What Mother Did

She made doll clothes for my first doll ever, and dressed her in them, and sat "Dahlia" on the mantel. I was 17.

She made shortbread cookies that looked like pilgrims. And named them Horace and Eudalia.

She sang hymns with my sister and me in the kitchen while we cooked and cleaned. And put on broadway show albums to sing with while she cleaned the house on Saturday mornings.

She listened to the Braves baseball games on the radio, and scored each game carefully. When we got cable, my dad bought her a small tv to have in the breakfast room so she could watch the games while she cooked and cleaned.

She still sends greeting cards to everyone in her church for each birthday and anniversary, or when someone is sick or there is a death in the family.

She has the loveliest penmanship in the world.

She made clothes and costumes for all us through our growing up years. And then later made clothes for my daughter. 

She bakes bread and shares recipes. She reads her Bible and teaches ladies' classes at her church.

She's a mother.

linking up at Five Minute Friday

Lovely Inaccuracies

painting by emily wierenga

If you have a mom, there is nowhere you are likely to go where a prayer has not already been. ~Robert Brault

All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his. ~Oscar Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest, 1895

Grown don't mean nothing to a mother. A child is a child. They get bigger, older, but grown? What's that suppose to mean? In my heart it don't mean a thing. ~Toni Morrison, Beloved, 1987


I read these quotes, and I think how lovely, but inaccurate they may be. They are good things, but they are generalizations -- pictures of how we would like things to be.

I look at those lines, and I don't feel truth in them in my relationship with my mother. And I wonder how much truth is there for my children. My mother was not/is not a perfect role model, but then neither am I.

I believe my mother loves me. I believe she believes she would do anything for me. I know she would not. There are things I have asked of her, needed from her that she did not/would not give. I do not believe I would do anything for my children. I hope and pray I would do anything that was in their best interest. Having a bipolar child has taught me to avoid generalizations and absolutes. People say "I'd step in front of Mack truck to protect my kids", but really how many of us ever find ourselves in that situation. Instead, for me, it's been "I will stand up for my kids' right to be who they are. To ask questions. To make mistakes. I will love through all of that."

Would I like a do-over sometimes? Oh yeah! Daily.

And I keep coming back to this picture of the Holy Spirit as "mother". And I like that. I've made some peace with Abba God, and that's been good for me, and gives me hope for my relationship with my earthly father. Maybe working on Holy Spirit/mother will help me work on my relationship with my earthly mother. Maybe it will help me be a better mother to my own children.

linking up with imperfect prose on thursdays

Living Room Surgery

This is Dahlia (daylia). 
Santa brought her to my second Christmas. 
She has always been part of my life, so my earliest memory is about her. 
No I don't actually remember that Christmas morning, but I do remember an afternoon maybe a year and a half later. 
I carried Dahlia everywhere I went -- usually by her hair, creating a lovely cave woman style 'do for her. But I digress.
It must have been either late afternoon or it was raining, because in my memory the room is muted.
My mother sits on the big chair with her sewing supplies on the table next to her. I am standing at her knee, while Dahlia lies naked in her lap. My mother explains that Dahlia needs a little plumping up and we are going to do surgery on her to help her out. My mother is the doctor and I will be the nurse.
She assures me Dahlia is fine and will wake-up feeling much better.
My mother carefully pulls stitches from Dahlia's back and begins to insert cotton balls. When we have agreed that Dahlia looks much better, mother stitches her up with tiny stitches. She turns Dahlia over softly patting her on the belly, so I can see her face. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is still pursed in the sweet smile she has. All is well.
That's all I remember. I assume we dressed her back in her pink gingham romper, and she and I went on our merry way.
She still hangs out with me everyday. Sitting at the end of my bed. She had a make-over courtesy of professionals a few years back, and new hair and clothes.
She is all that was good in my childhood.

linking up to Writer's Workshop