I’m Right Here

One and a half weeks ago, on a Friday afternoon that was of little consequence to many other people, my firstborn graduated from college.

We were so excited. Like the people you see celebrating the very first person in their family to graduate from college. So stupid excited. She made it. Consequently, we made it. We got pregnant, young, unmarried, naïve, and we beat a boatload of odds. To the naysayers who bet against us, we raised a girl who grew up to be a fucking bad ass. She did it. We did it.

Yeah, we’ve still got two more in process, but let me just bask in this moment…for a moment.

As the processional of graduates entered the gym, I slipped down onto the floor to take a picture of my baby girl. She walked in, and I watched her face light up as she saw her dad, her boyfriend, her siblings, and then I watched her face go blank as her mouth formed the words, “Where’s my mom?” I was literally 2 feet away from her, but she didn’t see me because she was looking up. I said, “I’m right here, Beebs!” She beamed. I took her picture, and she said, “Go! Go!” I wasn’t supposed to be on the floor.

It was another of those moments. Those physical representations of an emotional lesson I need to learn. It was my friend with her arms full of everyone else’s shit. It was my daughter not seeing what was right in front of her because she was looking up.

I spend a lot of my life looking up, overthinking, improving, seeking, reaching and a lot of times missing the beauty of what is right in front of me. I’ve spent too much time not realizing that everything I have ever wanted and more is right here.

For as long as we’ve been a family, I’ve tried to make lots of fun traditions that will turn into happy memories for my kids. While I have some treasured memories from my childhood, too many are unpleasant. One of our traditions, picking out a Christmas tree, has gotten to be rather hectic since Chloe moved out. This year, in fact, it resulted in dragging the children out of bed and into the rain, and some tears–mine–and it crossed my mind that the memory they would probably recall in adulthood was, “Remember how Mom used to freak out and drag us to get the damn Christmas tree every year?”

And I realized that the traditions were as much for me as they were for the kids. I needed to make happy memories to replace the unhappy ones. But I don’t need to force it, I just need to live. Our life is happy. Our kids are happy. It’s not perfect. It might appear to be perfect on Facebook, but for every picture where we are all smiling, there are 5 where Lily is scowling or my eyes are closed or Peyton is making a funny face. And many of the ones where we are all smiling is a result of my screaming, “CAN WE JUST TAKE ONE NICE PICTURE?”

Still…when I was a little girl dreaming of how my life would be when I grew up? I could never have conjured up a life that even compared to the glorious craziness that is our Bellville. So on today’s leg of the journey, I am reminding myself to look not up but at the blessed, silly, wonky-eyed imperfection that is right in front of me.

A Christmas Horse

When I was a little girl, every year I asked Santa for a horse. Every year I believed wholeheartedly that he would bring me one. I knew, from the age of 4–thanks to 5 older brothers–that our parents, not Santa, brought gifts. Still, part of me believed there was a Santa, and he would bring me a horse. That part of me still exists, except now it believes when I buy a lottery ticket, I am going to win.

Each Christmas, though I was happy with my toys and clothes, I harbored a secret heartbreak that Santa didn’t bring my horse. One year my dad must have glimpsed my disappointment and asked me why I wasn’t happy. I told him that I must not have been good because Santa didn’t bring my horse. My dad, who could be a scary and intimidating person a lot of the time, pulled me up into his lap and said that Santa couldn’t bring me a horse because we lived in the city, and it was illegal to have a horse in the city. I understood then and was no longer disappointed. In fact, I never asked for a horse again. I didn’t want to break the law.

This was the same dad, who once walked in from work, found my brother’s gym bag lying near the back door, and threw it across the kitchen knocking a boiling pot of chili all over the kitchen floor. Lazy nincompoops just drop their shit wherever they feel like. The dad, who after I had burned my feet on the still-burning-hot charcoal he’d dumped into the driveway, beat me soundly for walking outside without shoes. What kind of idiot goes outside without shoes? A four-year-old. My dad, who beat each of my brothers so consistently and so severely over the years that on many occasions they plotted his death.

That same guy told me Santa couldn’t bring me a horse because we lived in the city. He also went on a mad bee-killing spree, determined to drive bees into extinction, because one stung my brother. And once, when I had a high fever and was hallucinating that there were tigers attacking me, he went to war armed with a pillow and a handkerchief to slay the tigers only I could see. My mom held me and told me the tigers weren’t there, while my dad leaped and swung at them, telling my mom, “You can’t tell her they aren’t there. She SEES them!!”

Over the years I found it difficult to reconcile the two different people my dad was. I spent a lot of years being angry with him. But now, I understand him better because I see in myself the same two people. I love my children so much I would slay imaginary tigers, lie awake worrying about their broken hearts or broken arms, sleep next to them when they’re sick, spend every dollar I make to give them everything they need and want. Yet, last week, after witnessing her boyfriend’s family in a fight, Chloe laughed and said, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure my mom would put all of them to shame.” That’s my claim to fame: My mom’s crazier than yours. And she’s right. On any given day, despite my overwhelming love for them, I am fully capable of throwing a gym bag across the kitchen and knocking the chili off the stove.

I wonder if someday my kids will try to reconcile the crazy mom with the mom who loved and comforted them. I hope they remember the times that I held them and cheered for them and encouraged their dreams more than times I yelled and screamed. I hope they remember the fun we had decorating the cookies more than my cursing and throwing the imperfect ones. I hope that they know that despite my shortcomings I tried not to be good, but to be the best mother. And mostly, I hope that living with and loving a flawed mom helps them to look at people with kindness and empathy. Because I think that everyone is doing the best they can with the tools they have. I’m grateful for my flawed dad. Knowing and loving him help me to look at others–and even on rare occasions myself–with compassion.