I have picture of my two girls, my daughters, in my bathroom - 4 x 6 photos in clip frames. They are ages two and four and they are playing at the lakeside. One of the frames has been cracked - an oopsie from their pre-teen years. As I recall, I kept trying to be a Martha Stewart, but kids are hard on things, and after all, things are just things. Nonetheless, the fact that I need to update those frames niggles away at me every time I brush my teeth. But my days are always full; without reprieve, the weeks and months fly by, and details get lost in the blur. My Mother warned me that once you have a baby, the calendar pages fly by just like in a black and white movie. Mom didn't tell me about some things though - like when you raise your girls to be independent women, and they become those independent women, that it feels like all of it never happened. Is this the empty nest, or is this symptomatic of some undefined brokenness?
I remember the first time those wee girls said "Mom" and "Momma" - the sheer joy of them growing and all of the "firsts." My older daughter liked to tickle my toes as I made her dinner: "Tooka, tooka, tooka, Mommy, tooka, tooka, tooka." And my younger daughter would have spent all day in the baby sling curled into my warm body - if I had the fortitude to carry her for that duration! I feel like I should explain - I did not experience a lot of physical affection during my childhood years, and I wanted to be a different kind of parent than what I had known. I never heard the words, "I love you" from my parents; I think it wasn't considered appropriate for parents to be physically affectionate in their era, but I wanted my babies to know what it meant to be loved, completely and unconditionally - I poured out my words, my hugs, my kisses without reserve. I did not believe in corporal punishment - I had been beaten, but I used time-outs to discipline my babies. I didn't want my kids to fear me the way I feared my Dad. But somewhere in the busy-ness of working, domestic chores, and all the stuff in between, I finished raising my girls. The butterfly kisses have disappeared like soap bubbles popping on a summer breeze; Momma is no more.
More memories... how I dressed the girls alike, fussed with their hair, read Fox in Sox until my tongue felt numb and worked at crappy jobs so I could spend as much time as possible with them. I remember knitting little sweaters as I dutifully attended Super Bowl parties with their Dad, sewing Halloween costumes in a cold corner of the basement, and falling asleep beside them when singing "I See the Moon" at bed time. I remember all of the busy mornings, feeding bathing, dressing, playing, reading, walking/hauling, and repeat. The baby powder, the dear little hands holding mine, the raspberry kisses on soft tummies, the tickles. I remember walking them to school, making brown paper lunch bags with a new doodle for every day, and sweating with anxiety as I walked home from work to pick them up from after school care - oh my God, I always felt guilty because it was sunny outside and they were in the basement of an old school. How my feet, back and legs hurt from standing all day, how I lost sleep to catch up on laundry and cleaning, and how I fell worthless and powerless because I was always financially strapped. Their childhood was an intense time for me, but I tried to shield them from my struggles and fears. I wanted them to have a better life, more opportunities and more happiness than I had known. But so much of the time I was isolated by the sheer volume of what had to be done, and my fear of what would happen if I tried to change the pattern, let myself emerge from the automaton I had created to manage it all.
At some point the 24/7 care of our children is over, and their friends become closer connections, and the seeds of independence bear fruit - and it may not be a fruit you have ever tasted before. I suppose that a Mother becomes symbolic of everything they are not/don't want to be, and something they can't relate to. So, I suppose I have succeeded: they will be better, they will be different from the imperfect, frightened, ignorant, idealist that was Momma. I have tried to organize girls' outings but their young lives are full and focused on things of which I have only sketchy glimpses. Occasionally they let me buy them a meal. My younger daughter regales me with stories of how great her friends' Moms are, and my older daughter is a mystery who keeps her communications superficial. I have finally connected the dots, and the image is an unrelatable construct of female parenthood, rather like the female symbol on a washroom entrance.
So, when we have dinner together, I savour each moment, always hopeful that some trickle of the love that I poured into them will emerge, will morph into this amazing, positive thing that makes their eyes mist over, that makes them remember everything that was Momma - that some little piece of what I did is worthy of their time and memory. But they could be talking to someone on a bus - a random stranger to whom they extend courtesy for few minutes. I inhale and exhale and drink in their beauty, grateful that at least they will sit and eat with me, grateful for this moment; grateful that I knew motherhood. A perennial optimist, I know I will keep trying, will keep revisiting my memories, and will keep returning to face their rebuffs; their thinly veiled contempt or worse - ambivalence.
My birthday is in July, and this year I was away with my job - it was a special time because it was the first time since I was 14 that I have had a whole month away from work. I had some work commitments, but it was combined with travel in some of the most beautiful areas of Tuscany, Italy. The whole time I was accessible by email, text and phone. I don't like a fuss, but I do love my children and I have tried to raise them to be mindful of life's milestones - their birthdays were always celebrated; sometimes two or three times to accommodate the demands of family, in-laws and their own school friends. But this birthday passed with no cards, no calls, no texts - nothing. When I got home from my trip, my younger daughter was fussing over buying a card and gift for her former boss (an alcoholic chain smoker about who she constantly complained to me about). At this point, it hit me with painful clarity that Mom, Mommy, Momma was dead - I was just this image, this memory.
All of the hugs, the sweat, the fears, the work, the tears, the sleeplessness became meaningless in this context. I had to face that it was quite likely that I would never have daughters who called me "just because," or because they wanted to hear my voice, or simply to see how I am doing. Momma was a station along their way, and even the vile former boss now ranked higher. DNA is just DNA, and all of our good intentions are just thoughts, after all. I stretch the pale skin of my lower belly as I shower and trace a soapy finger over the fine white scars. Yes, this body delivered three babies into the world and gave one baby to the angels, it is a good baby maker and has the marks to prove it's use, and yet it could be any baby maker. My body bears witness to the signs that only one person cares about.
My son is 13 - he still holds my hand and tells me he loves me. He still talks to me - not just to ask for something or because he needs something. Pinch me; will this time be different, or have I just forgotten these moments with my girls? He is such a sweet child and I fear for him in this world of violence, excess and indifference - most of all, I pray, "Please don't take his love from me." My friends tell me I am a good mother, but because I was cut off from my friends and family for so many years, I have a very small circle of friends - I sometimes worry that "Friend" may go the way of "Momma." I look through a another sampling of old photos in the bill basket, and they don't feel like they belong to me. I see my old, worn gym hoody has fallen off the door hook again - I look down on it and imagine that is who I am to my girls: a dead grey shell, a husk of some creature that used to exist but is no more. I pick it up and smell the soft cotton - it smells like baby powder.
