Wednesday, March 2, 2011

i am her. she was me.

on my speakers this very moment: sweep down early - innocence mission. a lullaby for charlie grey "why won't spring come..."


when i wear this sweatshirt, i feel like my mother. 
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i am noticing that i am becoming the her that i remember. the version of her that i grew up with. my age now is parallel to hers when i was lukey's age. which means that the me now - will be the one that he remembers. does that make any sense? because it makes perfect sense to me. 
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there is a picture that exists of us. my mother and me. it's somewhere and i've been hunting for it for years. in it - we're scrubbing our cabbage patch dolls with a fingernail brush at the bathroom sink. she's wearing a big comfy sweatshirt. and i am making this super cheesy smile! my four almost five year old face. i clearly remember being so happy that her time was mine. we used to hunt for those dolls all over town. putting them on lay-a-way and saving our pennies. 
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i remember play dates with the children of her friends. taco johns drive-thru treats. movie clubs. puffy paint crafts. hamburger casserole and green beans at the kitchen table. visiting my dad at work. trips to the library and getting picked up from daycare. i remember simon and garfunkel sneaking in between peter, paul and mommy, too. 

that is my life, now. 

lukey and me. we are currently on the hunt for old school comic books. high fives and a snuggle on the couch to read when we find one. we are starbucks drive-thru treats. play dates with the children of my friends. we are red-and-white-striped-twine crafts and little boy prayers at the kitchen table. we are a quick drive-by the job site, trips to the library and wishing well preschool. we are ryan adams at the top of our lungs in between peter, paul and mommy, too...
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my mother just decided on a whim to go back to school. no, really. a spur of the moment thought and the next minute she was enrolling herself on the computer. she has a backpack and professors. she has classmate friends and homework deadlines. our daily phone calls are happening between biology and anthropology. 

she sent me a link to her homework website the other day. her first and last name in capital letters up on the top. and it just sort of hit me. that she's not just my mother. she's cathy. she has worries and loves and dreams and children and a husband and a home to keep. a heart to nurture. a body to take care of. she's having a spin on the planet thats all her own. that she was me once. that she had these same days. maybe even these same thoughts. was she this tired, too? 
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i imagine my life twenty five years from now. i am hoping that i am just as brave. that my fifty four looks something like big girl school, a job that fills my cup, and humanitarian trips to africa. A-F-R-I-C-A?! that my heart expands to huge for my adult children the same way that hers has. that i'll still sing ryan adams at the top of my lungs. 
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tonight i rocked and nursed my charlie-baby in my grey sweatshirt. sang him "five hundred miles" peter, paul and mary style and stuck a post-it note on his heart. a little reminder to call me everyday when he's a grown-up-charlie-man with baby boys of his own. i felt like my mother. she would have been rocking baby natalie brynn at this age. in her shiny brown rocking chair on chestnut street. in a few weeks they will brave the trip to senegal together. and i wonder if she imagined that then?

17 comments:

  1. Would you please just write a book already? Because it would surely be my mist favorite book, the kind I would long to read over and over.

    You have a gift.
    And I am so lucky to read it.

    I. Adore. This. Post!

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  2. what a beautiful, beautiful post.

    i have been thinking about this exact same thing lately, and you have put it into words so eloquently.

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  3. I completely agree-you have an amazing gift of expressing yourself.

    Doesn't it make you admire your mother more to know that she probably was just as tired as you and still smiling?

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  4. do you know what is so strange? I wrote something like this a week ago in my notebook. Chris was really sick and I was taking care of him and it said something like "...when you're sick, I find myself thinking exactly like her. my mother. taking care of you the only way I know how, the way she took care of me... I am her. in so many ways. And I suppose - that's the best thing that could ever happen to me."
    - we are her miniatures. I am her 24 year-old self.

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  5. You know, I was just thinking the same thing as Marilyn---you really do have a gift when it comes to writing! I LOVED this post too.

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  6. I am joining the "please write a book" bandwagon. Your words...they are like magic to my mothering heart.

    Such a beautiful post, Lindsay.

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  7. Big smile. Big tears. You push through the tired because you just know those rocking chair dreams don't have a chance if you stop.
    "inch by inch, row by row"
    Someone did bless the seeds I sowed and look how beautiful you are!

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  8. I really, really, REALLY wish I'd been there to see a 4 year old Lindsay with a 29 year old Cathy. I seem glimmers of "my Cathy" in each one of you girls... a flashing moment. Lucky children, raising lucky children.

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  9. oh lindsay.
    this is stunning. the tapestry you wove of yesterday, today and tomorrow has me reflecting-- good writing does that.

    I'm so grateful for you, though we only met briefly. I'm grateful at the perspective you have and that it helps me recenter.

    thank you.

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  10. beautiful...love it. makes me miss my mom and i just saw her today.

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  11. sorry i'm late. this post is amazing. i've been thinking about it for days. truly. marilyn is right. write a book. i would totally buy it. thanks for this.

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  12. I've come back and read this post too many times to count. You inspire me, Lin. Your thoughtful words speak to my heart and bring tears to my eyes.

    So thankful for you, friend.

    Kisses,
    Dandee

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  13. who does your graphic design for this site? please email at

    cupcakingacrossAmerica@gmail.com

    thanks!

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  14. This has to be one of the most beautiful things I have ever read.

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  15. Becoming her...scary and fulfilling all at the same time. Being able to mother like your mother did is a beautiful thing. So many women have had to grow up with the lesson of how NOT to mother as their role model. It is so humbling to think that my daughters will follow in whatever kind of foot prints I leave for them to walk in. This stuff that you have written right here, on this here little blog. It's why blogs have power, why they touch people, help people, move people. Lovely, just lovely.

    p.s. Baby Charlie Gray is just delicious, and yes, your mom was this tired too.

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