on motherhood.

i have fought with you more than anyone ever. i can't remember how old i was or what was happening for you to say it, but you said it. you made it clear: you were never my friend- not in the past, present or future- you were strictly my mother.

looking back, i can see it all: make your bed every morning. be back by 10 because i'm tired and i don't want to wait up all night. it's your day to set the table. do your homework. why do you hang out with her when all she does is hurt you. don't walk around the neighborhood barefoot. be yourself. don't make me ground you from your books. don't be like her. practice the piano. don't forget to do your make up time before your piano lesson. just do what i say.

i didn't do anything to reach your expectations about 90% of the time and you would get angry. you would yell. and nag and yell. sometimes you would cry, but that was because i yelled back. i wanted you to hear me. you turned silent. sometimes for days. sometimes weeks. sometimes a month. time would go by and i heard nothing from you.

it feels like a cookie cutter without the dough. you were very good at being my mother, but i needed you to be my friend, too.

if i said i didn't love you i would be lying. i love you.

you taught me how to survive a period with tampons, ibuprofen, and chocolate. you let me read your romance novels when you were done. you helped me look and feel pretty before i went out the door with my date to every dance. you showed me to read my scriptures every day. to be social. to wear lip gloss and makeup. how to pray. to give gifts and time to others. to face my fears. to set goals and achieve them.

you raised me into the woman i am today and i can't deny that.

i just needed you to be my friend. there are dreams and passions i want to let you be a part of.  i just can't share them with you because you are my mother and not my friend.

as i now grow closer to the path of motherhood, i have decisions to make. i know it's not that simple nor do i know what my little rascals will be like, but i do know this: i want to be there for them, as a mom and as a friend. it really shouldn't be two separate titles, but rather one that means it all: mom. i'll practice now as i wait for them and pray they'll practice with me when they let me be their mom.

August 20: bathwater.

I can only think of one way to describe how this all feels like.

It feels like sitting in the bathtub surrounded by bubbles. It feels comfortable, but then I begin to notice that the water level is slowly sinking, and all I do is sit there, confused because I don't remember removing the plug.

I don't remember being done with this bath.

I watch my toes appear, then my boney knees and pretty soon I can't see anymore water, I can only hear it.

Soon all the water will be down the drain and I won't be able to hear it anymore.


Unless I shut the drain and turn the water on again.

ranch dressing

I remember the time we went to Sammy's right before it closed. We walked in and the workers behind the counter groaned and we chuckled behind their back. I remember when you said, "Hey this is kind of like a date." I looked up at you and smiled because I was okay with that.

I remember how your laugh had a way of turning my insides upside down. You would do something stupid, I would roll my eyes at you, and that would make you laugh. Your laugh made me want to laugh, too.

Most people are intimidated by my house, but you felt comfortable there. I liked that. And I liked that I felt comfortable with you at my house.  Conversation was easy- we could say anything and trust our heart's intentions.

No matter what we would try to do, we would always get distracted with music. We would share our latest favorites, and you were always the first one to know about mine. I loved that you noticed I loved the lyrics just as much as I loved the beat.

I loved driving places in your car with the windows down and the music playing. I loved to sing along, and so did you.

I thought I could tolerate ranch dressing, but I can't. I hate it.

I miss you.

I miss everything about you.

burnt soles

I remember the time you showed me how vulnerable you could be.

I remember answering my phone right before I went to bed and you were crying on the other end. You asked me to come to the bench because you needed someone to talk to, and I came running.

I met you at the bench and you were sobbing, shaking with tears still falling down your cheeks. You began to tell me everything that had happened and made me promise not to tell anyone, especially not my mother.

I never told anyone.

Not even my journal.

apple eyes.

 

I don't remember much about how I began or how the dirt tasted the moment I was planted, but I do remember the family that grew next to me. A family of four- a mum and a dad and two little girls. I remember the girls running through the yard, twirling until they fell dizzily into the shady grass beneath me.
If I didn't know any better, I'd say that I was their nanny.
I remember watching those girls giggling and chasing their dad around the yard until they finally caught him and demanded a piggy-back ride. I remember the younger, her long curly hair that bounced with every step. Her round cheeks that completed her smile reminded me how lovely and lively  she could be.
I remember the older, not much older than the younger. Her honey-brown hair fell right below her ears. She was much more dainty than the younger and was always off in her own world. She was a dreamer.
I guess you could say she was the one who instigated  all the twirling.
My girls were best friends, just like they should be. Beautiful and vibrant, they were the reason I bloomed every spring. I grew stronger and taller for my girls. They would climb up in my arms and their laughter would ring through my limbs. I loved to hold my girls.
Their mum and dad put up a tire swing on my lower limb. I knew my girls would love it.
And they did.
And I continued to grow and bloom so I could watch my girls do the same.

I remember that year. It was the year 2000, the year that everything changed. It was the year their laughter became nothing but a faded melody and the yard a dull photograph of what it used to be.
Spring came, but this time I had to force myself to bloom. The tire swing was removed and the rope left a scar, a reminder of how strong I used to be.
The fence fades and splinters. I stand and listen. Nothing.
This yard is an empty void I cannot fill.

The years drag on and it's spring again. I see a young woman slowly walking towards me. Once she is close enough,  I see her face and I realize that it is all to familiar.
My girl.
My girl is all grown up. Older is older and beautiful. Her hair now hovers above her elbow and her smile is stunning. I look into her eyes and I can see: She is a dreamer. Once again she climbs into my arms and she begins to tell me everything. I feel like we never skipped a beat.

I bloom. But this time it's different because I know everything is going to be alright.