You Are You And You Are Love.

My mother is very sick.

She is also a very private person, and probably won’t like that I’m putting on the internet that she is sick. But I am not a private person, and I don’t know how to deal, and by the end of this post you will likely understand why today is the day that I decided to write about it.

My mom and I are close. I don’t have siblings, and my parents were young when they had me — just 21 years old. I was so much older than that when I had my first child; I can’t imagine my 21-year-old self caring for a baby, but my parents were and are amazing. I remember my dad’s 26th birthday … he got an ax, and it totally freaked me out. What did he need an ax for? But there are pictures of him grinning with it, and he looks so young. I guess because he was.

A year or two later, my mother and I were in an accident. It was winter, and raining. She was wearing a plaid flannel shirt. Daddy wasn’t home yet, and she needed something from the store. We set out in the little tan Datsun, which had no seat belts. We were just a mile or two from home when we came upon a car that was sitting in the middle of the road. We swerved to avoid it, lost control, and flipped several times before landing in a ditch.

Esther, that’s my mother, slung her right arm across my body to keep me from slamming into the roof of the truck. When we stopped rolling, I didn’t have a scratch on me but she suffered enormous internal injuries. Neighbors came down and dragged me out of the truck window, and I remember seeing her bleeding hands and being terrified. For years after that she had the habit of slinging her arm across me in the car and I made fun of her, but now that I’m older and have my own children, I tear up every time I think about it. Because of course she held me down. I would hold my children down too, and slam into the roof of my vehicle a million times over if that is what it would take to keep them safe.

Mothers are amazing in what they will suffer for the sake of their children.

My mom has been sick off and on for as long as I can remember, and the doctors could never seem to get to the bottom of what was going on. In the past few years I have grown more and more concerned as I have basically watched my mother die right in front of me. Her skin, which is naturally a ruddy color, turned a shade of green that varied depending on how she was feeling, and finally it started to look gray.

The gray week was the week that her cardiologist told her unless she made some drastic changes, she was going to die.

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I found this while going through an old folder of stuff my Grandma saved. It looks like she kept everything I ever gave her. My mom thinks I wrote this in first grade. It’s totally deep, right?!

When a parent delivers news like that, news you don’t find surprising because you already knew it deep down, the absence of surprise doesn’t make it any less upsetting. Once the words are spoken into the air, it’s real and you can’t get away from it. I am a person of action, which is both an obnoxious quality and an effective one, and the very moment she told me I started creating a mental checklist of things that needed to HAPPEN. For the next few weeks I was a mad woman, running myself ragged trying to take control of a situation I have absolutely zero control over.

The thing about grief, or in this case, worrying yourself sick, is that if you’re doing something you think will “help” it more than likely is not helping. It’s only making YOU feel better because you can lay your head down at night feeling like you didn’t just sit idly by and allow something terrible to happen. None of us have the power to “allow” or “stop” an illness, and yet, I had to do SOMETHING.

So I put her on every prayer list I could find. Catholic, Baptist, Seventh-day Adventist … I didn’t discriminate. If they were praying people, I asked them to pray for her.

I prayed diligently on my own.

I loved her even though I was mad at her for being sick, even though I knew she had no control over it.

I cried and I yelled.

It was literally all I talked about to my close girlfriends, BLESS THEM. I can’t say enough how vital close girlfriends are when you’re going through A Thing That Sucks. I love them for listening to me and loving me despite the nonstop barrage I hit them with on the daily. I would say, “I’m sorry I’m going on and on …” but did that stop me? Nope. Not in the least. If you have a friend who is going through something difficult and you feel awkward because you don’t know what to say to her, don’t let that stop you from listening. Having someone listen is incredibly helpful.

Eventually, I accepted that there is nothing I can do but love her through this journey she’s on, and hold tight to the belief that she’s going to get better and go on to live many, many more years. She has to. There is no other option.

I wanted to talk about this before, but it wasn’t the right time. Today is the right time, I think. I hope. I was inspired to share this particular story today because I was talking to her this afternoon and admitted that I’ve been experiencing major anxiety because, hello. Do I even need to explain? And our conversation turned to prayer. I totally believe in prayer. I’m no Bible-thumper, but I believe in God and I desire Him to lead my life even though I don’t live it in the most graceful and serene way all the time.

Okay, fine. None of the time.

Anyway, I said to her “Of course I pray, I ask God every night for protection and guidance,” and she cut me off and said in that stern way only mamas can, “YOU NEED TO STOP ASKING FOR THINGS AND START THANKING HIM FOR WHAT HE HAS ALREADY DONE.”

I have spent weeks, people. Weeks wallowing in deep, strangulating stress, asking and praying and muddling through. And the woman who has the most reason to be asking God for something told me straight up I needed to spend more time thanking God for what He has already done.

Despite everything she has been through and continues to go through on a daily basis, which is a lot, she is still thankful. She admonishes me every time I so much as hint that God might not know what He’s doing up there. Everything happens for a reason, she says. Well … okay. I try to accept that. Sometimes it’s hard.

My mother will maybe be mad at me for writing about her, but I had to because this is the woman who held me down in that truck. This is my mother. All mothers are extraordinary in their own special way, but mine has a distinct grace about her that allows her to happily say “It could always be worse!” even when the walls are all crumbling down. Because she’s right, it could always be worse. She could be dead, and she’s not. Because she’s going to GET BETTER.

So really, this is a damn good day. And if my mother can seize it and be grateful, I will too. And so should you.

Oh yeah … and my dad bought me a book. It’s perfect.

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Six.

Suddenly, Maverick is six.

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He rides his bike without training wheels. He stands at the end of the driveway alone and waits for the school bus while I watch through the kitchen window. He insists on wearing boxer briefs.

On his birthday, I offered him a special pin to wear to school. He insisted on putting it on himself and I was silly enough to argue, warning that he might get poked, but he wrested it from my grasp and pinned it directly in the center of his belly. “I’m SIX now,” he said. “I can do things myself.”

He can. And he does. Maverick has always been fiercely independent, and it’s hard to find that line between being available when he needs me and backing off when he doesn’t.

Being a mom is hard.

His room is scattered with Legos and he keeps the door shut at our request, so the baby won’t sneak in there and eat them. A few nights ago I found him sleeping on the floor, surrounded by tiny helicopters and fire trucks he built from his stash, and I tried to pick him up to put him back in bed. But I can’t anymore — he’s too heavy. I stood in the dark realizing, this is it. This is the end of the little years for Maverick, and the beginning of the bigger ones.

I try to embrace all the stages — some have been easier than others — but this boy has a way of making me SO mad, and laugh SO hard, I can’t imagine him belonging to anyone else. As much as I struggle at times to parent him, I know I was specifically chosen to be his mother.

The other morning before I pushed him out the door to meet the bus, I whispered a prayer in his ear. He looked straight at me and said “Thank you for doing that, Mommy. It makes me feel less nervous.”

And then, he was gone.

 

 

Gospel Music.

A few weeks ago, I went to my parent’s house to pick something up. I didn’t have the kids with me — it was just me and my mom. After I was done loading up the van, I plunked down on the couch to chat for a minute.

She seemed on edge, taking lots of deep breaths, which made me on edge. Finally, she said, “There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.” The way she said it made me nervous, like I was in trouble. Had I said bullshit too many times on my blog? I don’t talk like that in person — she should be proud. Was she going to try to talk to me about the kid’s moral character, or how Maverick knows too much about anatomy? My mind was spinning, and I tried to brace myself for whatever was about to happen.

I need you to just keep an open mind about what I’m going to say,” She said. “This has really been weighing on me for a long time.”

I squirmed in my seat.

She took a deep breath. I waited.

I really feel like Maverick needs to be involved in Southern Gospel music.”

I made the sound I make when I am trying to be polite and NOT laugh. I did what she asked and I heard her out. She explained her reasoning, how much research she had done on the subject, and where the closest school was for learning such a musical skill (Pass Christian, Mississippi, just so you know).

Later on, I pointed out how weird that was and what a shame it is that I can’t talk about all the things I go through with my parents and my in-laws that are just FUNNY. I don’t want to poke fun at them because they are my elders and they are all wonderful, but wow, have I got some stories.

She suggested that I could still share the stories, but change everyone’s names. You know, like Jane and John and the neighbor lady, Patrice. I explained that is something I just can’t do. It takes too much energy to dream up names for my characters and then pretend I’m not talking about my own mother. I’d give up halfway through and just say the hell with it, I AM JANE AND PATRICE IS MY MOTHER. MY MOTHER WHOSE REAL NAME IS ESTHER SAT ME DOWN TO TELL ME MY 5-YEAR-OLD NEEDS TO BE A GOSPEL SINGER.

(Disclaimer: I would totally support Maverick if he wanted to sing gospel music. I also got my mother’s permission to share this story.)

Do we look like the kind of people who have the time to fabricate elaborate stories? Count how many kids you see in this picture.

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This is us, in our too-small kitchen.

When my Scary Mommy piece was published on Friday, traffic to this blog shot to unprecedented numbers. It blew my mind, actually; the entire experience was out-of-body. It was exciting and humbling, and inspired me to keep going — to write more, to continue to aim high. But I have always felt disappointed when I found a really cool blog and then the writer starts getting more and more traffic and then they start writing more and more sponsored posts (not that I wouldn’t do that — I totally would) and seem like they are censoring what they say out of fear that they will offend someone.

If NOT letting that happen here means I never find my way to the big time, so be it. I am a terrible liar, as illustrated above. If I tried to make my life seem glossy, or my kitchen seem spacious or my parents (who I try not to talk about here) seem boring and normal, it wouldn’t work.

Just like if I said my “friend’s” father-in-law is a kind-hearted ghost hunter, you’d totally know I was talking about my own father-in-law.