed, not even held it in my mouth...  Not because I know drug addicts anymore; thankfully, the last one has been gone for awhile now, and I know there won't be a next.

I do it because of you.  

I've asked a lot of women whom I respect as mothers and almost all of them agree that they too have a glass or two to wind down after a long day of mothering.  Nothing wrong with that, we all say to each other.  Kids are hard.  Nonstop adulthood is hard.  Relentless responsibilities are hard.  It's ok to ease into a break once in awhile.  

It's when the easing bottoms out into cliff diving.

I've thought of you quite a bit these last few weeks.  It all started on my lonely Mother's Day.  I knew that you too were in a quiet room.  A place of your own making, so there was no pity.  Still, you may have known what day it was.  You may have thought of me.  You may have remembered.

You and I were not exactly a team, as I consider my girls and I to be.  More of an unlikely pair, we made do with each other.  And, not all days were bad.  When you did show up, I learned to relish the peaks of sunlight.  Both flawed and scarred, we managed our own paths.  I don't believe you tried to drown me when you lost your footing on that cliff.  I believe you loved me with what you had.

We don't talk anymore, mom.  But you built me.  From the bricks and mortar of trials and more errors than there are numbers for,  you prepared me for everything I've found along this path.  And, in a lot of ways, you made me the mother I am for the grandchildren you don't know.  While I don't look back fondly, I do look back sometimes and see you in a different light.  

I hope you let the sun warm your face sometimes.  In case you don't, the girls and I walked on this beautiful morning and I felt the warmth for us both.

Keep it to yourself.

Hey, you know that guy?  That one guy you used to love but now can't stand?  Yeah...that one guy who makes your blood boil just by drawing breath?  Or that one chick?  That woman you used to care about and who used to put up with all of your bs?  Yeah, you know the one you have absolutely nothing nice to say about.   You know how much you love to rip them apart to everyone?  How funny it is to recount all of the stupid, ugly, nasty, and often times made up things they've ever done?  How you entertain people with tales, both real and fantasy, about that person every chance you get.

You know who doesn't want to hear those stories?

Their children.

Their kids don't want to hear you go on a rant about every horrible thing that man did.  They don't want to hear all the reasons it's better that he's gone.

Those kids don't need to hear what you imagine their mother is doing.  In fact, it actually pisses them off.

Because that woman you imagine is suddenly a drunk whore is actually their mama.  The woman they look to and trust and adore like no other.

That man you have forgotten every redeeming quality in is actually their father.  The man that represents their only example of how a grown man should be.

Nothing you say is going to change how they feel about the other person, but it sure is changing the way they see you.  They see you as the attacker and it only brings them closer to the parent you're trying to alienate.  They see you as an enemy to their family, even when you're on the inside.  And, they see you as someone who will hurt them in order to make yourself feel better.

So, while I do regale friends with stories of the man I chose to have children with, the only thing my girls hear from me is "he loves you." Because while, let's face it, he and I will never be friends - he will always be their father.  And, that relationship is not one I want to damage.

And, they're not stupid.  Kids get it.  They know who loves them.  They know who is present and involved and actively parenting them.  They know who sleeps across the hall every night, who can recite every friend they've ever had, and who has stood in the rain for them.  No made up stories or outright lies can change who they know their parent to be.  And no sane person would want to try.

So, keep it to yourself.  The fiction you write, the horrors you remember, the darkness you should've left behind.  They don't want to hear it.

And really, they know who you are.  They know who he is.  They know who she is.  And they love you both anyway.

Appreciate it

Don't take it for granted.  

The teacher who quietly loves your kid so much that, on her last day of elementary school, she sobs all the way to the car.

The women who volunteer to give your kids a safe ride home when you can't be there and who send pictures of special moments you would have otherwise missed.

The men who cheer your kids on from the sideline as loudly as they do their own.

The friends who kindly smack your head when you have nothing nice to say about yourself.

The strangers who don't ask questions when your tears spill from behind the sunglasses.

The djs who play just the right songs to make your car bounce with giggles and the greatest dancing this side of the double yellow lines.

The boy who asks your shy girl to be his girlfriend...and the daughter who politely responds... "Eww...gross, no!"

The sunshine on a beautiful afternoon spent with the three most important people in the world.

The chocolate smiles of full bellies.

A stolen few minutes in an otherwise full day. 

The extra hugs they come running back for.

Picking your children up on their last day of school and being the first to see the relieved smiles of newly minted 2nd, 5th, and 8th grade students.

Appreciate every moment on days like this.  

These are the ones we can't take for granted.

Mother's Day

It's quiet around my house today.  Typical for every other Sunday morning lately, but a little extra so this time.  Today is Mother's Day.  So, beyond the frequent knocking of my phone alerting me to a new message from another thoughtful friend, my home sounds a little more empty today.

I found these when I got home from work Friday, but saved them for this morning before I could bear to peek.  The girls make me something just about every day at school, but I wait all year for the 2nd Sunday in May gift.  Eva's is a book of 3 coupons entitling me to things I would never actually cash in.  Maya's is a handprint and "All about" mama book complete with a drawing where I never looked better.  I'm not sure who the flower is from, as I haven't been able to get them on the phone yet, but I've already kept it alive longer than most.  I'm looking at the long empty day ahead of me as a gift too: I won't be breaking up fights or bracing my ears for whining.  

So, happy Mother's Day.

To the woman who gave birth me.  Though she is no longer available to me, she's the only person I ever called mom.

To the woman who did the lion's share of raising me.  Though she's been gone for almost fourteen years, my grandma is always the one my mind races to on this day.

To the women I know who are doing it right.  Though many of you are fighting the battles alone, you are always showing mamas like me the right way.

To the woman in the mirror.  Though you yell too much, cry too much, and often avoid too much.  

I can't wait for the 6pm hugs and sticky kisses...followed by the 6:10 whines and fights.

Dear Maya,

I should've named you cinnamon.  For the subtle tang you bring to every situation.

Feather.  For the soft, wispy way your eyelashes brush my arm when you're snuggled in close on movie night.

Rooster.  For the early mornings you refuse to let pass silently.

Ocean.  For the dark pools of your eyes that see for miles.

Fire.  For the way you engulf a room with your incomparable vigor.

Anchor.  For your singular way of tying me to the world you completed....and also for the weight you add to my lap when I have a million things to do but your hair in my face keeps me still.

Sigh.  For the only response I can muster to some of your more...colorful...shenanigans.

Finale.  For the fact that nothing is really finished until you've applied the bow.

Proud.  For the wrecking ball of esteem you carry over your shoulder.

Love.  For the heart you have and the warmth you emanate.

But, no, I named you Maya.  For the inspiration, strength, and possibilities the name signifies for me.

I couldn't have known seven years ago just how many ways you would define all that is sweet and genuine and ornery in our family.  My Maya, you could have been named so many things - but the title of daughter remains my favorite.

Happy birthday baby girl,

Always,

Mama