Mother's Day

It's a Wednesday morning. Middle of the week. I have a minute to myself, and I notice how present I am. Completely dropped in. I think of eighth grade, when I went away to camp for a week for the first (and only) time. I'll never forget how Wednesday felt. I hated the camp, the kids were rude, and I desperately wanted to go home. When Wednesday hit, I had such an overwhelming feeling that I was stuck. Time was at a standstill and I was trapped in the thick of it. This particular day of the week, smack dab in the middle, felt like a non-day. I was no longer at the beginning, but I certainly wasn't at the end. I was present then too, but years later, the difference is that I no longer want out.

I have a one-year old son. One. I have been made mother for over one year. One. With such a big birthday and with Mother's day approaching again I am swirling with feelings trying to make their way out in the form of words. 

I am now a mother, but I am still so many people. They are all very much alive in me. I am that little girl, heartbroken on a Wednesday, on the outside looking in. I am nineteen. I've just moved to New York City where nightlife will explode open, my heart will be crushed, and my teardrops will be left quite literally on the sidewalks. My passions will bloom, my artistry will grow, and I will leave there a real actor. I am a first grader, hurt by getting my one time-out over a complete misunderstanding, and losing my chance at the end-of-year prize from the treasure chest. I am in my early twenties, years into the wrong story. I change my fate. I meet the man who is designed just for me, we have a child. 

Now there is you, my boy.

You were born, and my soul hit the earth with a boom. Mother. Cracked open, everything fell away. Only my purest self remained. I'd had yet to met her.

You have reframed the universe, and restructured time. I have never been so in awe of a person. You, who upon first glance I thought, "who is this?" Looking nothing like I'd thought. Surprising me at every turn. I don't see much of me in you. You are your own little creature. This makes you even more magical. The Little Prince, and I am the curious one, having landed on your planet. 

You. You are everyone who came before and those yet to be. You, who after the most beautiful delivery suddenly got sick. They said to us, "if this happened 100 years ago, he wouldn't be here." But it didn't happen 100 years ago. Time was kind to us, my darling, and let us meet now. We are here, and I still can't grasp it. That you are mine, for keeps. But I've often felt that way about your dad. Six years since we met and I still have to pause and catch my breath. 

There is simply not time for anything that is not urgent. Or important. For time is liquid gold. If it takes me away from you it has to be worth it. There is no other option. 

You remind me that we are all perfect exactly as is from the second we burst into being. More than ever, I laugh at the labels we draw with the earth and with each other. We are all so much more than human and the silly rules we've made. I want such a much bigger, opened-minded earth for you, my boy. 

I saw you years before I knew you. I felt you close by just before you came to us. 

Life exploded into color when you arrived. I will be forever grateful for you, for making me a mother. For leading me my truest self. Little love of my life.

My boy, who shifted all of my selves into perfect harmony. Who taught me to love time, every second of the existence I've chosen (eternel retour) and even to love every Wednesday.


Previous post:  THE BOY 
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What nobody told me about becoming a mom

To my Charlie
5.16.16 2 months old today


What nobody told me about becoming a mom


That sometimes I'll be putting you to bed and be struck by a memory that makes me mourn my past life; like a craving for pad tai in Chelsea Market, where I spent my lunches during acting school. Then you'll laugh in your sleep and I'm instantly reminded that since knowing you, I've felt more love than any other time in my whole life. 

How aware of time I'd become. I feel I can reach right out and touch it these days. I see how temporary every single moment is. Time keeps going. Each new stage keeps passing. I am hyper-aware that nothing lasts forever. 

How I'd ache when you are in another's arms. How my heart would pound and anxiety would surge through me. Sweating, distracted, I'm a secret emotional wreck until you are given back to me. To all mothers who've so generously given me time with your own children through the years, who very well silently sat in agony while your baby was only across the room, I thank you. I love you. I honor you. I couldn't have known. 

How I would want to fall at the feet of all mothers now. You queens, you goddesses. This is what you have all gone through? This is what you were talking about? I'm humbled. I'm not worthy. 

The panic I'd feel when someone says they want to babysit you. All I hear is, they plan to take you away from me. I've had a lifetime of nights out, of living without you, I have no qualms about devoting myself to you through your infancy and beyond. 

How at home I'd finally feel in my own body. I feel every last inch fully inhabited by me at my most authentic. I am finally living in it fully, thanking every last bit of it with my whole being, so in awe that it gave me you. I've never felt more beautiful. I'm a new species. You made me, little boy. 

How much I would cry. Cry for things that haven't even happened yet. Like the time I started thinking of you growing up, going to school, leaving the house on your own. Not being a baby anymore. I laid on the floor snd sobbed. You weren't even two months yet.

How, like the universe, my love for you keeps expanding. How I see my late grandpa in your eyes, my late uncle in your nose and mouth when you smile. How you're a little bit of everyone we've lost come back to heal us. 

How each day would be bittersweet. Your growth would sneak up on me, yet seem so rapid. I am caught between mourning your beginning and excitement to see who you're becoming. 

That the day you took your first bottle instead of my breast would be incredibly difficult for me. I laid in the other room crying, hating that one of our feedings was being taken away from me. The one thing only I can give you. 

How excited I'd feel each morning to see you even though we've seen each other all through the night. There's something magic at the start of a new day. I awake to find it wasn't a dream after all, that you are real, we've got another day, we've got more time, and you really are mine to keep. 


xoxo, 

Momma 

The things that will break your heart...

…if you think about them for too long.

My childhood home:
Thanksgiving dinner around the dining room table
Countless hours spent decorating, cleaning, and rearranging my bedroom
Writing for hours in my journal on my bed
The christmas songs my Grandma played while we decorated for the holidays
The storage I was often scared to go into under the basement stairs. One bulb to light it, turned on by pulling a string.
The smell of the candles and christmas decor coming out of the big brown boxes for the first time each year.
Christmas eve
Christmas morning 
Girlfriends over to get ready for a night ahead
Girlfriends sleeping over after a magic night out

Teenage adventures:
Roller skating with my girlfriends, excited to see the boys at the rink
Talking about boys and analyzing everything into the wee hours of the morning
Lunch with my girlfriends at school
Passing notes
The simplicity of growing up before social media,
and media overload in general
Young heartbreaks that make me smile years later rather than cry
My first car
The complete safety of being at home, before you embark on true experiences and growth, that you don't know how to appreciate until it's gone.
Ignorance
Protection
Being a child

A snippet.

I am about fifteen.
I've recently met a boy.
He has blonde hair.
We have gone out a few times.
He has come to my house.
We have modeled together.  We have roller skated together.
One night, something happens.  Some sort of argument.
I couldn't tell you what it's about.
But, as quickly as we began, we are over.
I am on my way home, it's night.  A friend is dropping me off.
As we make the turn onto my street, the unexpected happens.
There, in my driveway, is his car.
The old white one with rust spots everywhere.
He's standing, leaning against the outside.
Peeking out from under that blonde hair.
We have a conversation and make amends.  Something about him not wanting to lose me, how he felt the first time he saw me when we modeled.
Some apology.

But.  Someone told me this.  I only remember him.  As in I remember who he was, his name, and what he looked like.  I remember the way he looked, leaning against the car, waiting for me.  Like something out of a movie.  I think I remember kisses one night on a dance floor.  And getting in trouble for it.  But as for the rest of it, the details, I'm at a loss.  I only know about this particular night because my grandparents told me.  You see, right above the driveway was their bedroom.  And they overheard it all.  Two fickle teenagers breaking up and making up.

Not so long ago when my Grandma told me the story, her face lit up and she laughed throughout.  She even quoted him.  "When I saw you, I knew you were special."  I'm sure both of my grandparents got a kick out of it.  I'm sure the two of them fell asleep with smiles on their faces that night.  I can picture it.  I can still smell their bedroom.  My beloved childhood home that has never stopped haunting my dreams.

I was struck by this the other day, out of nowhere.  Struck with the thought that the two of them seemed to know this memory of mine better than I do. And now, there is only one.  My Grandma.  One day she too will be gone, and nobody will know this anymore.  A witnessed memory.  A story about me.  The ones who could tell it best will no longer be.

How strange.  They are the possessors of this tiny slice of my life.  Maybe it seems so big because it's the only one I know of for certain.  The only memory like this truly belonging to someone else.  Something I should remember, but don't.  Perhaps there are others.  Other nights under the window.  Other boys. More stolen moments.  Maybe some take place outside the front door, next to my moms window.

What other snippets are out there, known better by another than by me?
And what happens if I don't remember?
And if they never tell me?

Two people know a memory of mine better than I do.  And now, there is only one.  My Grandma.  One day she too will be gone, and nobody will know this anymore.  


Thanks for reading,

Deena Marie