I have something special planned for my 100th blog, but before I can post that, I have to share the contents of my mother’s latest special delivery. For background on my mom’s packages to me, read here.
I got two packages yesterday, for no particular reason. I opened them tonight while I was on the phone with a friend, so – in real time – I told him what was in the packages. Then I washed, rinsed, repeated with two of my girlfriends and they both laughed so hard I’m pretty sure they stopped breathing for a few minutes. Continue reading
. . . a little contact with Mom.
Mom recently moved and didn’t give me her new address. Which is fine, because I do the same thing to her all the time. If I wait too long to tell her where I am, she sends the police to my “last known address,” which, in her mind, is the home of my ex-boyfriend’s parents. From five years ago. They always enjoy those visits.
When it came time to think of sending a card or getting in touch for mother’s day, not only did I not have her address, but she had also shut off her cell phone and discontinued internet service at home. Continue reading
Wednesday was my Mom’s birthday. For many people who live far away from their parents, it’s probably not a big deal to call home, send a card, whatever it is you do to celebrate the birth of the woman who brought you into the world.
For me, it’s not quite like that. I hate to skip over chapters in the story to give you this piece, but it’s timely because it’s October and this month depresses the sh*t out of me for a number of reasons. This is even more weird to write about because, as I type this, my very best friend in the world is going into labor with her first child.
I don’t usually enjoy talking to my Mom. It sucks. I say,”I love my Mom,” like most people say, “I love long weekends,” or “I love Sam Adams beer.” Just doesn’t have that emotional ring to it. If you haven’t read up on previous chapters of my life, I suggest starting with “Slow Piroutte for the Dancing Girl,” and perhaps check out my conversation on Mother’s Day. Continue reading
This entry is a continuation of “Slow Pirouette for the Dancing Girl.”
Me as a kid, and my mom and dad
When the police and DCYF officials came ready to knock down the door of the apartment I shared with my mother in the projects, the real blow was to my mother’s psyche – not the metal frame as it shook on its hinges. She had already lost custody of one child. When they took me away that Easter day, I felt like I was the one disappointing her, not the other way around.
By nightfall, I found myself in a warmly-lit kitchen. My new foster mother was clucking her tongue, looking sideways at me.
“Poor thing.” she said. Continue reading
I stood with my feet firmly planted in the middle of a mental breakdown. I was seven years old, there was broken glass all around me and half of my hair was cut off. My small body was red all over and my mother was at the dark green metal door to our apartment in the Beechland Street projects of Roslindale, Mass.
Who was at the door? It was my teenage baby-sitter, Jeannie. Jeannie had heard the crashing, yelling and screaming. My mother – she had one ear to the door and she was looking back at me, listening to Jeannie ask if everything was okay and holding a finger up to her lips as if to say, “If you don’t tell, no one will take you away from me.”
Then Jeannie’s parents were there in the hall. They wanted to hear my voice – make sure I was okay. They had heard about the time my brother was taken away. So my mother motioned me over to the door. I looked at it. It was like a warehouse door. Industrial grade. With paint you could scratch off with your fingernails. The door looked back at me. Continue reading