For my Mama, the unsung superhero
She's Mama.
Not Mom.
Not Mother, not Ma.
Mama.
And she's a superhero.
She doesn't fly or have powers of invisibility-- though she does have an uncanny ability to see through my bullshit most of the time. Points for that.
I have always suspected as much, don't get me wrong. You don't go through 29 years with this woman in your corner and not begin to wonder.
The woman who will style her hair, slip into heels and then school you with a power tool. That's my Mama.
I've had this post swirling around in my head for some time and I am still struggling to get it out. They say to write what you know, but the writer's block on sensitive subjects is still a very real thing for me. And writer's block is a lot like trying to build a wall; you have the bricks and mortar laid out in front of you ready to go but your arms won't bend.
It seems the closer to my heart the subject matter is, the harder of a time I have making coherent sentences-- so it's no surprise that this one has left me pretty jumbled. This is a big'un for me.
This year has been a doozy for all of us, and in the quieter moments I have realized just how heavy the focus has been on Dad. My Mama has been like a stage crew on a Broadway show-- the spotlight was elsewhere but she was behind the scenes ensuring it all ran smoothly. I take it for granted sometimes, and I hate that. Because my Mama is extraordinary and she deserves validation.
On Mother's Day 2015, my Daddy took his final breath.
On the day intended to shine the spotlight on the woman who gave birth to myself and my sisters, the universe got a laugh in and kicked it into hyper drive.
Happy Mother's Day, Teresa. You're now the only blood parent these kids have. Enjoy.
And again I'll say it-- my Mama is a superhero.
In the days following the death of my Dad-- the man my Mom loved for 25+ years before they divorced-- when nobody would have blamed her if she took a little selfish 'me' time to fall apart for herself, she soldiered on. She cooked spaghetti, which was the only thing I could stomach for about 4 days. She wiped tears, she held hands, she helped her broken-hearted babies plan their Dad's funeral down to minute detail. She shopped with me for a funeral dress, eventually helping me pick out 2 so I had options. She navigated her oldest daughter through a world of grief all her own 5,000 miles from home. She bolstered us, she nurtured; she was Mama.
In the months following, she made hard decisions. She followed her gut and her heart and made tough calls.
She held hands still. She worried, she fretted, she second-guessed herself-- but she was Mama. She was tired, she probably felt defeated-- but she never gave up.
In a time when I was struggling to remember who DeAnna was-- when I felt the very real pain of betrayal and felt my broken heart might very well begin to bleed real blood., she dusted off the pieces and handed them back to me. If there were parts missing, she lent me her own.
She was Mama.
In a time when so many things in my world were falling away or shifting into new shapes-- she was my constant.
I have so many things I want to say but there's no way to fit them all into words that make sense. They are feelings.
The feeling you get when you're running a fever and she can tell before you can.
The feeling when she hugs you tight, says good night, and tells you to let her know you got home safely.
The feeling when she asks how your day was and actually wants to hear it.
The feeling when the whole world is against you and knowing she's in your corner and she's ready to pounce.
We survived this year, Mama, and we are going to keep knocking them out of the park. Thank you for being my constant, and my friend. Thank you for setting an incredible example for me, and continuing to teach me to see the good in people at every opportunity. Thank you for showing me how to be a lady with tenacity, and a woman with a backbone.
I was lucky enough to have two incredible parents, and I'm blessed enough to get to call you my Mama.
So to you. I give the title of Wonder Woman. You've earned it.
I love you. Happy Mother's Day.
I'm sorry for making you cry.
Not Mom.
Not Mother, not Ma.
Mama.
And she's a superhero.
She doesn't fly or have powers of invisibility-- though she does have an uncanny ability to see through my bullshit most of the time. Points for that.
I have always suspected as much, don't get me wrong. You don't go through 29 years with this woman in your corner and not begin to wonder.
The woman who will style her hair, slip into heels and then school you with a power tool. That's my Mama.
I've had this post swirling around in my head for some time and I am still struggling to get it out. They say to write what you know, but the writer's block on sensitive subjects is still a very real thing for me. And writer's block is a lot like trying to build a wall; you have the bricks and mortar laid out in front of you ready to go but your arms won't bend.
It seems the closer to my heart the subject matter is, the harder of a time I have making coherent sentences-- so it's no surprise that this one has left me pretty jumbled. This is a big'un for me.
This year has been a doozy for all of us, and in the quieter moments I have realized just how heavy the focus has been on Dad. My Mama has been like a stage crew on a Broadway show-- the spotlight was elsewhere but she was behind the scenes ensuring it all ran smoothly. I take it for granted sometimes, and I hate that. Because my Mama is extraordinary and she deserves validation.
On Mother's Day 2015, my Daddy took his final breath.
On the day intended to shine the spotlight on the woman who gave birth to myself and my sisters, the universe got a laugh in and kicked it into hyper drive.
Happy Mother's Day, Teresa. You're now the only blood parent these kids have. Enjoy.
And again I'll say it-- my Mama is a superhero.
In the days following the death of my Dad-- the man my Mom loved for 25+ years before they divorced-- when nobody would have blamed her if she took a little selfish 'me' time to fall apart for herself, she soldiered on. She cooked spaghetti, which was the only thing I could stomach for about 4 days. She wiped tears, she held hands, she helped her broken-hearted babies plan their Dad's funeral down to minute detail. She shopped with me for a funeral dress, eventually helping me pick out 2 so I had options. She navigated her oldest daughter through a world of grief all her own 5,000 miles from home. She bolstered us, she nurtured; she was Mama.
In the months following, she made hard decisions. She followed her gut and her heart and made tough calls.
She held hands still. She worried, she fretted, she second-guessed herself-- but she was Mama. She was tired, she probably felt defeated-- but she never gave up.
In a time when I was struggling to remember who DeAnna was-- when I felt the very real pain of betrayal and felt my broken heart might very well begin to bleed real blood., she dusted off the pieces and handed them back to me. If there were parts missing, she lent me her own.
She was Mama.
In a time when so many things in my world were falling away or shifting into new shapes-- she was my constant.
I have so many things I want to say but there's no way to fit them all into words that make sense. They are feelings.
The feeling you get when you're running a fever and she can tell before you can.
The feeling when she hugs you tight, says good night, and tells you to let her know you got home safely.
The feeling when she asks how your day was and actually wants to hear it.
The feeling when the whole world is against you and knowing she's in your corner and she's ready to pounce.
We survived this year, Mama, and we are going to keep knocking them out of the park. Thank you for being my constant, and my friend. Thank you for setting an incredible example for me, and continuing to teach me to see the good in people at every opportunity. Thank you for showing me how to be a lady with tenacity, and a woman with a backbone.
I was lucky enough to have two incredible parents, and I'm blessed enough to get to call you my Mama.
So to you. I give the title of Wonder Woman. You've earned it.
I love you. Happy Mother's Day.
I'm sorry for making you cry.
Comments
Post a Comment