Grace for Momma

October 16, 2017

When I was a little girl, I remember watching you put your makeup on in the mirror. I knew when I grew up that I wanted to be as pretty as you were. I could sit with you for hours, whether you were sunbathing, watching television, putting a jigsaw puzzle together, or dancing in front of the floor-length mirror. I was captivated by you.   I loved laying across your lap for the Sonny & Cher show, singing all the songs together. "And the beat goes on..."

I couldn't wait to wake up in the mornings to see your face.

You were different than most of the moms I knew from the neighborhood and my friends at school. But I loved you just the same. I always knew we were different, yet I couldn't put my finger on it; I just knew we weren't like most people, I could feel them looking at us differently, but I didn't know why. Later in life, I would learn that those stares and silent judgments came because unwed mothers in the 60's were very much frowned upon. If you weren't a widow, then you must be a hussy.

Your parents moved so much when raising their kids that our family was so far away that we just knew them from a distance. We didn't have a community (like church or a group we fit into). So it was just you and me. I spent many of my growing-up years alone because you always worked to take care of us. And, of course, you were lonely and wanted some life outside of work and raising a kid by yourself. So you partied hard. I'm sure to drown it all out.

Your life was hard, and you took some brutal hits. Bad marriages, relationships, always searching for something good, but I assume you never really felt worthy because you always settled for so much less. I rebelled by sneaking out in my pre-pubescent years, learning how to smoke and get buzzed on beer with a handful of rejects like myself. Eventually, I would run away, get in trouble and finally become an unwed teenage mother myself.

You were tired.   I was tired. Both of us wanted the same things; to be loved and to belong to something bigger than just ourselves. Both of us were thoroughly exhausted by life and the disappointments it brought. We fought. We fought hard. I felt misunderstood, and you felt disrespected.

Years went by, and although we communicated, there was a thick wall of separation and indifference. We just tolerated one another because we had to. We were polar opposites. I lived my life my way, and you lived your life your way. One thing we had in common: We spent so many years chasing the wind.

But when I was making a mess of young motherhood, you let go of the embarrassment and of all the things that made you so mad at me to step in and help me. When my first marriage was crumbling, and you witnessed abuse, you stepped in to help me. When my second marriage and another 15 years ended, you were right there to help me unpack and set up my new home. Whenever my life's choices brought me to a crisis mode, you were there to help me the best way you knew how. When I think about it-- that seems to be your gift, supporting in times of other's brokenness---perhaps because It is familiar.

And now, in the blink of an eye, I'm 50, and you're 71. That long blonde hair and svelte figure you once had have changed. I see the creases in your skin and the worry of life etched into your brows. The free spirit you once were who never had a care in the world and flew by the seat of your pants is now one of the most worrisome, conservative, and anxiety-ridden. I look at your eyes glassing over, and the way you hold your kleenex close tells me that your years remaining are fewer than what you've already lived, and there is a deep place of regret that resides within you. And I am here to help you.

My heart stands still. A feeling of crushing weight comes over me. My stomach is nauseous, and my mouth is dry. In a moment, I realize that the days are fewer, and there will be a day that abruptly arrives where I no longer will have a mother in this world. I can't bear it. The reality hits me like a sudden slap in the face. No matter how hard life has been, I always knew if I needed you, you were there. I was so stubborn for so long that I refused to need you because it hurt too much. I held onto bitterness and anger over my broken childhood, but I see your role in that so differently now.   I see it through the eyes of forgiveness. The eyes of love and respect for all you did despite it all.

I was consumed with disappointments that I never thought about what I was grateful for when it came to my broken childhood. I never allowed myself to feel the joy because that would invalidate the pain. So many lies I swallowed.   But the truth is, I am so very grateful, mom. I know that I am who I am today because of every path this life has taken us. I always knew you were there if even only a phone call away. We have shared a lot of laughs since I moved to be near you a few years ago. It's not been easy, but love has won.

Thank you, mom, for never checking out of your life when it got tough. I know you wanted to. For choosing to birth me rather than end me, which you could have so quickly done. For not abandoning me but instead working 2-3 jobs at a time to make sure I had everything I needed. I wanted more of you, but you were trying to provide more for me.

It's long overdue, but thank you, momma.