"You've Changed"

“You’ve changed,” he says through gritted teeth and with such resentment it stings her deeper than he imagined it would.

She hung her head low, insulted and hurt.  Perhaps she is too much: too much a mother, too much a wife, too much a teacher, and not enough of herself. Perhaps the anxiety of all of these roles crashing upon her life at the same time are too much for him to accept. 

“Perhaps this isn’t what he signed up for,” she thinks to herself and apologizes to him profusely.  

She ramps up the role of wife, thinking this is what he needs.  She takes more from his plate and puts it onto hers.  She watches TEDTalks about balance, about motherhood, about being a good wife.  She texts friends asking about what they might have done in the same position.  She tries those things. 

Yet, he’s still not happy.  

Yes, she’s changed.

Her body has given and sustained life.  Her hips have widened. She stares at jeans that she aspires to return to often. Believe me, she knows that she’s changed – she’s reminded of this every time she longs for clothes because they fit her style and not her ever growing belly.  She doesn’t need you to remind her this through your pursed lips and sharp teeth. 

Her friendships have evolved or in some cases, died completely.  These girls saw the change and hated how it inconvenienced them. She’s cried into her pillow at night while you watched TV downstairs.  She’s been low and picked herself up.  She will do this time and time again; each time she does she changes a little. 

 She has laid awake at night worrying about things that may never happen.  She has gone without sleep for months at a time.  She’s been called a bitch, a stress-case, and judged for missing deadlines, appointments, and putting off responsibilities.  She judges herself harder than anyone else could so perhaps you should back off.

She’s created life, a home, and managed her career. The girl who was carefree and hopped a plane, following her passion, now builds her home here.  Her relics from a previous life slowly taken off the walls as the newest family photos are put up in their places.  Each travel souvenir that gets carefully wrapped and packed away reminds her of her previous life. She doesn’t need you to remind her that she’s not that girl anymore.

“You’ve changed,” he says through gritted teeth and with such resentment it lights a fire in her soul.  

“Yes,” she responds. “I’ve changed.  You really should have kept up”

"I'd Fight For You Too"

I was at the end of the long hallway before the question popped into my head. Never before had I questioned the history of your tiny family. How did a single man end up raising his two young daughters full-time?  

I turned, on my heels, and asked you something that I’d never wondered previously.  It had never occurred to me to ask you. I asked simply, “did you have to fight for them?” 

You answered equally as simply, “no.”

With that, satisfied, I turned back and carried on towards my teenage bedroom.  

You called my name.  I remember you calling out my name because your voice cracked.  “Virginia”, you said.  “I would have fought for them.”

I smiled because I believed you.  I turned again, headed towards my room and you followed with “I would fight for you, too.”

I don’t know if I turned back towards you to give you the smile that was deserved but I do remember my teenage heart bursting open. 

Here.  Here is a father who would fight for me.  A man, among men, who is not inconvenienced by the raising of children.  A constant in a world, that seemed at the time, to be ever changing.

I don’t know if I started calling you dadto my friends then or if that came at a later date but inside, inside, everything changed with that comment.  

I’d fight for you too.  

My Mother's Story

I am my mother’s story.

All of the wild, bravery, love, mess, trauma, and excitement.

These pieces of her, each one combined, created my reality.

And that is beautiful.  

She raised me out of her experiences to be kind, courageous, and skeptical.

My mother trusted a few who violated her trust.  She was just a child and was left, unprotected.  She raised me to be aware of intentions, talking often about her trauma, as hard as that was.  She raised me to walk through life, head up and eyes wide open.  My senses were engaged in every setting, never to let that guard down. She spoke with ease about the hurt she’d suffered.  Not only did she teach me to watch out for other’s poor intentions but she taught me to look into the eyes of those who might have been hurt and to be a helper in a world that needs that.  

She left knowing that she deserved more.  She knew her worth and refused to lower her standards. She might not have realized it at the time that she packed her car and drove off with three small babies in tow, but those actions defined my ability to search for love. Because of her strength I married a good-man. I never once, for a moment, questioned my worth of lowered my standards.  She did that. She deserves all of that credit.  

I used to lay in my bed as a teenager and listen to her help other parents who were struggling with their children.  Her creativity in discipline scared the sh*t out of me.  I stayed, for the most part, in line and simply watched and listened to her brilliance as a mother from the comfort of my bed.  Now as a parent myself, I pride myself in my firm but loving hand.  Mine is the same hand my mother showed me.  My mothering is a direct reflection of hers and I couldn’t have asked for better.

She created a home that I could always return to - a small post-war bungalow, remortgaged several times to assist us, her 6 children, with all of our endeavours and failures.    That home created the base in which I ventured out from, never fearing failure.  I have never feared failure.  The home my mother created, the safety and security it provided, meant that I never once feared failing because I knew that I always had a soft place to land.  I still do. That home provided the security for me to always reach for my dreams, and then reach a little further. That home is the one I shut myself into in my darkest days, I couldn’t have imagined being anywhere else.

We were raised out of these experiences to be kind, courageous, and skeptical.

We are all our mothers’ stories.

All of their wild, bravery, mess, trauma, and excitement.

The pieces of the women before us, each one combined, creates our reality.

And that is beautiful.

Happy 65thbirthday, mama. 

 Without you, I am nothing.