I am not a Mother

 I am not a Mother

I am a child wanting a Mother

Will you rock me?

Will you sing to me?

Will you play with me?

Will you tell me what makes you happy?

Will you tell me what makes you sad?

Will you share your dreams and fears with me?

Will you tell me stories about your childhood?

I am not a Mother

I am a child wanting to stand beside My Mother

I will ask her questions while she cooks

I am not a Mother

I am a teenager wanting to ask My Mother about why my body feels strange

I'm wanting her to tell me about when my breasts will get bigger

I'm wanting her to explain to me how to behave on a date with a boy

I'm wanting her to tell me about intimacy and passion 

I am not a Mother

I am a young adult wanting to ask my Mother about how to know if a man loves me

I'm wanting her to explain to me how to take care of myself and how to set boundaries with friends

I am not  Mother

I am a college student discovering my passions and dreams

I'm wanting to share my creative explorations with My Mother

She listens to me, and shares her passion for quilting with me

I am not  Mother

I am a college graduate and I'm scared about living life on my own.

I'm wanting My Mother to explain to me what to expect in the workforce

She tells me that "any job is a good job"

I am a first year teacher, and I'm feeling  lonely and scared and overwhelmed

I feel so terribly sad, I ask My Mother to come get me because I can't stop crying

I spend the weekend feeling desperate. I visit with my Uncle Stanley

And I tell him about my hostile work environment

He counsels me to put on a suit of armour and finish out the school year

He shares with me his experiences in challenging jobs

We share a beer and watch TV

He helps me make the decision to go back to the hostile work place and finish the year.

An emotional Bomb explodes at work, and a professional tells me to pack my things and leave.

I don't call My Mother, because I know what she will say, "any job is a good job"

So I stay in my apartment and cry, and cry and cry.

I don't go to work. I don't call work. I just stay in my room and cry.

I feel broken, and helpless and hopeless. 

There is no suit of armour thick enough for this job.

There is a knock on my door. It is him.

The ex-boyfriend who told me I was broken, just like him.

The ex-boyfriend who told me that no one else would love me, except him, because I was broken.

I believed him. 

Our history was rocky. He called me names, and threatened to commit suicide when I broke up with him.

He followed me around, and constantly accused me of looking at other guys.

I told him I felt smothered, and broke up with him.

He showed up at my dorm room, holding his mattress, he said his roomate had kicked him out and he needed a place to stay.

I felt sorry for him, so I let him stay.

I was lonely, so I let him stay.

I was scared, so I let him stay.

I thought I could help him, so I let him stay.

He drank too much. But I thought I could help him.

He smoked too much. But I thought I could help him.

He was so smart. Smarter than anyone I'd every know, except my father.

I was broken, he was broken. So we fit.

In a very toxic way, we fit.

I am not a Mother.

I am a young adult needing direction. The only one standing in front of me was the ex-boyfriend who said, " I love you, and I will help you."

The next day, I went back to work. But nothing had changed. It was hostile and cruel.

When I got home, I was met at the door of my apartment by a very angry man. He called me horrible names, and I sat and listened to him.

I was down, and he emotionally kicked me.

I cried, and believed every word he said.

If there was any part of me that wasn't broken, then at that moment, the last remaining part of me broke.

I gave up on life. I was sick and latched onto another sick human. We were sick together.

It was a perfect match of poison.

It never got better. It only got worse.

I am Not a Mother, I am a young adult, on the verge of marrying someone I didn't love, but this was an alternative to being alone and scared.

I wanted to talk to my Mother about love and relationships. 

She couldn't because she had never been taught how to do that.

In spite of all of this, I still love My Mother.

Giving birth child doesn't make you a mother, but losing your Mother helps you understand what a Mother is.

When your children are grown, then you understand what a Mother is.

I tried to give my children what I needed from My Mother.

But when the marriage is based on toxicity and fear and anger, then striving to be a Mother changes.

I choose toxic, I thrived on chaos and crises. I was very sick. 

Getting well started when I went to my first Al-Anon meeting and asked someone to help me get well.

"Can God fix me?" 

She said, "God can restore you to sanity, but you must let go."

When you let go of a toxic marriage, and see that you were wanting something that could never be, and you are not focused on others, you cannot be a good Mother.

We you learn that you must focus on taking care of yourself, then you can begin to be a Mother.

When darts are fired, and you hold up a shield, you can only protect the children from some of the darts.

The scars remain, but someday, we can heal.

The Ranch

 I'd like to go somewhere

And discover myself

I'll drive you

I'll help you pack

It was a short drive that seemed to last a month

His playlist, his life

Sister in the backseat, like a supportive backbrace

Helping to hold you up till you could collapse

And feel what you needed to feel

To cry the tears you couldn't cry then

For the first time, I know that my hugs and kisses

won't help

I place you in the hands of others

And I find peace because I know you are walking on your path

Your journey, to find your place in life

Thank you Tim

Dear Tim,

My heart is overflowing with gratitude for you
What you give me
yourself
Your endless patience, kindness, generosity
You didn't know what this would be
Yet, you said yes.
Your quiet strength and anchor
Helps me to keep steady on the path
That God laid out for me
You forgive me so easily
And coax me out of my shell
When I get scared
You hold me when I cry
And laugh with me when I chuckle

I am free now
Free to love you
Free to be your mate
Because the heavy weights are slowing sliding
off my shoulders
Your hands point me to the place
Where I need to lay my burdens down
You show me how to carry them to another place
You place wings on my burdens with your wisdom

I am so deeply grateful for your love

My Mother's Mixer

 My mother’s Mixer

Plop in the butter

Mash the bananas

Add sugar and honey

I pick up the mixer

Golden and brown

I watch the beaters

Go round and round

Spinning it all together

Weaving the pieces of life together

Memories of her standing in the kitchen

Making magic with the mixer

Liquid sweetness goes in the oven

Soft, moist, warm goodness comes out

Flour on the elbows, spoon in her hand

“Do you wanna clean the bowl?”

Better than gold, or diamonds

The spoon and bowl passing from her hands to mine

The greatest gift from her to me

If love can be baked, then I was loved.

She was quiet in the kitchen

Alone with her thoughts

Which I now see, must have been like a fairy tale for her.

A small electric mixer, eggs, milk, sugar and flour

In her pantry every day

Gave her comfort and peace

Her quiet, poise and gratitude

As she baked

Showed me that the ground we walk on

Is most beautiful, when covered with specs

Of spilled flour, and droplets of milk

Because that is evidence that we are using the gifts

God gives us.

going going gone

It's time for the cap and gown


Fuzzy little  head, nestled in my arms
Next to my heart
Such a sweet smell

My thoughts are simply about
keeping him safe, warm, dry and healthy
Wrapping him in a soft blanket
Looking at the tiny finger nails
Still soft from being in liquid
Every part of him is pink
And looks delicate

But I know from having his 2 older sisters
That babies are tougher than they appear

I'm glad I know this, because on our first day home
He scoots himself off our bed
"Thud" I ran to my bedroom
And there he lay
Not making a sound

My heart sank, I thought for sure
something would be broken
Nope, the only thing broken
was my pride

Two days ago he drives over
So he can get his eyes checked
For a new pair of glasses
He comes in the door
Still wearing his work uniform
In a red shirt and blue jeans

He looks taller
And I feel smaller

As I walk this morning
Just after he pulls out of the driveway
I try to think of what a song
would sound like
That expressed how I was feeling

He's going, he's going, he's gone
And I wouldn't have it any other way
He sits on the edge of the nest
And I am nudging him from the soft inside
of the lovely nest
That I made with scraps of flannels
Discarded threads
Pieces of worn blankets
Passed on to me, by my mother

Now, I point to the outside rim
Of the nest
And I tell him to stand up straight
And point his face to the wind
And look at the beautiful blue sky
And the white billowy clouds

So he can jump, and soar in the wind
I look at my baby bird
Who is actually a large male
Taller, and stronger than his mother
Yet needs a little more mothering
Before he takes flight

I will whisper in his ear for a few more weeks
And he will know that I love him
I will pray for him
And I will exhale really hard to create an up draft
As he leans out farther and farther
To carry him on his journey

The nest is almost empty
And I am sad and glad
And proud and eager
But mostly, I am grateful
For this son, that God sent me


He's going, he's going, he's gone

Go Gather Some Firewood

Go Gather Some Firewood

“Go gather some firewood”

I walk into the nearby woods, crunching leaves under my feet 

Looking for sticks

All sizes

Little ones will burn fast and are easy to carry

Medium sized ones will keep the fire going, 

They are fun to spin around like a baton

With coals on the end, we make our own fire show 

Large ones, heavy , so I drag with two hands, making a path in the leaves

The dusk is upon us, and our pile of sticks has grown

We build the fire, squatting, I make a tent like structure

crumble newspaper and light it up

Soon the darkness comes, along with cooler air.

No matter that it is July.

It’s cool.

I find a sweatshirt to put on, and long pants

Back outside, I’m so excited to sit on a log and watch the fire burn

It makes me feel so accomplished

Morning in the creek with cold water, and rocks

Afternoon in the little graveyard

Or a walk to the larger creek.

No agenda

“Let's walk to the bridge.”

Just to see what we can see.

To smell the dirt road, and see the trees

In every season

With green leaves, with colorful ones, or with none at all

“Lets walk to the bridge.”

Along the way, we pick up sticks.

Or stop at the little white church, where the door is always open

We imagine what happens inside, when people are there

I do cartwheels down the aisle, because it is a nice wood floor

We take turns giving speeches at the podium

When we tire of this activity

We continue on the journey

“To the bridge”

We pass by

The Three Bears house

And look for the bear tracks

“None this time.” I say

We get to the bridge

And throw sticks in to watch them go under one side

And come out the other

We go to the water’s edge and look at the rocks

Someone throws a big rock in, to watch it splash

We get wet, and we squeal, not because we are surprised, 

But because the water is so cold.

I start wading in, just to see how long I can stand it

I feel my tennis shoes fill with water

My toes start to go numb but I walk halfway across the creek

It gets deep, almost up to my knees

“I’m going across.” For no other reason than just to see if I can do it.

A self-challenge

Others join me.

We get to the other side, wet and cold

We sit on the bank in the sun

And watch the water sparkle

The colorful rocks at the edge and the patch of silt call to me

I get a small stick and write my name in the sand

I want to leave a part of me there, beside the rocks and the clear water

But the sun is starting to set

And I feel a hunger pain

And a cool breeze comes down the mountain

Telling us it's time to head back

Back to the cabin to eat something tasty that my mom has been cooking

Beef stew, or fried trout my father has caught with Pepa

The food tastes so good.

And the table, so long and shiny, gives me a feeling of home that I don’t feel anywhere else

“Go gather some firewood”

We head outside for the closing event of the day

Thank you Dad

For these memories

For giving us a piece of mother earth

And joy and peace

That I carry with me today

And always.

Measuring Spoons

The bananas are waiting
On my counter

The recipe hangs on my wall
And I have the eggs
And butter
And sugar

Measuring spoons
laying in the dusty cardboard box
That were tossed alongside
empty dried up tupperware

Almost looked discarded
But they were saved,
along with everything else

The boxes, labeled with words scribbled
Didn't contain what was written on the outside
Boxes usually create a sense of surprise
But these boxes were sitting alone
For twenty years

Waiting for something, someone, some perfect time
For us to open them

We sat them on the cold cement floor and began..
One after the other
Each one had a story
And my mind was jerked backwards

It was all going really well
Till I began sorting through this one box
Of various kitchen items
And my hands landed on the measuring spoons
The tiny ring still holding them together

A hundred moments rushed into my mind, my heart
Making cakes, pies, cobblers, dressings, icings, homemade ice cream,
giving medicine, and making stain removers with baking soda and vinegar
And banana bread
I can see her hands holding these dangling spoons
I can see her smiling
And mixing with her electric mixer
that lays in the bottom of this box

I clutch the spoons
And I begin to weep
I miss her so bad
Especially in the fall
When the crisp leaves outside take me back to walks in the woods
Where we simply enjoyed the leaves and the smell of nuts and smoky fires

It all seems so wrong
So broken
For her to not be here
I feel the unnatural end to her life
It wasn't supposed to go this way
She was supposed to be here now
To talk to me about these spoons
Because I have so many questions
The kind you don't even thing of until the person is gone
What was your favorite recipe?
What did you enjoy cooking the most?
What is your favorite food?
Can you show me exactly how to make your blackberry cobber?
Can you tell me your secret to perfect fried chicken?
What did you dream of when you were a little girl?
What was your favorite time of life?
What is your favorite season?


But in all the questions, the one I think of the most, but I dare not ask is this one.
Did you know I loved you?
Did you know that I needed you still?
Did you know that I missed you?
Did you know that I saw how strong you were?
Did you think I didn't care?
Did you know I was going to need you, a lot, in 5 years, 10 years, 20 years?
Why didn't you call me?
I would have come to you.
I would have helped you make a plan to have a good life.

I am so sorry you didn't feel like you could call on me.

I want to hold your spoons and talk to you about life.
But I want to hold you Mom.

I have a heartache today, that is bearing down on me like a heavy load of bricks.
So I am doing what I do to get these bricks off my back.
I take them down, one at a time, and look at them
Describe them.
Each brick has a word on it.
The first one was
"measuring spoons"
And the next  one was
"I loved your measuring spoons"
The others came rushing by so fast, I almost couldn't read what was on them
But they were all covered in tears
And the last one is on the horizon
I am looking for it now.

Some bricks have only one word
Some have sentences
Others just a fingerprint