Together, we cried...

I share a reversed role with my mother.  She gestated me but it seems like I've mothered her for, uh, well, 29 years (give or take a year.)

Our relationship is unique in that my mother has never really 'found' her way, thus leaning on what she considers her source of strength, me.  The funny thing here is that I don't consider myself that firmly rooted.  I sway like every other palm tree in a hurricane.  I think she's attracted to my unrelenting WILL to do whatever it takes to keep moving forward.  I just hate excuses, that's all.    

She classifies her life with it being 'full of bad luck' but I call it being 'full of wrong decisions' because her choices have led her to where she is today.  She's been judged, criticized, scrutinized, vilified and rejected for most of her adult life.  I've watched her sink deeper and deeper into regret and consumed by her depression.

I get depressed too.  More than I'd like to.  She was seriously depressed while pregnant with me.  I think that the hormones that were released in-utero may have affected me to some degree.  I definitely have a low supply of 'happy genes.'  But what do I know anyway?  

My mother wrote me a card the other day.

{Mom's card.  To me.}

She asked me to read it.  Alone.

I did.

I was touched.  No, I was grateful.

Actually, I was moved.

She thanked me for loving her.  She thanked me for worrying about her.  She thanked me for caring and always asking if she's eaten or how she's feeling or what's the matter when I can tell by the look on her face that she's going through a phase or episode or moment of feeling completely beaten to the ground.  She told me that she knows how much I love her.  She told me that I was her special girl.

It moved me.

It gave me a piece of her.

I held it and imagined her writing it.  Alone.  Crying.  Sharing her heart.

I didn't cry.

Several days later I told my mother how much I enjoyed and loved her card to me.  I let her know that it was special and honest and sweet.  The strangest part for me here was that as moving and loving as this card was, there was still an unresolved void within me.  Perhaps my automatic 'emotional guard' took over.  I don't know?  It's a peculiar emotion and all too familiar.

There was a moment given to us and I shared my feelings with her.  Ones she's always known but I imagine, likes to hear every now and again.  I understand this need.  I was driving and she was sitting beside me.

Silence enveloped us.  For several minutes.

'I know how much you love me.'  She said.

I held her hand in response and together, we cried.

That's what I told her...

Yesterday I wrote about my worries and/or phobias with mothering my daughters and how I need to be transparent with them.  Naturally, there are moments where I'm 'tested' to see if I stand for what I 'say.'

My eldest is at that age where she's much more in tune with her surroundings and my conversations and the f-bombs tossed around (I know, I know, I really have to work on my French!)  She's also a Christmas junkie! She loves the music, and lights, and 'fraser fir' scented candles and putting santa bells on Miss Goldie's neck and well, you get it.  My Sabrina LOVES Christmas!

{My homemade Christmas wreath ♥}

Sometime at the onset of this holiday season, she asked me, 'Mommy, when you were my age, how was YOUR Christmas?'

I cringed inside.

I crinkled my face and forehead and nose and made my eyes really, really, really small and said, 'Do you REALLY want to know?'

No duh you idiot, that's why I asked you! Is what she must've thought but she was too concerned over my contorted facial expression.  Plus I knew that I HAD to tell her.

Deep breath in and out came...

'When I was seven, I woke up on Christmas morning and there was a Christmas tree in the living room.  It had no lights, no ornaments, no tree skirt and no presents under the tree.'  I said.

'WHAT?' she gasped.  I simply looked at her surprised beautiful big blue eyes.

'Why?' she asked.

'I don't know why.'  I responded to her.

Because I didn't know why there were no presents under the tree.  Okay, fine I kind of DO know why there were no presents under the tree.  My mother was involved with a drug dealer and from what I could remember, most of his cash flow went up his nose.  My mother never apologized for a present-less Christmas that morning.  I remember she had woken up late and basically acted like it was an ordinary day.  All I worried about during the remainder of my school break was trying to figure out what were the 'cool toys' that I could lie about at school that I 'got' for Christmas.  I think they were 'My Little Pony', 'Rainbow Bright' and 'Cabbage Patch Kids' but now I'm not too sure.  

*I DID NOT want to tell my seven year old daughter that a cocaine addict/pedophile had tarnished my Christmas.  Or how her Grandmother seemed to 'not care' about that day for me.  My daughter will find out soon enough.  It'll be written right here on this part of the blogosphere *forever*  Just know that I love my mother despite the negative moments I experienced under her control.  It's a tough position to be in.

'So was it your worst Christmas ever?' she quickly asked me.

'Kind of...' I said to her.

She lowered her head but I could still see one side of her sweet, translucent face and she looked remorsefully sad, heart broken, angry and confused.  I hated the feeling of the entire exchange because as it was, I felt like a LIAR and CHEAT and so BROKEN in front of her.  Not because I 'believe' myself to be any of those things but because I cannot bring myself to be 'fully' transparent with details and facts and moments of 'truth' with respect to my childhood.  Not when she's only seven.

It makes me angry.  Not sad.  Angry.  For her.

The interesting thing here is that I WAS seven when what I DON'T want to share with my daughter happened to me.  I simply don't wish for her to be consumed with my unfortunate childhood experience while she's the same little child that I 'needed' to be.  I know her well enough that she WOULD encapsulate herself with sad parts of mommy's life.  No.  I cannot do that to her.  I won't.

There have been times when she's actually told me to pretend that her and I are the same age so that I can have the moment back.   She's self-less and sweet...

I feel the need to protect her from these horrid things.  I know that I cannot save her from EVERYTHING (I'm not delusional) but dammit, I CAN salvage any part of her emotional hurt for MY childhood.

She hurts for it.  I see it.  I feel it.  I know it.

Even if I don't articulate it, she picks up on my body language and how my eyes shift.  She's connected to that sensitive and raw side of 'me.'  I find it fascinating and scary.

Here's what I know I can do: I CAN tell her 'partial' stories and I CAN choose to 'limit' what she learns about me and what may or may not have happened to me at the age of seven while she's seven herself.  But I WILL always tell her how I felt, the thoughts that came to my 'child' mind and the way I bounced back from it.  I quickly added my own emotional consoling to this issue.

'Sabrina, it doesn't matter how my Christmas was when I was your age.' I added.

She looked up at me and I smiled at her.

Her face was home. Her gaze was love.  Her heart was peace.  

'Do you want to know what my BEST Christmas is?' I asked.

'What?' she responded.

'You are.'

That's what I told her.

My girl, one day...

My girl, she carries her little heart on her sleeve.

One day, she'll carry her heart to her first love.

My girl, she illustrates her emotions with fine lines and colored pencils.

One day, she'll sketch a drawing for her lover with oil pastels.

My girl, she feels deep empathy for those in need.

One day, she'll hold her hand out to help the elderly.

My girl, she speaks truth and her voice echos like a symphony.

One day, she'll stand before crowds of people and inspire peace and love.

My girl, she can gather the authentic nature of individuals.

One day, she'll embrace those that share a common love with her.

My girl, she is my mirror and my teacher.

One day, she'll learn what I have learned from being her mother,
  

and she'll see the wonder that she cultivated in me...

Reflection of labor: A Sonnet

My first Sonnet (2007)

In 2007, while in graduate school, I took a class in poetry.  Not only was the class required for my degree, it was the first time I had ever had to share my poetry with an entire class.  I was nervous and skeptical most of the time but my professor, Frank Montesonti, was encouraging and brilliant in his guidance and own poetry as well.  Thank you, Frank!

Nevertheless, I wrote my first Sonnet during the course.  Poetry is a secret love of mine and I often revert to in times of deep reflection and insight.  This sonnet is a reflection of my labor with my second daughter, Luna.  I dedicate it to my wonderful midwife, Sheila.  It was my first home water birth and it changed me.  I honor the power of birth...

Sage Femme

I must wait for present to become past

As the wind blows and I watch the heavy showers

The day becomes dim and the skies overcast

My body takes over and I begin to fall

I tumble into the land that they call ‘out there’

Time is still and meditation takes over

The only breath that I can watch

Blowing like daisies from my mouth

My full womb is saying nothing but ‘surges’

The pain is like watching the departure of birds

They come and they go and they sing

I chant ‘let it go’ and ‘let it be’—

‘let it go’ and ‘let it be’—

I must be patient and the patient

That does not watch the wall clock

In this meditative hour—

I trust the process…

And the sage femme simply waits.  

by: vanessa jubis-2007

My Sun, Moon & Star: Mother daughter ♥

We woke up silly today.  So we decided to have fun with snap shots in 4's.

Happy Saturday everyone! Love from this mama and her 3 lovelies...

Enjoy ♥

Sabrina, my sun...my ♥

Luna, my moon...my ♥

Kalina, my star...my ♥

One mama in love with her three hearts...