By Shauna Hambrick Jones
Love is the ability and willingness to allow those that you care for to be what they choose for themselves without any insistence that they satisfy you.
~Wayne Dyer
I stood in the card shop in my little town. Normally, I took pleasure in picking out cards for celebrations and milestones. Today was different; it was the first Thursday in May.
Love is the ability and willingness to allow those that you care for to be what they choose for themselves without any insistence that they satisfy you.
~Wayne Dyer
I stood in the card shop in my little town. Normally, I took pleasure in picking out cards for celebrations and milestones. Today was different; it was the first Thursday in May.
The two annual events that I dreaded were Mother's Day and my mother's birthday. I treasure the cards I receive from my own son, whether homemade or store-bought. The problem is buying them for my mother, because it brings to the surface so much cynicism, dread, sadness and love, all entangled.
I found myself grabbing a card, reading the verses, then putting it back. I searched for nearly an hour to find a card that said what I felt. I didn't care about the design or the price. Objectively, the cards were quite suitable, sentimental and lovely. Subjectively, however, I felt insincere if I picked up a card that gushed "To The World's Best Mother" or "You Did Everything For Me."
I needed a card addressing the mother who left me with grandparents until I was nine years old, when my grandmother died. A verse for the mom who reentered my life for good after that death, bringing two younger brothers and a sister with her but not bringing fathers for any of us. A poem for the mother who went through the hell of alcoholism, abuse, poverty, a brief stint of homelessness, a bevy of questionable men and many run-down residences, all the while exposing her children to some harrowing situations.
The irony was that the card would also need to address the mommy who would snuggle me on her lap and read Dr. Seuss to me when she was around, thus igniting my lifelong passion for words. A poem for the momma who probably did questionable things just to provide food and keep us from being split apart by the welfare department. A sentiment for the mom who was simultaneously cool and immature, dressing in her teen daughter's clothing and sporting Def Leppard posters on her bedroom wall.
This mom who put her fist through the windows of her rented houses, yet kissed each of us children four times on the forehead before bedtime. The mom who found God only to lose Him again, which is a cycle she continues to this day.
I don't know why I cannot casually snatch up a pretty, lace-trimmed card, breezily sign my name and pop it in the mail. Perhaps it is because I feel that words are too precious to be trivialized and maybe, just maybe, so is my mother.
I found myself grabbing a card, reading the verses, then putting it back. I searched for nearly an hour to find a card that said what I felt. I didn't care about the design or the price. Objectively, the cards were quite suitable, sentimental and lovely. Subjectively, however, I felt insincere if I picked up a card that gushed "To The World's Best Mother" or "You Did Everything For Me."
I needed a card addressing the mother who left me with grandparents until I was nine years old, when my grandmother died. A verse for the mom who reentered my life for good after that death, bringing two younger brothers and a sister with her but not bringing fathers for any of us. A poem for the mother who went through the hell of alcoholism, abuse, poverty, a brief stint of homelessness, a bevy of questionable men and many run-down residences, all the while exposing her children to some harrowing situations.
The irony was that the card would also need to address the mommy who would snuggle me on her lap and read Dr. Seuss to me when she was around, thus igniting my lifelong passion for words. A poem for the momma who probably did questionable things just to provide food and keep us from being split apart by the welfare department. A sentiment for the mom who was simultaneously cool and immature, dressing in her teen daughter's clothing and sporting Def Leppard posters on her bedroom wall.
This mom who put her fist through the windows of her rented houses, yet kissed each of us children four times on the forehead before bedtime. The mom who found God only to lose Him again, which is a cycle she continues to this day.
I don't know why I cannot casually snatch up a pretty, lace-trimmed card, breezily sign my name and pop it in the mail. Perhaps it is because I feel that words are too precious to be trivialized and maybe, just maybe, so is my mother.
http://www.chickensoup.com
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