Sometimes I remember that even my 7-year-old needs to be rocked like a brand new baby.
She has such a sensitive, comedic, and pleasing soul. Layla is the kind of girl that can make anyone her friend. She is inquisitive, sassy, and beautiful – and she knows it. My first child, she has known me as her mother the longest of my three, and her place in my heart is absolutely untouchable.
Tonight, I realized that her heart wants so badly to please me, and how she is seeing me is changing – as she changes. Our relationship grows and deepens as we both continue simply trying to figure out how to make this all work, me in my life, and she, in hers.
It is so easy for me to get caught up in this world, in the day-to-day mire of housewife, mother, and partner, and I forget to see the naked blessings that are so obvious before my eyes; Layla, of all my children, will be the first to remind me to be here, now, and it’s something I love about her, though at times it drives me mad. Because she forces me, with words or sometimes merely a frustrated glance, to see that I owe them more than the very least I can give.
That getting down on the floor to color matters. That sometimes, who gives a shit about the dirty dishes and instead, let’s have a dance party. She reminds me that we need more milk because Jemma said three hours later that she couldn’t make warm milk, and she runs through the grocery store to retrieve from our list – just because she knows it’ll help me out.
It just pulls my heart apart to realize I don’t give her all of me, and I choose whatever else over these simple, eloquent moments – when before my eyes, they are changing and growing; she is changing, growing, and if I don’t stop, I am missing it.
There are times like today when I watch her get to know me better, intentionally.
We were upstairs during naptime. Jemma was fighting sleep in resolute protest against the very mention of a nap, and Delaney had been down for about twenty minutes. I unlatched the baby, set her in the crib, and walked myself into the playroom where I had instructed my oldest child to straighten up from the playdate yesterday. She had done her work and so I found her relaxing on the couch.
“Mama, how come you’re always cleaning, or you’re mad that the house is a mess?” She inquired after I remarked, emphatically, how great a job she did cleaning.
“Well, baby, I just want to make sure you guys grow up in a clean place, and it is important to me to do my work as a Mama and a wife. That means I need to keep the house clean.”
She, silent, stared into the carpet, obviously in thought.
We quickly ventured into a new topic and I mentioned that I wanted to try and lay down, and sleep while Delaney slept. She said she would like to go downstairs and watch some TV, I agreed that was fine.
Fast forward to this evening.
Jemma finally succumbed to a day of no rest (she is one who absolutely still needs that nap!) and Delaney easily went down for the night.
I walked downstairs, collecting laundry and cups as I went, mentally preparing myself for the tasks ahead. Dishes. Wiping counters. Cleaning toilets (seriously, how freaking often do I do that and they NEVER stay clean! It’s almost as if people are shitting there every day!). Taking out trash. Folding clothes…
I greeted her on the stairs as I walked through the gate. Immediately I could sense her sleepiness and asked if she was ready for bed. 9pm, after all, way past her normal bedtime.
She lazily answered that she wanted to help me clean up. I casually offered that she could help for 15 minutes and then would need to go to bed.
The music on for company, I set Pandora to Crosby, Still, & Nash, tiptoed myself gracefully to the kitchen, and began my work.
She followed behind me, asking what she could do. Trash on the counters. Give the dog some dinner. Easy stuff.
I busied myself for a few minutes all the while keeping an eye on her. Her pace slowing, her eyelids drooping more by the second.
“Baby, ready for bed?” I motioned to the stairs as I asked, turning my head away from the sink to catch her eyes.
She began to cry.
A tired cry, yes, but something deeper there lurked. I dropped the spatula and scrubby and rushed to her, setting myself onto the floor to cradle her in my arms.
It was a posture I don’t take much with her these days. She is my big girl, after all, she doesn’t need me like the younger ones do.
Within my embrace she wept.
I held her tightly, silently, awaiting the inevitable dump from her heart to my ears.
“I just, you do so much for us, and you work so hard on this house, and I feel bad that we don’t help you”.
My heart, broken.
Except, in that instant, hearing those words, I rejoiced. She WAS paying attention! What a great moment for me! To show her what matters to me. What matters as a mother, a wife, a housewife. . . We take care of where we live. We maintain it…
Except. I was showing her THIS mattered to me? The house? The work…?
More than… HER?
I squeezed her into my flesh and began to feel hot tears behind my own eyes.
How could I have missed it?
How did I not see this?
SHE needs me.
She wants me present. Untethered by this world and all I feel I am called to do, and be.
First I was called to be her mother.
As she cried, I just thanked God for these moments. I breathed in the scent of her freshly-washed hair, it smelled like apples. I ran my fingers down her arms to once again feel her skin against mine.
I realized she may be 7, but she needs me to rock her like a baby.
To give to her what I give to my youngest – all of me.
You see, I began to believe that she didn’t need me like that. She didn’t need my breast to give her nourishment like Delaney requires. She didn’t need me to walk with her to the bathroom to turn on the light, like Jemma demands.
I have been watching her grow, and change, and our relationship has moved on to a new place. Where I convinced myself if even in some small way that I could stop giving all of me to her. She doesn’t need it. She can handle less. Requires less.
I saw tonight that this isn’t true.
What a beautiful gift, but it’s a bitter pill unless I actually commit to giving her what she deserves.
She matters more than the house, but I learned tonight, with her pleasing soul, she wanted to give me what she thought I NEEDED.
She has heard me say a thousand times that it matters to have dishes out of the sink. To keep our toys picked up. To clean up after meals.
Could I have missed teaching her, showing her, saying and doing – that what matters to me IS HER! Her sisters. Their happiness, tenderness, and well-being. . .
“Okay, baby, time for bed”. I pick her up from a squat and walk us to the stairwell leading up to her bedroom and our goodnight.
“I just want to make you happy, Mama”, she whispers, her face in my neck.
I kiss her forehead, breathe her in, and lay her atop the makeshift bed on my bedroom floor.
“I am, baby. I love you”.
I hope she knows I do. And I hope I get better at SHOWING HER THAT.
And, sometimes, when she needs it, I will scoop her into my mommy arms and rock her like a baby. Like my first child. My daughter. My Layla.
The one that matters most.
She was so much more than I’ve allowed myself to remember.
Death is a great mystery – the ultimate hurt or the most welcome redemption. Hers fragmented my heart, the wound obliterating it from merely broken to irreplaceably shattered; for ten years now, the hurt left in the wake of her final days formed the memories I shaped her by. All testimony of her spirit, and her life, prior to that time were nearly forsaken completely – my mother, when she died, became only the epitome of pain, destruction, and sadness. I have battled with this for many years…
Just the other day I dusted off some boxes that contain photographs of my mom. Pictures I have seen countless times.
What occurred to me as I gazed at this ghost on glossy paper is how much I resemble her. The same dark eyes. The same bright smile.
I REALLY saw her, and in seeing her, I saw parts of myself. I felt connected to her in a manner that I have not felt for many, many years, and instead of being fearful of that connection, I allowed my heart to explore it, deeply.
You see, for all these years I’ve adamantly fought the notion that I was ANYTHING like my mother. Why? Because who she was, to me, was a broken woman who succumbed to her addictions. A person who caused pain to herself and to others, pushed away the people whom loved her the most, and drowned her inability to cope in a bottle of bottom-shelf vodka.
Why would I want to be anything like her? The very idea that I even looked like her made me feel… chained to the familial possibility that my fate would even remotely resemble hers. I hated it, to be honest.
For years, I would think of her in a passing thought and still feel the sharp sting as if it was new, and I’d know again that who my mother was… Was everything I swore to God I would never be.
Then one day, it became impossible to deny that I am my mother’s daughter. I was capable of making mistakes of similar nature. I could face my personal darkness, lose to the demons, and hurt the ones I love. I could, and I was, just like her at times.
When I told the story of my past – what got me to Texas or where I am from originally – it is nearly always colored with a few “tragic” events. The loss of love and the loss of my mother. They’re inextricably linked and I’ve made sure that story was told because it shaped my identity.
How sad is that? To build one’s past upon deep hurt and sorrow… Nonetheless, she became the villain, both to herself and to me, and I am not sure I’ve ever mentioned my mom without surely telling things about her people would rather not know.
Why would I want to define her that way, you wonder? Because her part in my story validated my own problems, somehow – as if I had a free pass to be an asshole, or to be untrusting, or to be jealous; it always seemed to make more sense when people knew I came from THAT. But, it never felt good to tell the story because it always perpetuated the untruth that my mom was a piece of shit, though in my heart – the part I had stopped myself from accessing, however – I knew this lie was not true. It helped me cope, but it was slowly suffocating me.
Back to the pictures from the other day.
I sat there and gazed at one, in particular. A profile photograph of her on the day she married my stepfather, Don. Without much detail I’ll just mention that was not a happy day for her children. She was merely months from divorcing our dad and not one of us took to the fact of sudden, painful destruction of our lives as we knew it.
When I looked at the picture, however, I saw my Roberta. I saw a woman with a past, a present, and a future. I saw the pain in her heart from losing her mother very young in tragic way, and marrying my dad young and becoming parents instead of graduating High School. I saw her accepting Christ, sharing God with others, and advocating for pro-life pregnancy centers. I saw a woman passionate about design, and landscaping, and football. I saw a mother trying to love five children while still maintaining some sense of a personal identity, though she had children from the time she was 16 so it was hard to find HERSELF in the midst of everything children demand of their mother.
I saw… Myself.
Not the attention-hungry prowl of an insecure woman. Not the painful regret of causing hurt to others, stuffed down so deep you’d only see it if she allowed her vulnerable side to peek out momentarily. Not the alcoholism that grew so big it dwarfed every last good intention she ever had while she lay there, crushed, under the weight of an addiction so big she could not function apart from it.
I stared hard into her eyes and felt the lump in my throat ease down. I felt my shoudlers slowly relax and my guard wither into rubble as my heart softened to really see this woman looking up at me from a million buried memories.
For a moment, I even almost heard her voice.
She was so much more than what took her life.
I am not only going to overcome the struggles she echoed into my soul, but I am going to embrace that I am like my mother – because she was so much more than I’ve allowed myself to believe.
It’s still surreal, writing my mother as past tense. I am not sure that is something one ever fully grasps…
I told the story many times. Of her role in shattering my heart before she died. Those moments of carelessness on her part completely changed the course of my life, and I was powerless – and have wallowed in that powerlessness since – to change any of it.
Looking at her, remembering her beyond that hurt? Well, it has taken ten years and even now I know I am not 100% healed. But seeing her humanity – her spirit, her beauty, her strength for so long before she lost it – it helps me to heal past the pain, a little more.
I stood outside myself as I looked down at the pictures in front of me and watched as I opened my heart to this woman. The world called her Roberta, but I called her Mama. For many years, she was favorite person… For many years, she was everything it means to a child when she calls out, “Mommy”. The safety. The laughter. The lessons. Learning make-up, singing songs together, watching her make chicken drumsticks with secret sauce…
Being like her? Sometimes it is very hard. Facing my demons when they remind me of her, well, that’s a hell I wouldn’t wish on anyone. But I think God gave me that struggle. That fight. Because I can learn from my mother, even in her death. . .
And I can redefine MY story by appreciating that I am my mother’s daughter. Grow where she floundered. Wise up where she fell short.
Laugh when she would have laughed. Love as deeply as I know she must have loved us when things were perfect, and choose not to give up – (where I had to learn on my own because unfortunately she didn’t show me this part) – when things get hard.
I saw my mother again. And I think it’s time I stop defining my life, and her memory, with only things that bring us both shame, guilt, and pain.
She was so much more than that, and so am I.
It has taken years to understand that who she was is not merely the sum of her last days on earth. The final analysis revealed she died of acute ethanol poisoning and asphyxiation due to aspiration from accidental ingestion of lethal proportions. Quite a tongue twister and in truth the cold clinical nature of these descriptions never stop hurting. In the moment of her death, and in the resulting coroner report from an autopsy, my mother became an unfortunate statistic; my mother became, to those whom will never get the chance to know her beyond this, an alcoholic who died from the disease. To the future, her life is symbolic of merely what not to do and who not to become. To us, those whom knew and loved her, however, there is so much more to this than what people imagine when we answer that our mother drank herself to death.
It makes people uncomfortable to talk about it, a fact I’ve had trouble with for years. People avoid the topic once it is out there – I’ve noted this often. As I’ve gotten older it honestly becomes more strange, the reactions. Because I am a mother she comes up most in conversations about my children. People unaware of my history will ask things like, “Doesn’t your mom love being a Grandma?” or, “Is your mom going to be there when the baby is born?” Countless mentions I cannot list beyond these. When I tell them my mother passed away when I was 21, most often people respond with, “Oh, I’m sorry, she was so young! Did she have cancer?”
Maybe I seem well-adjusted so it never occurs to them to think beyond what seems most probable, or maybe people just don’t like to contemplate an alternative theory for fear it might offend the listener – whatever it may be, I know for sure nobody ever expects me to utter alcohol anywhere in my learned response… For that reason, sometimes I contemplate not telling the truth. After all, cancer in comparison seems much easier because if anything at least it is common.
The reason I sometimes just smile and act like I didn’t hear them mention my mom is that it never fails to hurt my soul when their face contorts if I tell the truth. “Uh… (pause) Oh. I’m sorry to hear that”.
I feel like I am changed in their eyes – like, somehow, my mother’s disease alters the way they see ME – just like it definitely alters the way they choose to see her. Some kind of pity, maybe, or confusion perhaps? I have never felt understood after that conversation happens, but I guess that is true for us all when we have no comparison or experience to draw from. The subject is often changed after that. Normally not by me. Sometimes, I wish someone could relate. Every time, I wish I did not feel so ashamed on her behalf, dealing with feeling like I need to defend her so that we both find redemption.
Mostly I just wish for all these years I hadn’t defined her in these terms – I did not know it was me leaving no room for an alternative picture beyond how she died and what that must’ve meant regarding her as a person.
It is interesting that I’ve allowed her death to define ME so greatly, but I guess that isn’t the point.
She was more, but I could not see it. The pain made me forget probably just so I could survive it at all. More than the pain that eventually overtook most everything about her. More than the mistakes she made that we cast as stones against her. More than the humiliation and shame of losing everything she had and everyone she loved. More than the moment she finally let go and succumbed to this debilitating darkness… and more than the little she left for us to remember her in photographs whose colors are now far more vivid than our memories.
She was smart, I remember that. Quick-witted, charming, and infectiously comical if you caught her in the right mood. Our home was always appointed well with various themes of décor that changed almost spontaneously. When we were little, meals were hot and healthy on the table each and every night for dinner. Music would play as she danced and sung along, stirring heaping portions of mashed potatoes and checking on chicken baking perfectly in the stove.
My sister and I got our hair permed too many times by hairdresser Mom, and my brothers their buzzed style from clippers on the back porch before she’d let them run out the front door to ride bikes until dusk. She cared about how we were presented in public and washed mounds of laundry to always ensure we looked our best, even if our clothes were second-hand. At night, she tucked us in, and in the morning she was the first face we would see.
As I grew up into adolescence I began to notice her as someone to look up to, far beyond my childhood affections towards her fine cooking skills, but as a young woman destined to become a lady modeled with brown eyes just like her mother. She would let me watch her apply makeup and I studied her to learn how to curl my hair. I wanted to be just like her then because I thought she was the most beautiful mom in the world, and all the neighborhood boys certainly agreed.
She held everyone’s affection in the palm of her hand. Never tiring of a kind word or am admiring glance, she would not shy away from attention but instead welcomed it bravely. A sort-of delusional confidence only born in a woman whose seen all the colors of the world and still wishes to create her own palette.
She had dreams of being an interior designer. A painter. A singer. She sang well but drove us all crazy, probably the same way I drive my children nuts now… We sang together as she’d stare into my eyes, completely unafraid of the vulnerability in such a gesture.
I believe the only thing my mother feared was herself. The world could not see that until the end when she had nothing left to hide… no need for anything but the raw truth that even her best intentions were no match for the cruel torment of reality.
If I had to say anything else of her, it would be that she loved the Lord l, and every single day I am thankful for this. This, above all else, is what she left each and every one of us. She knew a God that loved her even in her weakest most vulnerable pain… Pain she hid well from others but knew she could never hide from God. That particular knowledge – that she knew the Lord – has comforted us all, but I admit at first I did not believe it was enough to help her find heavenly redemption. Pain is funny that way. When she died, all I could think about was that there was no way God could have loved her through all she had done to those she left behind – and all that she had allowed herself to become. I am grateful that even with all she did wrong, it was her humility before the Lord took her home – I will always believe that – though it left us forevermore without her.
What people understand of my mother, perhaps, is what I let them understand. But, I see now that I had to first accept it – all the ugly and bitter and sad truths – if I am to ever remember and share about who my mother really was.
For a long time, too long, what defined her for me was her death, and so I believed others defined her this same way. It took all this time to realize that it isn’t what people think initially that matters, or even what they choose to believe or think once that truth is shared. . . What do I want to remember of her? Can I see past the pain of her disease – all it stole from us? Her death and the emptiness it left is real, but it is my responsibility now to make more of it than the simplified version. For her, but also for myself and my family.
It was very simple once. My mom died of alcoholism – she drank herself to death. I left it at that. Mostly because few people ask more once they know this, but also because I was too broken from that one aspect of her to feel the need to share anything else. Symbolic of the pain you’d expect, and every bit as deep a hole as one might guess is within us since that day… It fit to say nothing more because I hurt so badly, and it just seemed safer to give the simple answer.
But now it does not suffice. Maybe because it never did, but I was just too far in it to see that. I yearn for now the chance to show who my mother really was. To see beyond the disease that claimed the last few years of her life and remember, wholly, the woman who raised me. The woman I called Mama. Before she faded into abstract memory. Before she simply became my alcoholic dead mother.
Nine years on the 19th of this month. Nine years since her death became a part of my history. Long enough time that I’m thankful my memories are changing. That I see past the cause of death and remember a bright, happy mother who raised 5 kids. The smiling one always ready for a deep conversation. The lover of nature, music, and her family.
We have this tendency to want to define everything. Simplify it. Make it easy to understand. This… This is everything but simple and I think I can be okay with that now. I think I can stop worrying about what others think when they hear how she died and instead, in my own heart, be thankful for how she lived. Be thankful for the beautiful person she once was. Be thankful that, for 21 years, I got to know and love a spirited, charismatic, strong woman…
She is more than what she became – she always was. Why has it taken me so long to accept that? I hope I am more than how I die – and what a strange concept to even say that but I’ve learned a lot from my mother in that way. I let that define her but I blamed everyone else for how that made me feel when I actually had to face it aloud. I didn’t bother to explain beyond it so how was that their fault?
Coming to terms with the pain took all these years but I am thankful I am here. I see her now, looking back, as so much more than how she failed and what that means for us now. I see her differently, and it helps me see my own life differently, and I am grateful for that. We are all so much more than the simplified version someone answers when they ask, “who is that?” In her case, it is up to me now to define it, and I am so happy I can finally look past the end and start from her beginning. I like that version way better anyway.