Yesterday D and I participated in one of our favorite mother/daughter activities. We went to the ballet and we had a wonderful time. This isn't, however, a review of that or a comment on our relationship. This is about something I wish didn't exist in the world or, at the very least, in this country.
D takes eons in the shower. I am forever telling her to hurry up. Nineteen years of "hurry up." I had plans to go to Pancake Pantry and indulge in some Chocolate Sin before the ballet. We ran out of time so we stopped at Panera instead because it was on the way and fast enough. I despise being late, missing out on a chocolate craving, and having to drive like a maniac so I wasn't in the best mood.
While we were sitting there, by the window, scarfing down our soup and salads, D pointed to a woman sitting on the curb outside. "She's homeless and she has a little girl." Indeed, there sat a woman with a little girl who looked to be about four. I couldn't see her sign from where I sat, but I was disconcerted enough. If you have a stereotype of what a homeless woman and her daughter look like, they didn't fit it. They were neatly dressed, hair combed, talking to each other.
A very sweet man bought them some food from Panera; he took them sandwiches and water. I couldn't hear them, but they looked grateful. The woman took a sandwich out of one of the bags and unwrapped it to hand to her small child. I didn't see her eat so I don't know if she was saving her meal for herself for later or for her daughter.
D and I decided that we would give them something as well. I've been carrying an unused Subway gift card in my car for a time like this. We gathered together the few dollars we had, mine scrounged from the bottom of my purse.
I was able to read her sign when we pulled up in front of them. "PLEASE HELP. I lost my job and I am pregnant." The rest of it said something about needing money for gas, which I'm assuming she needs to both find another job and to get to that job. My heart broke for her.
The little girl got up to come get the money and gift card we offered. She was adorably sweet and absolutely precious. She should have been spending the afternoon playing in the beautiful fall weather rather than accepting money and food from strangers. She thanked us politely and the mother thanked us repeatedly and genuinely.
Entering the freeway, I told Devon that because she was late, we were given that opportunity. She looked at me like I had just insulted her, not realizing that I really meant it. Had she been on time, we would have eaten food that we didn't need, making gluttons of ourselves. Instead, we were given an opportunity to help someone and I was truly grateful for both the opportunity and the gift of gratitude itself.
But secondly, and maybe more importantly, I was so disappointed that I live in a community and in a country where this is allowed to happen. Where a family lives on the verge of poverty on a daily basis and the loss of one paycheck can send them to the street. Where mothers have to swallow their pride to feed their children and their unborn babies. Where their sacrifices are far more than lost sleep or a few stretch marks.
We are heavily into election season and, while I haven't yet paid attention to what is happening on the democrat side, I have been made acutely aware of the opinions of the GOP. I know they are focusing on the rights of gun owners, and immigration reform, spending large amounts of time blaming our current president, and gleefully trying to strip away the rights of women, largely in the form of defunding Planned Parenthood.
If this mother I saw can't afford to buy gas for her car, then I doubt she has money for prenatal care. She is choosing life, she's choosing to give life. Planned Parenthood is probably the best resource for her, but those in power want to take this away from her. Why? When abortions account for only 3% of the services they provide, what about the other 97%? What about this woman sitting on a curb holding a sign so she can hold her family together?
And nowhere in either of the debates did I hear anyone talk about women like her. Or men like her. I know there are plenty of single dads out there working just as hard to make ends meet, but hers is the face I will see when I think of the unfairness in this country. Hers and that of her little girl with the brown curls, dressed in pink.
We give lip service to these issues occasionally. Myself included. I handed a stranger a restaurant gift card and a few dollars. I'm telling you about it. In two days I leave for a vacation where I will have unlimited access to food I can gorge myself on and I will let go of all cares, including this one. I have that luxury.
We all have luxuries. We all have it better than someone else. I don't want to pay lip service. I want to do more. I want us all to do more. The only thing I have hope for right now is that enough people helped that woman yesterday, and maybe in the next week or so, that she can get back on her feet and this will be a great inconvenience to her rather than a new way of life. I really, really hope so. But unless we change as a society, there will be someone different sitting at that corner tomorrow. I might not see her. I might be on time for my decadent chocolate breakfast. I might be so busy rushing to the next errand or to meet friends or to my job that I don't see her.
So my other hope is that you also miss brunch or you have to stop for gas and your eyes are open. I hope that you see people who need help and that you offer that help. I hope you pay attention at the polls. I hope you choose to elect those who care, even if they are far and few between. I hope you participate in your communities. I hope that you don't pass judgment or turn a blind eye.
I know that I won't continue to be haunted by the faces of this mother and her little girl for long, but I hope I am.
Showing posts with label babies. Show all posts
Showing posts with label babies. Show all posts
Monday, September 21, 2015
Saturday, May 17, 2014
Successes and Shortcomings
D graduates in three weeks. Three. I knew it would go fast, but I didn't imagine getting to three short weeks. During the last three years, I wasn't sure we would make it to this point. But here we are.
Of course this is a time of reflection. A time to think about what we've been through, how beautiful she is, how she frustrates and surprises me in the same half hour, and what kind of parent I've been. I have failed a lot. In little ways, in big ways. I can't help but feel regret for those moments. Knowing there were plenty of times I could do better. So much advice I would give to my 27-year-old self and my 35-year-old self.
I knew as a parent of a baby to appreciate every moment. I would hold her for hours, not putting her down for naps, but rocking with her. Memorizing the feel of her baby skin and how her small body weighed on me and how long she was as she grew. I inhaled every bit of baby scent I could get. As she grew, I talked to her constantly. I taught her "sign language" before she could use words. I encouraged her sentences and relished in her tiny accomplishments. Babies are so easy that way. So eager to please and to smile and to laugh. D was no exception and she was just, overall, an easy baby. An angel at two with no tantrums. I couldn't have been any luckier.
By second grade I was tired. I have never enjoyed school assemblies or concerts or any other event that required parent participation. Mostly because I don't want to suffer through 60 other people's kids to see mine do something for 45 seconds. She did ballet so I drove back and forth to practice multiple times a week. I was trying to hold together a relationship that was always destined for failure. D had her own likes, dislikes, and agendas. They didn't always mesh with mine and I lost my focus. I was more concerned with grades and behavior than with who she was and who she would become. Mostly, I stopped having fun with her.
My biggest regret is that I didn't have more fun with her. I forgot to remember to treasure the little moments. I never forgot that I loved her and would do anything for her, but there are very few occasions in which one actually has to save the life of her child. The love is really in the little things. Vacations reminded me of what an incredible person she is and I started to live for those rather than the hour on a Sunday where we did nothing but sit back and appreciate that minute. She begged for my attention but I didn't want to play Chutes and Ladders. I didn't want to play some dumb video game with her. I chose not to relish those moments, thinking that the big ones would suffice.
Teenagers are a completely different animal. Her depression both pulled us apart and pushed us together. I have pushed her away and pulled her towards me in the same way. This last year especially required a lot of my mental and emotional energy. Fortunately, there isn't a whole lot I would do differently in that sense. She was my sole focus. Her life became my purpose. And maybe that needed to happen. I think I needed to be reminded of who I was as a mother.
Now every moment feels bittersweet. Her last play. Her last concert. Her last prom. Her last, her last, her last. I think I've cried more over her growing up this last year than in the previous 17 years combined. Senior pictures reminded me so sharply of her one-year-old portrait session. She even wore denim similar to her tiny little dress in those photos. Prom made me sob for about half an hour. The graduation announcements arrived and I couldn't even read them. She now watches me for the tears that she has learned to expect.
These moments are poignant because they just are and they're supposed to be, but it's more than that. I'm losing her to her adult life. It's coming. It's just down the street. I hear it and I'm trying to be ready. I'm finally trying to be what she needs me to be. Problem is, my feelings get in the way. I want my baby back. I want another chance. I want to fix my mistakes. I want to be the mom with endless patience and hours of time and the sincere desire that I had when her feet were so tiny and she needed me so much. She needs me less now and it's both heart-wrenching and rewarding. Mostly it's just too much to process in three weeks.
So I'll cry. I'll beam with pride and cry some more. I will continue to be amazed at how beautiful she is. How surprisingly talented because that doesn't come from me. I can't claim that one. And I'll cry some more.
You can find me on June 8th in the corner. Crying and spilling with pride at the same time.
Of course this is a time of reflection. A time to think about what we've been through, how beautiful she is, how she frustrates and surprises me in the same half hour, and what kind of parent I've been. I have failed a lot. In little ways, in big ways. I can't help but feel regret for those moments. Knowing there were plenty of times I could do better. So much advice I would give to my 27-year-old self and my 35-year-old self.
I knew as a parent of a baby to appreciate every moment. I would hold her for hours, not putting her down for naps, but rocking with her. Memorizing the feel of her baby skin and how her small body weighed on me and how long she was as she grew. I inhaled every bit of baby scent I could get. As she grew, I talked to her constantly. I taught her "sign language" before she could use words. I encouraged her sentences and relished in her tiny accomplishments. Babies are so easy that way. So eager to please and to smile and to laugh. D was no exception and she was just, overall, an easy baby. An angel at two with no tantrums. I couldn't have been any luckier.
By second grade I was tired. I have never enjoyed school assemblies or concerts or any other event that required parent participation. Mostly because I don't want to suffer through 60 other people's kids to see mine do something for 45 seconds. She did ballet so I drove back and forth to practice multiple times a week. I was trying to hold together a relationship that was always destined for failure. D had her own likes, dislikes, and agendas. They didn't always mesh with mine and I lost my focus. I was more concerned with grades and behavior than with who she was and who she would become. Mostly, I stopped having fun with her.
My biggest regret is that I didn't have more fun with her. I forgot to remember to treasure the little moments. I never forgot that I loved her and would do anything for her, but there are very few occasions in which one actually has to save the life of her child. The love is really in the little things. Vacations reminded me of what an incredible person she is and I started to live for those rather than the hour on a Sunday where we did nothing but sit back and appreciate that minute. She begged for my attention but I didn't want to play Chutes and Ladders. I didn't want to play some dumb video game with her. I chose not to relish those moments, thinking that the big ones would suffice.
Teenagers are a completely different animal. Her depression both pulled us apart and pushed us together. I have pushed her away and pulled her towards me in the same way. This last year especially required a lot of my mental and emotional energy. Fortunately, there isn't a whole lot I would do differently in that sense. She was my sole focus. Her life became my purpose. And maybe that needed to happen. I think I needed to be reminded of who I was as a mother.
Now every moment feels bittersweet. Her last play. Her last concert. Her last prom. Her last, her last, her last. I think I've cried more over her growing up this last year than in the previous 17 years combined. Senior pictures reminded me so sharply of her one-year-old portrait session. She even wore denim similar to her tiny little dress in those photos. Prom made me sob for about half an hour. The graduation announcements arrived and I couldn't even read them. She now watches me for the tears that she has learned to expect.
These moments are poignant because they just are and they're supposed to be, but it's more than that. I'm losing her to her adult life. It's coming. It's just down the street. I hear it and I'm trying to be ready. I'm finally trying to be what she needs me to be. Problem is, my feelings get in the way. I want my baby back. I want another chance. I want to fix my mistakes. I want to be the mom with endless patience and hours of time and the sincere desire that I had when her feet were so tiny and she needed me so much. She needs me less now and it's both heart-wrenching and rewarding. Mostly it's just too much to process in three weeks.
So I'll cry. I'll beam with pride and cry some more. I will continue to be amazed at how beautiful she is. How surprisingly talented because that doesn't come from me. I can't claim that one. And I'll cry some more.
You can find me on June 8th in the corner. Crying and spilling with pride at the same time.
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Why I Now Need a Baby
Well, the number one reason I need a baby is because I no longer have one. What I have now amounts to a roommate. A roommate who doesn't have her own car and needs to be driven around regularly. She also doesn't pay rent. Or do her own laundry. Or pay any of her other bills like choir, library fees, retreat costs, clothing, food, gas that I use driving her butt around, etc, etc, etcetera!
I happen to have given birth to my roommate, which is why I suppose she thinks she is entitled to all of the free meals and the warm bed she sleeps in. I think I am entitled to her not growing up too fast but she's not holding up her end of the bargain. She ditches me on a regular basis so that she can have her own life. With friends. Whatever.
I remember the first time I knowingly broke my mom's heart. I was 16 (hmmm... like someone else I know) and she offered to set aside a day to take me shopping for school clothes. I flippantly remarked, "Oh, that's okay. I'm going with Lori next week." Now, my mom is the least sentimental person I know. I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen her cry in my life (while I need both hands and feet of everyone I know to count how many times I cry in a month), but I saw the look of hurt in her eyes and heard the tinge of sadness in her reply, "Oh. Well. Okay." I immediately regretted what I'd said. As proud of myself as I was for growing up and doing things like a Big Girl, I wasn't completely insensitive to the fact that my mom didn't always feel the same way.
And now I don't feel that way about D. Of course, the times she is being a total pain I start counting down the days until she's someone else's roommate, a real one who pays her own bills. But a lot of the time I'm happy that I still get to be the one still in charge of her. And a couple of weeks ago I got a taste of what my mom felt that day.
She has been going to retreat after retreat the last few weeks for everything she's involved in. A couple of weeks ago it was the cast camping trip with the play that she is in next month. I overheard her conversation with a Boy the night before she was to leave. "Why do you need to text him tomorrow morning?" I nosily asked. She replied, "We're having coffee and then he's dropping me off at the camp carpool." Oh. Well. Okay.
The next morning the Intruder Into My Relationship With My Daughter showed up. Of course she wasn't quite ready so there was the awkwardness of having to invite him in and then I ran off to go over the packing list with her repeatedly. Sunscreen? Yes. Bug spray? Yes. Books to read? Flashlight? Toothbrush? Yes, mom. I have everything.
I hugged her tightly, glared at the Intruder, and sent her off. KY said, "Well, he seemed nice. Most guys that age don't look you in the eye when they're speaking to you." And I was like, "Whose side are you ON!?!?" So he's nice enough. So what! I am the one who is supposed to see her off on her little adventures. I am supposed to meet the adults I am passing her off to. Not some teenage boy who has no idea what it's like to worry every minute of every day about your baby her first year of life. And then every minute of every day after that. Because it doesn't stop.
And she may be growing up, but that doesn't mean I stop being her mom. It doesn't mean I stop worrying. Or making sure she has everything she needs. And it doesn't mean I want to stop. I still want to be the one to hug her before she goes off on retreats. I want to be the one that tells her she is going to be great and everyone will love her. I want to be the one making her lunch even if that's the only part she will let me take.
I want her to be my baby until she can't anymore. And, since she is absolutely, 100% opposed to there being an actual, new baby in the house, she's going to have to hold up her end of the deal.
I just wouldn't mind a little gas money now and then.
I happen to have given birth to my roommate, which is why I suppose she thinks she is entitled to all of the free meals and the warm bed she sleeps in. I think I am entitled to her not growing up too fast but she's not holding up her end of the bargain. She ditches me on a regular basis so that she can have her own life. With friends. Whatever.
I remember the first time I knowingly broke my mom's heart. I was 16 (hmmm... like someone else I know) and she offered to set aside a day to take me shopping for school clothes. I flippantly remarked, "Oh, that's okay. I'm going with Lori next week." Now, my mom is the least sentimental person I know. I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen her cry in my life (while I need both hands and feet of everyone I know to count how many times I cry in a month), but I saw the look of hurt in her eyes and heard the tinge of sadness in her reply, "Oh. Well. Okay." I immediately regretted what I'd said. As proud of myself as I was for growing up and doing things like a Big Girl, I wasn't completely insensitive to the fact that my mom didn't always feel the same way.
And now I don't feel that way about D. Of course, the times she is being a total pain I start counting down the days until she's someone else's roommate, a real one who pays her own bills. But a lot of the time I'm happy that I still get to be the one still in charge of her. And a couple of weeks ago I got a taste of what my mom felt that day.
She has been going to retreat after retreat the last few weeks for everything she's involved in. A couple of weeks ago it was the cast camping trip with the play that she is in next month. I overheard her conversation with a Boy the night before she was to leave. "Why do you need to text him tomorrow morning?" I nosily asked. She replied, "We're having coffee and then he's dropping me off at the camp carpool." Oh. Well. Okay.
The next morning the Intruder Into My Relationship With My Daughter showed up. Of course she wasn't quite ready so there was the awkwardness of having to invite him in and then I ran off to go over the packing list with her repeatedly. Sunscreen? Yes. Bug spray? Yes. Books to read? Flashlight? Toothbrush? Yes, mom. I have everything.
I hugged her tightly, glared at the Intruder, and sent her off. KY said, "Well, he seemed nice. Most guys that age don't look you in the eye when they're speaking to you." And I was like, "Whose side are you ON!?!?" So he's nice enough. So what! I am the one who is supposed to see her off on her little adventures. I am supposed to meet the adults I am passing her off to. Not some teenage boy who has no idea what it's like to worry every minute of every day about your baby her first year of life. And then every minute of every day after that. Because it doesn't stop.
And she may be growing up, but that doesn't mean I stop being her mom. It doesn't mean I stop worrying. Or making sure she has everything she needs. And it doesn't mean I want to stop. I still want to be the one to hug her before she goes off on retreats. I want to be the one that tells her she is going to be great and everyone will love her. I want to be the one making her lunch even if that's the only part she will let me take.
I want her to be my baby until she can't anymore. And, since she is absolutely, 100% opposed to there being an actual, new baby in the house, she's going to have to hold up her end of the deal.
I just wouldn't mind a little gas money now and then.
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