| 26th anniversary- what's that, a pen or something? |
I called my mom this morning to say hi, and after we'd been chitchatting for a bit, she said "You know, today's kind of a funny little anniversary. Do you want to know what it is?"
"Sure," I murmured, distracted. I was already at work and was engrossed in the minutiae of medical charts and FDA correspondence. I assumed she was going to say something to the effect of "My new rolling pin is 5 years old already!" or "This was the day you said your first bad word as a little girl," so I had kind of checked out. So imagine my surprise when she said "Twenty six years ago today, you and I left."
I was silent for a minute, because I knew exactly what she meant. Then, without skipping a beat, she asked if you could get flax seed delivered to your house in New York City, because that seemed pretty darned convenient to her. We caught up on some other silly stuff, then said our Iloveyoubyes.
I'm still thinking about today's anniversary, though, and how it is actually almost a second birthday for both of us. You see, twenty six years ago today, my mom and I ran away from home. I was six months old. She left her job, her house, and all of her possessions to escape the abusive relationship that had been her life for the past 10 years- a paradigm that she refused to set for me. Because my mom seemed to have devoted all the energy she needed to to recognizing this day already, I thought I'd just take my turn and write her a little note. I don't know yet if I'll ever show it to her, and she can't work a computer really (praise the baby jesus for THAT because if she finds this blog my ass is grass), so this might just be for me, but I thought I'd do it all the same.
Dear Mom,
Yeah. 26 years ago today. This is the anniversary of just another one of the ways you have changed my life. This is the day that you waited for my monster father to leave for work, and then you packed one bag for the two of us and set off on foot to find us a better existence. You told me once that you left the car at the house because you thought my father might need it. "I don't know what I was thinking," you said. You were a lot more considerate than I would have been when leaving someone like that. You were a lot more considerate than I am right now to people who end sentences in prepositions, actually. Anyway, you walked into the cold winter morning with a bag on your back, a baby in your arms and- though you didn't know it yet- you carried my little brother in your body. We only had each other.
I don't know if you know this, Ma, but one spring day when you were at work and I was, oh, 12 or so, I snooped in your room and I found a little handbound gray and violet book. I opened it because I thought it was maybe a romance novel you were hiding from me, or perhaps it had pictures in it, or maybe contained a list of reasons why you loved me more than you loved my brother and that would be some pretty handy ammunition in arguments.
Instead, I found your diary. And I read it, Ma. I'm sorry. But I read it because you had chosen to write every entry as a letter to me. And I will never, as long as I live, forget the first few lines. 'July 11. Dear Meagan, Today you came to me. Early, even! I don't know what I ever did that made me so blessed to be chosen as your mother, but thank you, thank you, thank you, little girl. I will never let you down.'
You never have, by the way.
Of course I sat there and read the whole damn book that afternoon, and learned so much about the tiny, redheaded schoolteacher I called Ma. I learned that every time I teased you about being scared of birds, or big cars, or things that go bump in the night, you COULD have slapped me, shown me this book, and said "Now do you think I'm a coward?" It would have been merited. Instead, you usually just shook your head and asked me to double check the locks on the doors. (Incidentally, when you gave me the little gray and violet book for my birthday a few years ago, it was pretty difficult not to tell you that I'd already read it cover to cover. The book is one of my prized possessions. It's in a drawer on my bedside table.)
I learned you walked miles and miles that day till you got to my godmother's house, where you hid out until you could figure out your next move. I read about how during the next few years, you worked all day, went to school at night, and still managed to miss not one important moment of our early childhoods. I learned that, in the beginning, you refused to take a job where you couldn't bring me along, and when those precious jobs weren't available, you created your own job and worked from home. I learned that from the time I was an infant, we read together every day, and that when you got your Masters in education, part of your work concentrated on alternative methods of teaching children to read, and I was your project. (This page has a photo of me reading the newspaper in front of your class. I was almost 3.*)
In a lot of the work that I do now, Ma, I see the devastating effects of abuse on households. I see how the children get bigger, angrier, and more desperate as their spirits shrink and become lost. I see what happens when one lives in fear so long one becomes convinced that he deserves it, or earned it. I see how we can become mired in the hopelessness of violence, and how there seems to be no way out. Worst of all, I see how easily, almost effortlessly, the cycle repeats itself.
That could have been us.
But it wasn't. It isn't. You made a decision years ago, when you were only a bit older than I am now, that your family wasn't going to exist like that. And now Ben and I are loving, compassionate, actualized adults with friends and jobs and all the good stuff. What's more, he and I have never taken a single bit of it for granted. There isn't a day that goes by without me thanking the universe for our family, my friends, and this life that almost wasn't.
So thank you. Thank you for choosing to close that door even if you didn't know for sure that there was a window. Thank you for showing me that nothing is impossible, that we are stronger than we even knew, and that it's never too late. Most of all, thank you for instilling in me what I consider to be my absolute best feature- my capacity for and ability to love.
Happy anniversary, ma. I love you.
-Meg
*I say this not because I think I'm smart (because I have an entire blog that calls THAT little claim into question) but because I think it demonstrates how good my mom is at what she does. She once told me that teasing knowledge out of people, showing them that they're not stupid, that they are capable of learning, and helping them surprise themselves with their own intellect is one of the most satisfying things about her life and her work, and she can't imagine why anyone would want to do anything else.Labels: childhood, family |
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| 38 Comments: |
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Indeed, the women of tomorrow are standing on the shoulders of giants. My mom rescued my brother and I as well, and there's not a day that goes by that I am not overwhelmed by her strength and full of gratitude.
(And eff those people that end sentences with a preposition. Eff them in the a.)
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Thanks for making me tear up at work, Meg. Not at all embarrassing.
Oh, and also: you are a beautiful human being. Your mom did a lot of things right.
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Tears and the heart with the squeezing and the memories and ohmygod I better call my mom...
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Ditto to tearing up at work - good Lord!! This was lovely to read and your family is all shades of rockin'.
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hi meg, you've always made me laugh so hard in every single post (actually i think you are my favourite blogger).... i love all your funny posts, but this
this is my favourite post!
salute to your mom, and all the courageous and loving moms out there.
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Having witnessed domestic violence, I can fully attest to the detriment of it all.
I'd always wished my mom had done what yours did, but there were too many factors in play, too many things to make her second guess that idea (especially being in a foreign country, since my mom's German) and.. yeah.
Your mom sounds ultra awesome.
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This is beautiful. Thank you for sharing with all of us; I hope you share it with your mother.
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I have a crush on Mama[Meg's last name.]
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This was awesome.
I love your blog. You are a special person and this here internet thing shows everyone as such. Keep going.
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Shit, where'd all this dust in my office come from?
That was a hell of a letter you composed. You should absolutely show it to your mother.
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so nice - i was trying to remember on what day my mom said enough to my dad, and it definitely wasn't soon enough. i should write her a note about it anyway. but then she'll cry. then i'll cry. we're criers.
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Usually, your stories make me cry from laughing so hard! *This* one made me cry with genuine respect and admiration for your mother & for your beautiful way with words. I hope you'll share it with her.
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your mom is a legitimate rockstar celebrity. so fucking brave.
and the best part is that whether or not you share this with her, she knows how much you appreciate it.
also - peter? that's creepy!
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jeepers, you made me cry here. Your Mom is incredible.
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Sounds like a day worth celebrating.
Righteous. (And I can't wait until Gertie reads this.)
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This is indeed a good day to celebrate - I have nothing but admiration for what your Mum did (and continues to do) and I am so rapt to see how much you obviously both love each other: family is too often ripped apart these days but you and your Mum and your brother are obviously one hell of a close unit.
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Happy Anniversary to you and your Mom. This was so beautifully written, I'm crying into my coffee as I read and re-read this.
If only more women had her strength to say 'enough'.
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I may fly up to New York to hug you.
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Wait, your mom is afraid of birds?
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My mom and I have a similar anniversary. Thank you for reminding me to take a moment to call and say I love her today.
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There is a poignance to that letter rarely seen in real life. Mostly we connect with it on movie screens and in the pages of really good novels.
It's nice to know things like this really happen.
You seem like a good person, Meg. I would tell you to thank you mother for that, but it seems you already have.
Well done. :)
On a totally unrelated note...I will be in NYC visiting Donnelly 3/5-9. Bloggers unite.
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Your mom sounds like an incredible woman. Thank you for sharing this.
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Thanks for making me cry.
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Mindy told me over a drunken Super Bowl to take a look because you are hilarious.
1. Thanks Mindy - cuz I didn't feel emotional enough today
2. Thanks Meg - you are hands down one of the most remarkable writer's I have ever had the pleasure to read -- online, offline or in the little voices in my head.
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I've admitted countless times that I cry easily, but this was a lot worse because as soon as I read the first line or two, I was like "I think I know where this is going" and started crying. Thank you for sharing; it's nice to see the girl who is always so flip about everything and always has a funny story also has another side to her, although you've definitely alluded to it in the past with your occasional mentions of your mother (with affection and a touch of protectiveness, whereas with everyone else it's more... you know). This was truly beautiful and I hope you share this with your mother. I am going to blatantly steal this idea from your mother as well: writing a journal to my child. Actually I've bought journals for pregnant friends with the same idea in mind, but they always wind up not having time and the only one that got used was used for writing down baby feeding times. I hope that it touches my child as much as it touched you... and that s/he finds it half as interesting as you did. <3 Best.
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Dear Lover and a Fighter,
as long as I've been reading your blog I have had an admiration and respect for not only but the people who have helped mold your brilliant personality.
Thank you for sharing your letter with us, I appreciate it.
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This was an unbelievable post to read - your mom is my hero. What an incredible woman. You're very lucky.
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I concur, this was an amazingly touching post--wandered over here from Blind Cavefish's blog and now I can definitely say I'll be back!
Lizz
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Great post! Inspired me to call my mom.
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this is by far the best thing i've read in awhile...
thank you.
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My mom is Quin (fmd), she told me about this. She raised my 4 sibs and I, and did a good job; none of us are on America's most wanted, none of us work the pole, we tell her. She did it alone, it was hard, and I want her around when I have kids (she says my wife will have a word or two to say about that), because she rocks as a mom.
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You were born to blog. *snif*
I'm glad you found your calling.
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your ma sounds a lot like my mama. thank you for giving me another reason to be thankful for her and all she does for me and my sister.
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Name: A Lover and a Fighter
Home: New York, NY
About Me: "It is a very sad thing that nowadays there is so little useless information."
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Indeed, the women of tomorrow are standing on the shoulders of giants. My mom rescued my brother and I as well, and there's not a day that goes by that I am not overwhelmed by her strength and full of gratitude.
(And eff those people that end sentences with a preposition. Eff them in the a.)