Memories of Poems

My mother was a prolific poet. When we were cleaning up the house after she had passed, we had to sift through boxes and books and stacks of papers, filled to the brim with poetry. Some of it was great, some of it was good, and a whole ton of it was total crap. But this was her chosen medium to vent her feelings and frustrations. Sometimes, a poem was nothing but a pressure valve for her life.

My sister and I, always struggling for her approval (why we stuggled, I'll never know, I'm pretty sure we had it the minute we were born), always would try to churn out some poem. I admit it, Anne was better than me. But in the months following her funeral, I would often use poetry as a method to bond and remember, and let off some of the steam of pain that seemed unbearable. So, I'll post two below:

Sometimes.

I think that I am just dreaming

and once I wake up,

she will be here again.

I realize that it’s more a latent wish,

a hope that is manifesting itself

in thoughts.

When I recognize my folly, the pain hits me again

like the unrelenting current.

And I wish that it were the opposite,

when I dream of her,

and it feels so real that I could hug her,

and she would be warm

and alive again.

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Pictures painted perfectly in my childlike eyes

Irises the sizes of fat raindrops, splashed across the pages

A new hobby, you said

A new distraction from me, I thought

Not to be dissuaded

I propped my easel next to yours

Coffee cup in hand

Only four years old, full with pretension

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It's funny, this entry was meant to be a brainless copy and paste, and yet, it stirs up more memories than others. But that's how poetry works.

Memories of Delivery

So tomorrow is D-Day. Delivery Day. Maybe. If Jack decides to play nice. Regardless, tomorrow, labor will be induced, so it will mean that Jack will be here sometime this week. Assuming he isn't completely stubborn.

Obviously, I don't remember much about my delivery. And by much, I mean anything. I do, however know what my mom told me. I was born at around 9:45 in the morning, and my delivery was short. My parents really wanted a boy, and the doctor knew this. Everybody thought that I was a boy. When I arrived, my doctor said in a really excited voice "It's a..... IT'S A...................... ....girl." Also my hair was black and formed a widow's peak on my baby face. My parents were very confused about where their Elvis vampire baby came from. I wish I knew more.

As I look into the future and all the uncertainty of the next couple of months surrounds me, I wonder if my mother felt the same way. Granted, by the time I came around, she had already broken her teeth on Baby #1, but there must have been different uncertainties that plagued her.. How do you change the diapers for 2 babies? I know that even as we entered into adulthood, she was unsure of her ability to give both of us enough love. I wish that I had done more to reassure her that a mother's love wasn't a zero sum game, and by giving me love it didn't mean that Anne had less love and vice versa.

I do know that tomorrow, she will be with me, as a mother's love doesn't end with death.

Memories of Baby Years

Now that I'm pregnant, I'm a bit lost without mom. I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing or feeling, and all the books that I'm reading scare me more than reassure me. Everytime something hurts, I just want to ask her "did this happen to you too?"... "Is this normal?"... "Will we survive?".. granted, I've always been a little more than over dramatic. I have the feeling that my questions for her will only mulitply when Jack comes. I don't even know how to freaking hold a baby, nevertheless, be the only line between survival and perishing. Why can't babies just emerge walking and talking?

My earliest memories are a bit jumbled together in my mind, so I have no idea to determine which was the earliest. I can only benchmark them against the developmental baseline which I learned in the 6th grade Home Economics unit on family life. I have dozens of solid memories of life in the little brick ranch house on Anchorage Drive, where my dad lived when he met my mother, where they spent their first married years together and where we continued to live until I was about four. There are memories of the hobby horse in the basement, my sister cutting out the pink satin bear from my baby blanket, potty training, eating bologna and american cheese sandwiches while watching "Belle and Sebastian" on cable t.v. (a luxury not afforded to us from ages 4-14), barfing on my carpet in my room and birthday parties in the back yard. In all those memories, my mother plays a dominant role. How could she not? I barely started to go to Pre-Kindergarden when we moved, and she was basically the sun upon which my world revolved.

One paticular memory sticks out. I must have been a toddler. I was still young enough to be in a crib, but almost to big to be out of it. My mom was putting me down for a nap and for some reason (I don't remember being hungry), I wanted a bottle. I think it was more for the comfort of it. She was annoyed but finally conceeded. I remember staring up at the mobile, waiting for my mom to hurry up and get me my baba. And the feeling of gratitude and happiness when she gave it to me.

That's the kind of mom that I had. She wasn't always super pumped to do what she had to in order to give us stuff that we wanted (not needed), but she always provided. I hope I can pull threads of wisdom from her actions in my memories in order to be just as good of a mother to Jack.