Mother

I remember the intense fear I felt the first time I saw my mother cry. I'm sure it wasn't the first time she had ever shed tears in front of us, it was just that I was old enough to really understand what that meant. The helplessness that ran through me, seeing the one person I thought was afraid of nothing, standing there looking so weak and defeated.

I don't see my mother anymore, it's been almost two years. Aside from one short sliver of time I had to see her. My aunt had just passed away, and my older sister was left to take care of everything else. It was guilt that made me go. I knew I would have to face my mother, looking haggard, tiny and old. It was that moment that made me think of the first time I remember seeing her cry.

This time, seeing her afraid and weakened it made me understand how human we are as moms and women. How must it have made her feel crying before us as small children. We are given the impossible task of trying to be the bravest, the strongest, in our children's eyes. We want nothing more, than for them to feel protected and safe through us. It is bloody terrifying to think that we are asked, expected to, by others and ourselves, to be brave and strong at all cost.


Now, I remember the first time my children saw me cry. The look of sadness and fear in their eyes, still makes my throat thick. I didn't want to make them feel helpless or sad, but they did. It wasn't my intention to let them see my weakness and fear, but they did. I don't think I ever asked them how it made them feel. Maybe I'm just projecting what I felt as a child onto them, I don't know. I know my mother never asked. It's hard, but I don't think I want to know.


The one thing I do know is that I am sometimes weak, scared and sometimes I even feel defeated. In all of this I am slowly starting to accept that they can see this, they need to see it. My rawness, the reality of who I am. I am flawed, I am human and I make mistakes, it is scary, but it is the truth.

Stumped

Tonight I stood at the sink racking my brain trying to come up with something to write, that had substance, was deep and meaningful. Nothing.

It reminds me of a time when I had come back to university after summer break. My instructor gave us our first assignment. Creating something with substance, something that you could defend, something you could build on. I was dumbfounded, terrified, and blocked.

Eventually something did come, but the whole time I was afraid, afraid it wasn't what everyone wanted to see. It never got easier, each time after that I feared what I was making would somehow stump me, that I wouldn't be able to hold onto it and really make it mine.

Art in any form is hard. You give away tiny pieces of yourself each time you make something. I think writers have the worst time. You give something up, it peels parts of you away, opens you up for others to examine.

Each time I sit down to put something into words it's paralyzing. Somehow, I have a driving need to say something, but can't seem to find the words to say it. It's never good, or interesting enough. I read what others write, look at what they make and I never seem to feel like I can measure up.

It's not that I am not confident, honestly few would know I struggle with this, it's just that internal voice, that burning question. Is this okay, am I okay? I think I am okay. I walk around not looking like I am anything but composed, I think.

I lay in bed at night and wonder, does anyone else feel like this?

Growing up.

I feel like I've been doing this all of my life, growing up. I don't mean just going from being a care free kid to the suuden realization that I am a responsible adult. I mean really growing, changing, trying to find a place where I fit.

Do we ever find that? I don't know. I thought after I hit an age where I felt okay with myself, like magic, that would be it. It would be like a big metaphorical hammer coming down hitting me over the head, telling me I'd finally arrived, I'd grown up. I would know who and what I was. Well, not so much.

I am now a mom. Well I've been a mom for quite sometime, but I wonder how I, someone who still feels like the skinny awkward little kid, could ever hope to give her own kids enough. Enough courage, enough love, enough comfort for them to 'Grow up'? I still walk past windows, and wonder who the hell is that women staring back at me.

I'm okay though. I have adapted quite well, sometimes too well,to my surroundings. Maybe that is what growing up is all about. You simply have to become what your environment wants or allows you to be, rather than who you really are. God I sure as hell hope not.

I'll just keep trudging along, growing, changing and struggling. Maybe I'll find that elusive answer...when I grow up.