This past weekend my Golden Boy has his bi-annual piano recital. This was the first time he played the piano while he sung a song and I was way impressed. Like...WHOA.
This kid is going far in life but he will never, ever, ever be cooler than his T-Monnie no matter how hard he tries to look in pictures. LOL!
Can you believe he's graduated high school? I wasn't ready. *sigh* So, of course, I harassed the absolute heck outta him. LOL! He's just so smart and handsome and we're oh, so proud of him! This kid is gonna make us super, dooper prouder!!!!!!!
For years I've tried to focus on the indomitable strength of my parents. The people that brought me into this world and who made a conscious decision to be the all and everything to and for my brothers and I for a lifetime. I made a consolidated effort to try and steer my thoughts whenever they strayed to the darkness and really focused on spreading light forcefully into anything that attempted to seep into my spirit and crumble my resolve.
Sometimes it works.
Sometimes it doesn't.
When I think of all a parent has to be, I am humbled by the sheer weight of the job. Of dedicated fealty. And honestly, sometimes, I'm thankful it's a job I never had to undertake. I think of my mother, beaten and broken, getting up, no matter what, to get us ready for our day. I think of her soft hands, smiles and kisses as she made our breakfast, placing our plates gingerly on the table in front of us wincing slightly at the weight of balancing the plate as she holds one of her wings close to her side to balance out her pain from her bruises, her abuse, her choice to keep her children in a two-parent home which all the Elders and society lead her to believe she needed to have so that we could grow, and soar and fly while she watched protectively from her nest.
With a broken wing.
So we had to learn early on to not depend on her always, not because she didn't WANT to take care of us the way she wanted to but because her choices might hinder her from being able to. Her wing might be broken. Or her jaw. Or her collarbone. Or four fucking ribs and her wrist.
And she'd arrange her long hair artfully. A long spiral curl falling softly in her face hoping you wouldn't look closer into her eyes and see the bruise there fading or pay attention to how one half of her face slumped from the stroke she'd had and wasn't afforded with the luxury of recovery properly because he demanded that things get back to normal as soon as possible because the longer things weren't "normal" the longer he was faced with what he'd done. Again, and again and again. And how watching her hurt hurt him and he saw it in our eyes and he knew he'd done it but he didn't want to but dammit he did it. FUCK HE DID IT. HE HURT HER REPEATEDLY.
And always with remorse. Always with gifts. Always followed by something pretty when she was the most beautiful thing he could ever touch.
By age 12, I was put in charge of her Mother's Day gifts. My father would give me a wad a cash or a credit card and he'd take my brother and I to the mall to pick something out. He'd sit on a bench and wait no matter how long it took. He didn't rush us, he wanted to make sure that she got something she'd love. I'd go store to store looking for the perfect something for her. Something I'd seen her linger on before but wouldn't buy for herself because she didn't want to spend the money on herself because she had four growing children running out of yesterday's clothes. I'd touch the fabrics as I'd watched her do a million times. Rub it against my cheek to see it if was a pleasing feel. I'd imagine how she'd look dressed in it. How'd she'd walk if she wore it while free and happy with the wind blowing in her hair and with her dress up jewelry and shoes. I'd always get it gift wrapped there and take my time choosing the paper and ribbon in the back of the store or at Gaudchaux's up the elevator that smelled of ammonia and something sweet in the middle of it. I'd be proud and my little brother would be quiet knowing that this was the most important thing we were tasked yearly because it was her day. HER day. The one who did so much and took so much yet received so little in the form of hugs and kisses. Not knowing then...that it's what she truly valued the most.
Her babies.
And when the box was complete, when I'd passed over the money and the gift was placed directly in front of me, he'd stand on his toes to take it off the counter so he could carry it gently. Wearing his clean and pressed shorts, his tube socks with the coordinating stripes. His afro picked out to perfection because she plaited his hair every night before bed so it didn't get tangled. And he'd carry it reverently and I'd follow behind him, small chest poked out. I got it right. I know I did. I know she'll love it. Not that pretend mommy love either. The for real kind.
She'd love it.
He'd see us coming and ask if we were good?
You good?
Big grins.
We're good, daddy, we're good.
Your mama gonna like it?
She's going to love it daddy.
My brother silent, looking at him with eyes that were always cloaked hiding what I now know he never really hid. He simply kept it at bay from this one.
From him.
And we'd keep the gift hidden. A secret. Until Sunday morning and we'd be so excited. And she'd sit on the furniture we never sat on and she'd exclaim over how beautiful the wrapping paper was and she'd take it off gently so as to not tear it and we'd be giddy with excitement, jumping beans in pajamas with bed plaited hair and sleep crust on the corners or our eyes. A runny nose from the air conditioning and ashy knees and elbows. And she'd open it and lift it from the tissue paper, her eyes glazed over with happiness. She'd place the box gently to the side and hold her gift and she'd look directly at me with softness in her eyes, girl-to-girl, and smile KNOWING IT WAS ME WHO KNEW HER SO WELL.
I so loved that feeling of being able to do for her something she'd never do for herself in a way she'd taught me how. Paying attention to the details.
I don't know if I would have been able to be her. I doubt I could ever bend the way she did. I doubt putting the lives of four other people always above her own is something I would have ever been able to do the right way. The bar of motherhood she set would have been a struggle for me to lift myself over. I don't have the dexterity it would have taken under the conditions she did it all under. I doubt if my anger, always right below the surface, would have been able to be pushed out of the way by light as she did. I doubt having my wing broken would have ended with my making breakfast.
All the mothers I know have this. That all consuming power they use to cover their children and keep going. Bullshit at work with a smile because they can't pop off in an explosion of words and angry emails taking down fools with them and rolling out in a blaze of glory.
MINGO OUT.
I am in awe of what children do to women. How it polishes them into such rare and beautiful sparkling gems. How it preens them into powerful all knowing beings.
For the past month I've been on top of the world doing what I love. Last night I dressed up like a girl and danced with true happiness. Nearing the end of the night...someone release a lantern into the sky. Just one. As I watched it fly away my mind exploded with thoughts and images and sensations of her and my heart cracked open yet again. A wound nothing will ever truly heal.
I drove home in pain. In silence. With tears streaming down my face missing her so fucking much even as she'd been gone more years now than I had her.
But I remember her.
And I miss her.
And God knows how very, very much I fall back on the strength of her. Of needing her.
I walked into my cool, clean and quiet home dodging frogs at the door and went straight to him. My love. And he enveloped me, kissing me asking if I'd had a good time immediately up out of his sleep with a light on. For me. When I didn't answer...he knew the cracks in my interior were open and hugged me tighter.
I miss my mommy. I'd give practically anything for that to be something I never, ever felt.
Happy Mother's Day to you and yours. It's a bond so extreme...you will never be able to shatter. And the power it gives you is a light we all see and admire. Have an amazing day. Be the Queen.
Love,
Monnie
I can't tell you enough how to not worry about people who aren't worth worrying about. Every second you spend on them is taking away from you being the light you need to be.
FUCK.
THEM.
Do you.
And smile because you're genuinely happy. If you're not happy...don't smile. That fake ish is for the birds. Tweet...tweet!
I haven't been in a good place for a while now even though I've been trying to power through it. Those who truly love me know this and have been being patient with me and my shit. I can't explain what it's like being around me when I'm not me you know? See...being me is this powerful ball of energy and light. I can always find the best of it all and have a good time no matter what. When you have access to me regularly you kinda get used to that so being around the absolute opposite spectrum of that for months on end can take a toll on you. You can start forgetting the good bits of me because they are so far from the surface. When I'm quiet it can be a struggle to find words to fill in the gaps and, those I love love me for all the right reasons. Not because of what I have done or can do for them. Not because of people I know or places I go. Not for anything other than the feelings they get being around me. The love they know I willingly share and can sometimes cloak them with.
Christmas Eve arrived with my not having purchased a single thing for anyone or even food for the dinner party we were hosting. I kept meaning to start. I kept picking up my keys, my wallet...I kept being inactive. Robby decided that he'd go with me to help make it all happen and we did so even after having a family emergency health scare.
I'd made lists of what I wanted to do and of what I had every intention of doing but lists mean nothing on Christmas Eve when the lines are long the shopping scare because of location and because the rest of the world has completed their lists and have their fabulous gifts wrapped under the trees waiting to exchange their thoughtfulness with those who deserve their thoughtfulness.
Me? I did what I could knowing that we had guests arriving at 6:30pm and my menu consisted of standing prime rib roast, a natural ham and all the trimmings and fixings and Lord...all I truly wanted was my mommy and my daddy and my brothers and tree with trimmings and blue and silver decorations and noise and noise and noise and hustling, bustling and noise, noise, sweet glorious noise of happy and excited children and parents.
I craved noise in the silence of our life. In a life without chaos. With complete order around me at all times.
The pace I set for myself on Christmas Eve was crazy and only a crazy person would do it but I didn't want to let anyone down so I made it all happen and it was good. It was a good thing. We ate, we drank, we were merry. I snuck away to wrap gifts for those in attendance. Gifts my depression forced me to make do with and they all smiled politely and oohed and ahhed properly because that's what people who love you do. They look at you knowing the truth of who you want to be. Who you would be if you could just push past it all. All the demons and disappointments you've allowed to heap on you and beat you down into a tiny bit of the tiniest of all you are and you smile with them knowing that this is the greatest gift they could ever give you. That they could see through it down into the heart of who you are and not judge you solely on today and not take it personally and not make your shit about them.
Because it's your shit. It's my shit.
And it's only about me.
And you use that to do things that would be humiliating to some with your stats because you know it will always be a struggle to do what you love. But you do it with a smile and a pleasant attitude so you're unthreatening. So you can have access to those you need to have access to in order to get to that next step.
Depression can fuck up so much and sometimes I wonder if it's really the thing that gets you or...is it the circumstances of it all that brings the depression to you. And that makes me think too deeply about the cause of it all.
My best girlfriend is one of God's most precious gifts to me. For Christmas, she gave me the most awesome of the awesome things. A box of them really. A box of awesome that seemed to never stop. Everything was magical. One thing after the other. Thoughtful things that she hoped, wish and probably prayed would get me back to being me. The kind of stuff others would never get me because well...they don't GET me.
A box filled with relaxation, good sleep, warm feelings and guilty pleasures.
Her gifts are always so amazing and why I will always buy her things for no reason...just because I saw it and thought of her.
Last night, after a long four days, I used one of the gifts and took a hot bath. I got into bed with the television on a thirty minute timer and I snuggled up next to my Robinator. I was asleep within 5 minutes. A deep, relaxing almost comatose sleep. Satisfying.
When I got up this morning, I stretched languorously and felt the power I often feel flowing through my body as I'm planning out my next steps and moves. As I'm shaking off that doubt that shows up sometimes even though I know perfectly well what I'm capable of. I laughed at the things that happened this week. The nail in my tire. My husband in the driveway at 5:00am in the morning changing the tire. My pumping gas in the dark standing there with cold rain sliding down my face making the cold colder. The makeup I don't wear breaking me out. My hair being damaged by someone who doesn't know how or care how to be gentle with my hair. The noise, the noise, the noise. The constant back-and-forth reaching out for something I know I can see. The lines when I DON'T.DO.LINES.
On this day I'm so grateful for my best girlfriend. That she GETS me even when the knowledge of who I am at that exact moment makes her want to strangle the shit out of me. I'm grateful she knows that when I'm lost...I haven't forgotten who I am...I'm just struggling to get back there.
I'm grateful that I have no ego about many things others would have.
I'm grateful that I know how to use my resources, even the simple one of being a cute girl, properly.
I'm grateful for my husband, the perfection that is truly him as he props me up, no matter what, with his strong shoulders and pushes me outside my comfort zone so he can watch me, once again, fly.
I'm grateful for all those who love me. The ones who aren't put off by the unanswered phone calls, texts and emails. The ones who don't take it personally. The ones who don't try to make my shit...about them.
Because it's not.
I love you.
I love yall.
Sometimes, however...I have to tuck in and rebuild and that's hard to do. So very, very hard.
