"Repair", a (s)mother story
The spotlight is awful.
This is my personal opinion.
But sitting across from someone and opening the book that is the story of my life to the dead center where everything is raw and realtime and brimming with truth and awfulness and greatness is something I can do.
That’s what I did Friday night for our second rendition of (s)mother stories at Hudson Valley Books for Humanity in Ossining, NY. (s)mother is my best friend Anna Adler’s creation and she graciously invited me to co-create with her on this journey. So, awhile ago, we started hosting storytelling events that have evolved into many versions, but have ultimately landed here at HVBH like this.
And it’s felt just so rite.
Friday night we sold over 70 tickets to (s)mother stories.
But the truth is, when I walk up there on that little stage and pick up the microphone, I don’t feel like I’m in the spotlight. I don’t feel like I’m in a room with a pretty large audience. I just feel like I’m talking to a friend, reading my journal. Because I know I couldn’t be doing what I’m doing without the other artists beside me and without all the people in the room around me. I feel like we’re all under the light together. I see all our shadows surfacing and that doesn’t scare me and that doesn’t make me judge anyone. I see all our lights shining and that doesn’t intimidate me, that brings me so much joy and camaraderie. I feel like
“Yes. this is it. this is how it’s supposed to be.”
Let’s just say it: This world is f*ckd. And unbelievably beautiful. It’s both of those things at once all the time and I crave spaces where we can acknowledge that.
And I’m sloooowwlly convincing my colonized mind that we’re always so much less alone than we think we are. Sigh.
On Friday night I read “Repair”, which I wrote this week trying to capture what’s been most real for me at this time in my life in my (s)mother ing journey. Honestly, I’m now at the point where I apologize to my kids for having to apologize so much. . . …but so it is. . .
Before the piece, which I’m sharing below, I just want to say to you who is reading this (as I’m now imagining you in my head), caretaking is hard. You are doing a lot of invisible, under appreciated work. Also, you may be lonely. There are a lot of lonely-feeling people out there right now. You can call/text any friend, any person, and simply say some version of, “Hey, I just wanted you to know that I’m thinking about you.” I promise this won’t freak them out. This could be the beginning place for something. As an introvert who almost always thinks I’m bothering people, I’ve been becoming more and more comfortable with this and it has saved me from many sad, lonely rabbit holes. It hasn’t saved me from downing a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, but I’ve at least found some people who have messaged me back with “I see you, mama. And I’m having ice cream, too”.
Thinking of you.
xo
jaime
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Repair
“Pick me up. Pick me up. Pick. me. Uppppp”
My five year old yells
On the bathroom floor
Naked and towel draped around her
Ear piercing whines amplified by the acoustics of a tiled bathroom
The touched out trappings of my mind
And accompanied by the loud drain of the dirty bathwater
Not taking the baby down with it
But taking the last bits of me.
A 7pm Mom
Searching for any last strains of patience that might still exist.
I run into my closet, close the door and dig through my kids halloween candy
From four months ago
Because maybe a piece of chocolate will save me
Chew. savor. Swallow. Close eyes. Deep breath.
Open door.
“I cannot pick you up, E.”
I say in my worst fake-it-til-you-make-it Janet Lansbury cool, calm, confident voice ever
Stolen stale chocolate probably accumulating at the corners of my mouth
Or lacing between my teeth like the Mom villain i am at this time of day
“You are heavier now and it makes my back hurt”
Which is true
but it comes out sounding like an accusatory lie in my
“I just want to be fucking done now” voice
And with the weight of me projecting my emotions onto her.
I know its a mistake as soon as it leaves my lips
But Im already onto the next thing
As I walk towards her room
To dress her sister. To hang the towels. To brush the teeth. To close the curtains. To put on the sound machines. To wonder if i fed the dog, locked the doors, put the food back in the fridge, flipped the laundry…
Meanwhile, she gets up quiet, accepting, i guess
But later when im alone in bed i am sick when its her defeat that I feel
She just wanted to be held
And i denied her.
I failed.
I thought. Over and over. The voice so loud in my head, my stomach twisting.
My husband thinking im just falling asleep
But instead im falling into a deep hole of my childhood in my mind.
The confusion. The suppressed emotions. The invisibility.
Im the worst. I think, over and over.
Putting myself in her shoes.
A tired five year old. Asking for a hug from her Mom.
and just when i think all hope is lost…that i’ve screwed her up for good,
One word pops in to my mind;
Repair.
Repair.
Repair.
Oh thank God.
There’s still hope.
There’s repair. I almost forgot about this,
This thing i never really learned, don’t remember from my childhood.
And I imagine what might feel good for her to hear.
And i say it over silently in my head.
Over and over.
And only then Im able to fall asleep.
The next morning when she wakes up i enter her room quietly and sit down beside her on her bed.
And I say, sweetly, not faking it this time, no crappy chocolate needed
I say
“Hey, E. I made a mistake last night. And Im sorry. You can always ask me to pick you up. I love holding you. Sometimes I may say Yes and sometimes I may say that ‘I can’t right now’, but you can always ask me.”
And she giggled and switched to something else almost immediately
Like they always do
But our eyes met in that moment
And everything between us was different and better again.
Repair.