Mommy

I’m starting this post from my desk, even through the mounds of work that I need to complete. I would’ve started this on the train in to work if my ex-boyfriend had realized that I was insinuating that I wanted the $200 Ipad mini for my birthday last year, but his gift was something I wanted and appreciated. But I needed to at least ensure that I got everything in my head down before I forgot what I wanted to write. 


Prior post, I said that I wouldn’t start reading until summer but I borrowed a book from my best friend’s boyfriend’s mother. And I am glad I started reading. Currently reading, YEAR OF YES! I’ve been seeing the reviews for some time now and I wish I didn’t wait so long to purchase it. 

I’m in chapter one and already there was something I felt. 

Shonda simply said something about being a mother. Something that I am not yet. Whenever someone says something to me about mother hood I cringe. For many reasons but one sure reason is that I am afraid of failing as a mother. I think of my mother often and think I could never be half the mother she was to us. My mother has made some fucked up choices that have me struggling currently in life in ways that I would have never imagined at age 26, but throughout the years, she has worked her ass off in ways that I can’t seem to find the energy for. 

My mother is the first higher education graduate in her immediate family. None of her siblings are as “established” as her. A lot of envy and jealousy surround those relationships that are quite annoying and troublesome. I am glad that my sister and I aren’t on that level. Because I have finally accepted that my kid sister will have her undergraduate degree before me. It’s a painful thought but I’ll survive it. I’m proud of my kid sister; at least one of us will make it, on time. 

My mother has four degrees, two of which are master’s degrees, and obtained them while being married, and having 3 children. I am neither married nor have children but I am struggling to get this damn undergrad. I sometimes want to ask her how she made it happen but she couldn’t tell me. She’s a bit of a show off so, she’d probably say some simple shit like “work hard”.  I need direction. She worked full time through the whole process. If anything I got from my mom it is that, I don’t know what it is like to not have a job; it scares me now to think of not working. I seriously do not care if God blessed me with a millionaire to marry, I am still working. It’s all I know.

My mom was there for us. I almost cried telling someone that I remember when my mom choose to not eat because all she had was $20 and it was able to feed my siblings and I when she took us out for lunch that Saturday afternoon. I had to have been maybe 6 or 7 years old. I remember that. There were days when I knew she didn’t have a dollar or even asked to borrow great sums of money from me, and I’d always give it to her, because I remember the times she sacrificed for us. I’d get angry when she wouldn’t give me back the money, but I kept humble remembering the time she pawned her wedding ring to pay mortgage so we could enjoy the backyard, that my father and her had worked paycheck to paycheck for many years for us to have. 

Back in December, I wrote letters to the people I loved. Some hand delivered, and some mailed. They were heartfelt letters. Mainly to my siblings, my best friend, and my last love. I wanted to badly write my mother a letter expressing the resentment and joy that I was feeling towards her. But I just couldn’t find it in me. So simply today, I’ll say it here.

She’s the walking force in my life. She’s not my friend, she’s my mother. Friends I can choose to not speak to but my mom, I never will stop speaking to. I accept her and all her madness. I sometimes am afraid to introduce her to people because of her “no care” ways but whoever I shall marry, I give you fair warning about who my mother is. If you don’t like it, then oh fucking well. I can’t change her, and I won’t if I could, because I love her.  As crazy, and fucked up as she is, I love her. I look like her. Some of my attitude comes from her, those are the parts that I try and change about myself but they’ll say I’m moody like my dad, WHATEVER. The way I make my bed is because of her. I am learning a lot about how I do not want to completely be like her. There are something’s that she has done to me that I forced myself to forgive her for but I can’t change them. One day I’ll be a mother and I’ll run to her for advice.  I’ll think back to all the times she once or twice cried and be in the same boat. I’ll be at her funeral and not able to breathe the way she struggled to as I watched her bury her mother. I see her as Diane and not mommy because I am an adult now. But even when I am 50 years old, I’ll still call her mommy, because that’s who I know her as. 

Instead of the cliché mother’s day post, I’ll post this today and honor my crazy mother; she’s the only one I’ll ever have. 


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