My Love, My Mother
I grew up cold and blamed it on the shadow of my older sisters. Not because I am the youngest or smallest in the family, but because I felt a sense of not belonging. I wondered if I were an alien creature being studied on a planet of people who only resembled me in appearance, but the similarities ended there. My mother seemed to favor my sisters, with their baby pictures hung large on the wall of her bedroom where mine was forgotten on some far forgotten to-do list. I remember such feral anxiety at the thought of losing my mother still. I grew older and bitter, but still held that deep seeded need for security, attention, and affection. Even if I did not get exactly what I craved, I knew I should never wander far from my mother. She may not be the warm embrace of a homemade chocolate chip cookie, but she will always tide me over. I met a man and took a leap of faith on him and a thing called love, which helped me draw boundaries and take a step away from my family of origin. There was so much to learn about life and my sense of self. I value different things and support different politics. And then the day came that I dreamed of my entire life. 8.5 pounds of nothin' brought my life to a screeching halt. I have birth to human perfection. His hair was thick and dark and his skin a rich olive red. "Whose baby is this?" I wondered. I expected a pale bald or blonde baby that me resembled myself. I couldn't have been more prepared for motherhood and yet I was not prepared at all. The love, the ecstacy of the new baby smell, and the sheer terror at realizing I am responsible for this life and its every need. My child IS my love. I need to feed him when he cues, but first to learn his cues constantly varying. The long nights, the cry-inducing panic, and the distrust of my mother-in-law that made me reject assistance. Being a mother is horrific in the greatest way. It is living with the best peace of your soul split from your human form. Suddenly, I get it. I don't love it, but I get it. My mom was all but abandoned by my father for most of my childhood. She wasn't purposefully neglectful, she was spread thin. My older sisters were provided opportunities that I was not because there were not enough resources to go around. Instead of evenly distributing what my mom could, she tried to do it all, and all for my sisters prevented any for me. It wasn't intentional, and I never complained. I was so resigned to being hated and unwanted that I never dared to ask why I was being left out, why I was not loveable, why I didn't matter. I didn't know I could speak my truth until I met my husband, who said things out loud that shouldn't have been spoken at all. I grew into myself more away from my mother. I lost some love only to find it in my own son. My relationship with mom isn't as close as my sisters' seems to be, but my appreciation for all that she could spare has been tremendous. Pieces of me that shattered under the pressure of being less than have found their way to building something new. I am reborn after having given birth. My child will know he is wanted and loved in the ways I still yearn to feel. I will take charge of my relationships and my life as a whole. I am a mother now, and mothers have to build their children's world from the bottom up while the weight of the world presses harder and harder. Being a mom is thankless and all-consuming, but it is the closest thing to being a God there is. Creating life is the easy part, keeping the child alive is the never- ending challenge. We're all doing the best we can, so ask your mother the hard questions, love others the way you yearn to be loved, and thank your mom for keeping you alive!
A letter to my mother
A few days remain until Mother's Day, and as I sit down to write this letter, I can't help but wonder: what significance does that day truly hold? None at all, if throughout the year one doesn't cherish their mother—this day won't change that. It's akin to cramming for an exam the day before, it might yield results, and with luck, you could even deceive the teacher, but you can never deceive yourself. As I pen this letter, I can't help but feel ridiculous, because why can't we humans express ourselves freely as we desire? Due to our own limitations, embarrassments, traumas, and inner conflicts, we resort to using cards and physical gifts as a crutch, instead of seizing the moment to openly share our feelings on any given day. But since we're already here, I'll embrace the sentiment of this card.
In my day-to-day life, I don't often express these types of things—attribute it to any excuse you'd like: being busy, lacking time, or simply not being in the right mood, but deep down, none of these reasons suffice. The truth is, we find it difficult to express love, yet find unwavering strength in voicing our opinions when angry or upset, in fear of being trampled upon. But expressing love terrifies us. We are afraid of not being loved, afraid of not having a mother who cares for us, and when we have one, we’re afraid of losing her.
Because let's admit it, we all love our mothers—not solely for the immense sacrifices they've made in raising us amidst adversity. That's not what matters, as every mother faces her unique challenges and deserves our love, regardless of her journey. So, I won't tell you, Mom, that I love you because you've given everything for me, because yes, of course you have, but that's not the reason. It's not for what we've been through together or the things you've done—it's for who you are, because you're my mother. And I didn't have to attend any school to learn how to love you.
Lifelong lessons hold no sway when it comes to loving and caring for you, Mom. A mother's love for her child remains steadfast, even if they've gone astray or fallen into the darkest of paths. Because everything learned and all the morality one believes they possess would vanish in an instant, without a second thought, if their mother is in danger. It doesn't matter what must be done or how many heads must be trampled, no matter how terrible we know it might be, and certainly, if it were for ourselves, we wouldn't do it—but for our mother, who gave us life, yes, without a doubt.
And again, no, I'm not grateful for being alive, I don't owe you my life because I didn't ask to be here, you chose to bring me into this world. This letter isn't about gratitude, it's about justice, it's about truth. At this point in the letter, I feel power and bravery, but it soon turns to tears and emotion—damn it, I didn't want to cry. Anyway, let's leave it here, because watching a child cry isn't the best gift a mother could receive, though I know that when you read this, you'll cry too.
The example you've set for me has taught me that I didn't need it at all. I didn't need a role model to follow to become as great a mother as you, I only needed your love, and that is more than enough.
If there's something I don't understand or don't agree with, I'll tell you. If there are things you do that I believe aren't correct or aren't good for you, I'll tell you without hesitation, only to try and help you. So, isn't this the most unconditional love of all, not needing to cite anything specific to justify that I'll always be by your side?
Mom, Do You Remember…
Dear Mom,
Do you remember the Mother’s Day cards I gave you when I was little? I hope not. Because when Dad was grocery shopping, he bought them from a discount rack, and gave them to me and my brothers to give to you. And I don’t know where he got those vats of cheap perfume that he gave you. But you always thanked us.
That reminds me. Do you remember that you always made me thank an aunt for sending a gift? You would call one of your sisters on our rotary dial phone and say that I wanted to tell her something. I would take the receiver and cram all my words together – “Thanks for the present. Here’s Mom.” – and give the phone back to you. My brothers did the same thing. But you never stopped making us say thanks.
Do you remember picking up the phone and dialing a number when my brothers and I were bad? You said into the receiver, “Hello, Bad Boys Home, I have a pickup.”
Do you remember pounding meat on the kitchen counter to stretch the slab into meals for ten? Do you remember giving us haircuts in the kitchen to save money? Do you remember playing piano in the living room and calling out chords so we could strum along on guitar? Do you remember holding grandchildren?
Sorry for asking all these questions, but when last I saw you in the memory wing of the assisted living home, sometimes you did not remember your sons’ names. I just wonder if you got your memory back after you passed away.
That’s okay if you do not recall all these events. My brothers and I are keeping your memories for you.
Love,
Sandlot
Drowning in the Wake of Bad Decisions
The most powerful entity on Earth and perhaps the known universe is the mother. Before I begin, let me give a shout out to mothers of all the other forms of life on the planet be they mammalian, reptilian, fish, or lower primate because they too are the moving, and evolving genesis of their species. However, for the sake of time, I will focus on the most advanced, dynamic, intelligent, compassionate, loving. and dangerous (when their offspring is threatened) of mothers residing here on Earth, the human mother.
Like their fellow lifeforms, human mothers are the authors of humanity, selflessly allowing the parasites growing within them to take everything needed to grow and develop to maturity. All of this happens while nurturing a love and bond that is beyond the scope of words with and for the little life growing within them. This parasitic relationship continues beyond the womb as the infant human is totally reliant on its mother for survival. Now, let it be known that a woman's life giving power isn't without burden and the responsibility of bringing new humans into the world is best described by that great student of human nature, the inspiration for the invention of spandex costumes, and the creator of the Marvel Universe, Stan Lee, "With great power comes great responsibility." Most of the time, mothers bear this responsibility with a wisdom and strength that is notably absent in their phallically equiped counterparts. However, this isn't always the case. Not every woman who possesses the power to bring human life into the world should nor should every woman want to have children. While most women are biologically capable of bringing life into the world, not all are suited to supporting and nurturing that life once it is born. This is in no way a fault as human beings are infinitely complex, adaptable, and as a result. sometimes have different roles to play as part of humanity. Because of the adaptable nature of humanity some women choose a different path in the world, a path that is equally important to the continuance of the species. This doesn't mean that the woman who chooses to be childless or feels that they are incompatable with motherhood doesn't love children or would do them harm. It simply means that whatever role they may play in humanity makes child rearing difficult, or sometimes undesirable.
Sadly, patriachal society has made becoming a mother an essential part of completing the, "Being a Successful Woman Check List." This is cruel, discriminatory, and given the current population of the world, totally antiquated and redundant. What's worse, many women who're pressured into motherhood might lack the unique set of qualities that it takes to be a good mother. This doesn't mean that they don't love their childen. It means that they were better suited to being childless. My mother is just such a woman.
My mom began life beset by mental health issues. She was given to depression, anxiety, agorophobia and coupled with the trauma of losing her dad to suicide by the age of 4 and being sexually assaulted by a family member as a 10 year old girl, she struggled to care for herself. By the time she was in highschool she was self-medicating with, nicotine, marijuana, alcohol, and amphetamines. At that point, my mom was against ever becoming a mother, but her wounds would make this VERY wise choice difficult to stay committed to.
Sadly, my mom's total lack of self-worth and feelings of abandonment stemming from the trauma she experienced as a child made her turn to anyone for affection, and men were happy to oblige her for a price. My father was just such a man and within a couple months of knowing the fresh out of bootcamp sailor my mom was pregnant with me. My dad would've been happy to board the USS Enterprise (CVN 65) as it headed for Vietnam in the waning hours of the war, leaving a bastard behind, but due to an Irish Catholic push from my dad's grandmother, my parents were married by the time I was born.
Motherhood didn't due my mom any favors two years and one positive test for a STI later, she and my dad were divorced. If EVER there was a marriage due to fail it was my parent's extended for waaaaaay too long one night stand. Unfortunately, my dad (a major asshole then and now) would be the last guy she attached herself to who worked, didn't have a criminal record, or thought that beating women was an acceptable passtime for the next decade. So, I was now being raised by a mentally ill mother who was even more deflated after being cheated on by her first husband. As can be expected given my mom's horrible character judgement my seaborne deadbeat dad would (and I'm shocked to think to this day) be the best of her penile possessing prospects. This would lead to a string of abusive relationships and two more ill conceived children.
I was almost out of highschool when my mom FINALLY admitted that she should never have had children, hadn't wanted children, and had dreamed of being the favorite aunt to her nieces and nephews. Instead, she had dragged me and my siblings through a series of violent, unhealthy relationships inflicting trauma to us along the way. Oh, she loves us, of that I have no doubt, but she wasn't capable of caring for herself let alone three little humans. The extended consequences of her actions would be experienced by her three children more than her.
Somehow, I was the lucky one. I was diagnosed with cerebral palsy by the time I was three years old. I only heard the theory regarding the cause after I became an adult. The theory was that I stroked out in utero due to exposure to moderate amounts of amphetamines, alcohol, nicotine, and psychadelics before my mom would realize she was pregnant. As an adult, I would spend some time in a mental health facility for my own depression, anxiety, and domestic violence related PTSD. Eventually I would marry WAAAAAAAY out of my league and have kiddos of my own. So, being a dad, I went back to school and became a, "Normy Drug and Alcohol Counselor," meaning a substance abuse counselor who's never been an addict. I guess I realized after my failed attempts to help my family that I wanted to help someone. My education continued until I became the first person on the maternal side of my family to earn a college degree.
My sister would be sexually assaulted before she was 14 years old and was an addicted mother of three herself by the time she was twenty. Each child was born exposed to methamphetamine, her first was born very premature at one pound thirteen ounces. The other two struggled with learning difficulties and all three suffer from various forms of mental illness. The doctor delivering her last child, fearing that she would continue having drug exposed children actually obtained early approval from Medi-Cal to offer and perform a tubligation on my sister, something that wasn't usually approved by Medi-Cal until the mother was twenty-five years old.
My brother also became addicted to methamphetamine and became quite adept at stealing cars. He's been homeless off and on his whole adult life, struggling to hold down jobs while dealing with organic mental health issues and not so organic meth induced psychosis which I believe has become permanent.
So, mothers are the most powerful entities on the planet, always have been, always will be. However, all women are powerful and becoming a mother isn't a gauge of success as a human. Women are the pinacle of human evolution, motherhood is just one thing women excel at. If you're a lady who doesn't feel like you have the mommy gene, don't sweat it. I can honestly say that for me, my siblings, my nieces and nephew's and most of all, for mom's sake, I wish she'd been able to stick with her notion that she wasn't mommy material. Fuck, considering staying with my dad, a one night stand that went waay beyond what should've been a walk of shame the next day with no further contact, and putting me up for adoption or even having an abortion my mom could've prevented a long string of tragedies. I guess the wake that forms from bad decisions sometimes drown more that just the decision maker.
Seasons of Motherhood
I can't title this as a letter, as a "Dear ____", as a painful series of sentences designed to make me reflect and feel pain. My children are cells that have not yet divided into fetuses, into little versions of myself, into generational trauma and sticky fingers that reach for an absentee mother.
I suppose this not-letter has to be abstract, because that's what my children are to me, what my relationships with my mother is - a once and future cloud that erupts into thunder when I'm asked, "Do you want children?"
There is nothing quite like dreams to keep me going, nothing quite like hope to inspire a future with a son or daughter.
Life is hard. It's a series of rejections, sickness, and bills to pay. It is a series of rock-bottoms, or maybe that's just what I've experienced.
Can I let my failures as a human being already cloud my perception of motherhood? Will my children suffer for having me as a mother, for watching me reach for something other than their love when I'm down and out, aching for a substance to heal me when family is right in front of me?
I would want more for my children. I want them to be happy, to experience life to the fullest. To hit rock bottom, and instead of bottoming out, to see it like the seasons. A spring of blossoms, rain that creates new life but does not wash away our lessons learned. A summer that does not scorch old terrain and make us want to obliterate pain, but makes generational trauma come out behind shadows; the sepia light reflecting off only what is there to be physically seen, and not just psychically felt.
I want more. I know there is life beyond pain, and I would want that for anyone, whether or not they share my DNA.
I am going to end this not-letter by saying that I am in love with life, but not in the same way a mother loves her child - in a fragmented way, in an autumn of sorrow, in a winter that lightly coats everything in snow and melts away to uncover the peace I so desperately crave for myself.
Dear Mom,
Do you remember the nights we would spend, sitting in the living room, hallmark movies on TV, talking about life and everything in between? I miss the ability to be that carefree. Do you remember laughing at the things my sisters and I did as children? You would brush off your giggles, saying that I’d understand when I was older, when I had my own children.
But I’m older now, and I don‘t think I’ll ever understand.
Are you disappointed in me?
I never wanted to be a mother. But now I’m stuck on the other side of the gap, and I don’t know how to talk to you anymore. My life is so much different than yours was.
Am I living up to your expectation?
You say you are proud of me, and I know you are, but I can’t help but wonder if you wish for more.
As a child, you were my sun. My thoughts and plans and ideas all revolved around your opinion, your approval. I think part of me is still stuck in that orbit. You were my hero, my super-mom, and I am just here- following in none of your footsteps. What am I supposed to do?
I love you.
...One More Dog
I'm thinking about having a dog.
I can think of lots of good reasons, worthy.
I'm thinking maybe a Whippet or a Frenchie, or a favorable mix, because that would match the family lifestyle. It would be good to care for a dog, young or old.
Having my eye on this, someday, I noticed a bulldog-pooch pic lockscreen on my co-workers phone the other day. I don't remember her name. We run into each other like once a year. It's a big company. I was displaced momentarily on call at one of our sprawling locations.
"Is that your dog?" I ventured, stricken. It could after all have only been some cute wallpaper stock.
"Yeaah, that's our Lavendar," she beamed behind tinted glasses, and touched me. On the arm, like we were friends. A sort of pet.
I'm not against touch. There's just something about some people's touch that takes something from you. That's what I felt. I hoped it didn't show on my face.
"Is it a bulldog, Frenchie; or a Boxer... or a mix...?" I said displacing my disturbance with sincere interest, small talk. I had only seen the picture for a couple seconds.
"Both! how did you know?! but she's on the small side. Takes after the French Bulldog more, right?"
"Oh, I love Frenchies," I added remembering a delightful monograph I'd read in which the writer/enthusiast said Frenchies are like potato chips... you can't have just one... and that is saying a lot...
She interrupted my thinking: "But I told my family No More. No more babies, no more puppies. No more rescues. No more. And I can't deal with either end," she said sweeping the bangs off her brow, and holding her temple like staving off a migraine.
My visuals all over the place, but I tried to keep pace: "Uh, huh."
She touched me again.
"I just can't deal with the potty training, or the incontinence. I can't. I'm DONE."
I nodded, sympathizing, for her as much as for her charges.
She looked about 65, though, it's not age that matters. She faded good humoredly.
"You're right," I thought to myself: "Best save your strength-- for when you need it."
My Mother
You know when you're growing up and you think your parents are superheroes because they can literally do anything. You look up to them and want to be just like them when you grow up. That's how I saw my mother, she was amazing. She took care of seven kids (along with my dad), she cooked and cleaned and worked and even volunteered. She made everything look effortless. It wasn't till I got older that I realized that she had her own struggles and secrets. She had not technically lied to us but she wasnt really honest either. I guess that's what a parents job is, to keep the bad away from their children, to never let them know pain. It didn't work, if you were curious. I wondered how she kept silent all those years, maybe the turmoil of hiding the truth is what drove her mad. She gradually fell into a state of depression, losing the light that was inside of her. How could I fix someone who didn't want to be fixed? Someone who ignored that her castle walls were crumbling down around her. Just like my mother, I ignored what was happening to her, not because I didn't care. I was young and didn't know how the world worked. Maybe I was stupid and just didn't want to face the truth that I was slowly losing her to her sickness. She did things I didn't understand, hurt herself over and over. I always wondered if she was escaping her demons or her family. Maybe both? As the years went on things got worse. My siblings and I would joke that she would go on her yearly vacations, her ’ME TIME ". In actuality she was in behavioral health facilities undergoing treatments. Again, if you're curious they never worked, not for long anyways. At the time I really didn't have faith in God, I suppose I was upset with him for everything that had happened to my family, as if he was in control of our actions. I wanted someone to blame, to hate because I couldn't do that to my mother, I still looked up to her or the her that I remembered. I didn't notice the drug use at first, unlike my siblings I was oblivious to these things. I used to say I was sheltered from the world but that's not true. My brothers and sisters knew the world so why didn't I? The truth, I was scared to live so finding out even more secrets about my mother had messed with me. I pretended that everything was okay, that we were a happy family. I imagined it, I must have because the memories I had didn't fit the memories of my siblings. My mother would have angry outbursts, wailing like a banshee. Perhaps predicting her own death or the many attempted ones. Time had passed yet again and she had gotten to the point that she needed shock therapy, she lost some of herself during that time, forgetting bits and pieces of the past and present. And again more time had passed and so had one of my brothers, her baby. She wasn't the same, masking pain with silence. After he was gone, I thought we had become close, we talked and laughed, we did things that normal mothers and daughters did but was it real? I don't remember telling my mother that I loved her, even as a child, so I started. Shy and timid, afraid that she wouldn't say it back and she didn't but that was okay because that's how our family was. We didn't say I love you or even hug, at least I think we didn't, my memories blurred. Towards the end when she got sick I begged God to save her. “Just this once please, I promise I’ll be good, I’ll do better,” I pleaded to him but nothing. She was moved to hospice, apparently she had developed a flesh eating bacteria that would affect her face. The doctor's plan was to cut half of it off, her last words to me were to not let them take her face. I cried and cried and cried, I had never been without my mother. I had become codependent on her presence alone. My father had put me in charge of her medical decisions since she had become unresponsive. I was young and naive, how was I supposed to decide my mothers fate? I sat with her, talked with her. I knew she wasn't coming back but I wasn't ready to be alone even if I still had my father and siblings. They had significant others and children, lives of their own and I somehow remained the same, stuck at home afraid of the world. I didn't want her stuck here like me so I let her go, telling her we’d be fine and I thought we would be but we weren't. We were broken and lost. I foolishly thought my family was safe and perfect but I was wrong. Even now after all these years, after the passing of my mother and father I'm still stuck and alone, afraid of the world but I still believe in her. For putting up with the pain for so many years. For surviving every attempt. For not letting the drugs be her downfall and overcoming them. For taking care of us even after hers will was dwindling.
To Whom I May Concern
I am not a mother yet, not by a long shot. I shall be an amazing aunt long before I have my own children, however in the interim as I am, I would like to dedicate this to my child.
I am your mother. I am not good, no, but you are the best parts of me- within the cracks in my foundation you have seeked to nurture. Those cracks have long been filled by the brilliance I know you shall bring this world, my son or daughter. And I thought I was above crying- I do not cry for anyone but those who eat alone and animals and even then it is jaunty.
I will make a million mistakes before you become of age, and further several million when you're able to detest me for them. But I will make this world good for you- our world. I cannot ensure the planet, nor the many people good and bad that inhabit it, but inside you will have me, and your other parent, and your loving uncles and cousins and grandma and great aunt and... god, the list is endless, isn't it? You will be born into the world with the endless amounts of support I feel myself welling in thought at.
I will anger you, hurt you, and you will likely hate me and wish you had any other mother at that time. And I understand. We come from strife, don't we darling? But I'll be around for you, when there's a nick on your finger or you simply long to come home.
I am your mother, your confidante, yours solely. You are half my heart and all of my soul.
Dixie Doodle Dum-Dum
(The title is her full name )
I'm going to explain her name first. Dixie Doodle was originally her name, modeled after Yankee Doodle. But, she is now a certified dum-dum because she runs in front of all vehicles and tries to eat the wheels! Yes I realize we spell dum-dum weird, but the lollipops is delicious!
Anyway, my family lives on a farm with 5 acres of land. When I was about 8, we went to church, and when we returned, we saw a dog just sitting on our porch. She had a rusty chain around her neck and a bunch of scratches. Apparently, one of our neighbors had chained up this poor dog and wouldn’t feed it. (They are no longer our neighbor) We took the dog in and named her Dixie. Dixie is a German Shepard and she lives up to her name! She herds our horses all the time! We still have that rusty chain hanging on our chicken coup, kind of reminding us where she came from.
A couple of years later Dixie was now 5 years old. We were sleeping and it was about 2:30 am. My brother woke up to little yips of dogs. He was really confused and woke up my parents. So… my dog had been pregnant and we didn’t even know! She had mated with our neighbor's dog (A Great Pyrenees) and had 9 gorgeous puppies. Unfortunately, one of them died because it didn’t eat. My family and I buried it with a headstone that said trianglehead. (We named them after their distinct features) We obviously couldn’t keep 8 puppies, so we raised them for 5 weeks and then kept one. We gave the rest to different families we trusted. The one we kept, her name was Pepper. We kept her for a while until she started running into the street and the sheriff kept getting called. Anyway, I love my dog so much, and I hope she lives for so long.
I don't know what it is with us and finding animals, but my mom found a newborn cat in a parking lot and rescued it, so if you want to hear that story please like and leave a comment! ❤️