Do you know what time it is?
It's voting time!
Without further ado...
Entry #1
Motherhood is somewhat strange, with a living being having arranged matter in such a way as to create another living being. In some species, the mother’s life is sacrificed, in others, the offspring are likely to be sacrificed for their mothers’ continued survival.
Motherhood is somewhat romanticized, with compassionate humans sometimes feeling the heavy weight of guilt at the burdens they placed on their own mothers, and soothing themselves with comfortable fabrications about the nature of motherhood.
Entry #2
The much needed cry for a break from the backyard battle my younger sister and I were having over which of our homemade forts could best withstand being pelted with rocks called for truce as we dashed to the house for much needed sustenance. Covered from head to toe in dirt and twigs…and more than a few creepy crawlies…after hours outside, we brushed ourselves off as best as possible while clumsily dashing to the house. “So who’s winning?” she asked us once we rounded the corner into the kitchen and parked at our plates to devour sandwiches and chips. “Not sure, lots to do still,” replied my sister in between bites. “Take your time,” mom said, “winning isn’t about speed, it’s patience and skill and luck and a bunch of other random stuff all mixed together...and even then, a win isn’t promised. You never know how things will turn out until they do, so just keep at it.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------- My mom’s birthday is a few days after Thanksgiving, and although it’s been about 35 years since that lunchtime and countless others like it, I’ve never forgotten her simple yet true words about winning: they have served as a personal mantra throughout both the good and the bad times in my life ever since. Through my awkward teen years and crazy twenties (followed by melodramatic thirties), there’s not a single decade I can think of during which her words to us that day at lunch didn’t proven to be, at times, the soul source of sanity in the midst of indescribable craziness. While the passing years seem to fly by more and more quickly, and my time with her draws inevitably nearer to a close, I take comfort in reflecting upon the amazing honesty and support that she provided to her children throughout their lives and wish that everyone could have had such an experience. Thanks, mom, there’s no one like you!
Entry #3
She didn’t give birth to me or my brother. I have known this as long as I’ve known her. I’m not really a child anymore and things are different now. I send her flowers on Mother’s Day. I call her on her birthday. I send her a Christmas card. Hell, I just had her over two weeks ago. I cooked for her, I laughed with her, I played board games with her, I was frustrated by her and I was relieved by her.
But my mom… she isn’t my mom, not to me anymore. I know that is probably terrible.
My mom gave up her money, time and sanity for me. She did all this for my brother and her own birth children. I remember this innocuous photograph of a baby boy that hanged on the wall. I didn’t know forever this was a photograph of who I replaced. I remember my mom didn’t like me much when I was growing. She didn’t like that I had no impulse control. She didn’t like that I was different, confusing and broken. She didn’t like that I didn’t smile, that I didn’t talk and that I wasn’t her child.
I love my mom. I love the idea of loving her. But I don’t think she sees me. I know she tries. She tries so hard with her mothering. And I know, we all say we’ll never be like our mom, we’ll do better. I already feel a million years ahead of her mentally and emotionally, and I am a parent to no one.
Maybe one day she will see me. She says she wants my happiness, but I do not think she knows what that means and what that takes. When I realized I had no mother, I didn’t cry. There was no funeral. There were no condolences. There were no flowers. There was no procession or rites.
My mom is a special person, in a special way, but not to me and for that I am deeply sorry. But I will wait. I will wait for her to open her eyes to who I am.
Maybe one day, she will be my mother.
Entry #4
“Hi, mom.” “Bobby! Sit down, sit down. Would you like something to drink?” “It’s me, mom. Jim. Your son.” “Well I know that. You think I don’t recognize my own boy?” “No I’m sure you-” “You think I’m stupid! That’s why you stuck me in this prison, isn’t it!” “Mom would you please relax-” “My own son thinks I’m stupid! What did I ever do-” “If you’re so fucking smart then why did you call me Bobby?” She looked like she had been slapped in the face. Her eyes widened, as if in disbelief that someone could speak to her like that. She reached for the top of her dresser, using it to ease herself down into her oversized recliner. “Oh come on mom, you know I didn’t mean it.” She looked up at me with her old, withered eyes; tears dripping slowly down her face like hot wax from a candle. I hated when she did this. This old bat was as mean as they come, but the second she took a fraction of the abuse she dealt out, she became a whimpering invalid. And her eyes. I could not escape her gaze- it threatened to swallow me alive into her pathetic helplessness, as she sank further into her chair. “Mom, I’m sorry.” She reminded me of an untrained puppy who has tracked mud into the house. One moment feisty and insolent, the next, cowering in a corner as you reprimanded it. “I love you mom.” “No you don’t. You’re just saying that because you feel sorry for me.” Was I? Sometimes I couldn’t tell. I thought I loved her. I mean, I had to, right? She’s my mother. You always love your mother. “See? You hate me. Your own mother. What did I ever do to deserve this?” Did she want me to start listing all the things she had done to my brother and I? How she would get drunk and hit us when we were kids? How she slept around and drove our father to an early grave? I’d even let her live with me when she had become too frail to live by herself. I’d hoped she would have shown some appreciation, but that was clearly a fantasy. She never helped out; never had a nice word to say to my wife and kids. My brother refused to have anything to do with her, and I couldn’t blame him. But I still loved her, didn’t I? You always love your mother, right? “I don’t hate you, mom. Of course I love you. Come here, let me help you up.” “Be gentle! I’m an old lady, you brute.” She was back. Even if she was a bitch, I always felt relieved when she snapped out of the sadness, and could remember who I was. I helped her out of her chair, and gave her a hug. “I really do love you, mom.” “And why wouldn’t you?” I laughed. Once in awhile it would be nice to hear, “I love you too,” but anything beats her sitting in her chair, sinking into oblivion. “What do you want to do mom? Want to go for a walk? It’s very pretty out.” She smiled, looking up into my eyes with the love I always longed to see. “Sure, Bobby. That sounds nice.”
