From the category archives:
On vacation, I catch disappointment on one’s face, melancholy on the other’s. Just Mom, this time. I can’t be the two particular people that they so desperately want to be waving to them on the bumper cars. One at a time, they seem to be figuring out. It will always be one or the other parent, never both, not really.
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I want to write something of it down for safekeeping—something I can give to you, something to help you remember your courage when it’s slipped your mind in the future. Courage has a way of slipping after a few setbacks, a few hard knocks. No one’s fault. It’s just a difficult life, sometimes. I would tell you I wish I could protect you from life’s difficulties, you and your sister both, but in truth, I would be doing you no favors. You’ve already experienced more than your share of life’s bumps and losses so far, and in spite of this (and, I think, because of it), you are becoming yourself in beautiful fashion.
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They delivered their card in bare feet.
Might be the best gift of all, and it wasn’t even for me.
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Happy early Mother’s Day to all you glorious, exhausted, delirious, weepy, giddy, genuine mamas. You’re good enough, smart enough, and gosh darn it, I like you even if your kids don’t. Beyonce may sue me, but hellz, this one’s for you, Single Mamas. New anthem at Work It, Mom!
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I smiled. I listened. I made conversation with the others. All the while, a stream of rationalizations rushed through my head: He was drunk, after all. He has problems, after all. He has a wife, after all. We have mutual friends, after all. I must be overreacting, after all. I’ll never see him again, after all.
And yet I would tell you that what I want to teach my daughters most of all is that intuition is an invaluable tool—a compass never, ever to be ignored. But how do I teach them that if I still can’t seem to do it myself?
{ 60 comments }
My dearest Hattie Belle, These are difficult times for you and me. I know it’s hard to be six. I wish you knew how hard it is to be 39, with two daughters you love more than you love yourself. But you: You tell me that you are never getting married, and that you are [...]
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Do all moms hate themselves a little bit is what she asks me. She has heard me arguing with my own mother, and I have said, Yes, I know, my life sucks, thank you (voices like bones scraping bones clean) You said a bad word about your life, is what she says. It is true, [...]
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All of a sudden, we hear an odd sound: footsteps approaching, with another sound layered over top. Brushing. Hannah. She is brushing her teeth over again. By herself. With toothpaste.
Sophie and I sit up with a gasp and watch as the shadow of her little sister brushes its shadow mouth, calmly, without tears.
“Wow!” we say.
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Our ABCs. For God’s sake, School, TAKE MY CHILDREN BACK. Can’t. Take. Much. More.
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I cannot understand this pain. I cannot step into it, I cannot begin to know it. Why Amy and her husband were chosen to know this pain, I will never understand. One year without a beloved child is just the beginning of a life without a beloved child, and they will know this every day of their lives. There will be laughter, there will be other beloved children, but there will never be another Arden.
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