I remember you teaching me how to read. I remember crawling into bed with you on dark winter mornings after dad went to work. I remember throwing up all over you and your nightgown in the living room, and how you weren’t mad or disgusted. You just got up, covered in my puke, and quietly soothed me as you took us to the bathroom to clean up. I remember you, mama bear, defending me and comforting me when I had square peg troubles at school.
I also remember horrible fights. I remember feeling lost and confused and so small and just wishing we could get along. I remember not being able to give up or give in, even when I was wrong. I remember you doing the same. I remember trying my best to hurt you, because I felt a bottomless kind of hurt myself and I wanted you to know what it felt like. I didn’t know where that came from; I still don’t. I remember not having the words to explain. I remember making up, hugging, feeling safe and secure again. I remember when I was afraid of sirens and you’d come in my room and tell me it was ok. I remember, now that I am an adult in years if not in maturity, that you were just a girl when I was born. We grew up together and that was both a blessing and a curse, for both of us.
Now that I am older and have a little mileage between then and my current self, I can look back with so much sympathy and love and forgiveness. You always tried your best and I always had a sense of that. My early childhood was magical; you somehow managed to put a layer of chicken fat between me and the cracks and potholes of the grownup world. Although I was the oldest, “experimental” child, I also had the blessing of being blissfully ensconced in the warm, fuzzy arms of happy parents for more years than my sisters.
When I think about you, one word immediately comes to mind: dignity. You sometimes lost it, broke down, despaired. But through all your trials and difficulties, I always sensed that you had a kind of quiet personal dignity that transcended whatever hard times you were experiencing.
I remember your sketchbook, of a girl in braids holding a ripe ear of corn, of bald infant me on a crocheted afghan in the back yard. I remember that you threw that sketchbook away, maybe frustrated with or critical of yourself. I wish you had kept it. You are an artist, mom. Keep on sketching, whether it is on paper or in rich, loamy soil.
I love you.
Three Taboos 
I love you too, my beautiful firstborn! I was proud of my little girl, and am so proud of the wonderful young woman you’ve become. And one day honey, you’re going to make a wonderful mom.
Mother/daughter relationships can be tricky, and we didn’t escape ours unscathed. I’m grateful for our fierce and stubborn love and tenacity in weathering our storms. I’m grateful we’ve come out on the other side with our compassion and respect for ourselves and each other intact, and that we both are better, wiser women for what we experienced together. And I’m grateful that for such a long time now we’ve been such good friends.
You write so beautifully. There’s so much heart and so much talent in your writing. Your compassion, understanding, and wisdom shine through. You make me think, you make me laugh, you help me remember. Sometimes you even make me cry, good tears though, so please don’t worry. Keep on writing honey!
I wish I’d kept that sketchbook too! Lost forever to a moment of insecurity and frustration! And yet, there is a lesson there too. May we both be informed by it.
Still working out whether I should make my living at it,
I’ll keep on playing in the dirt as long as there’s dirt to play in. I can’t not; it’s too much part of who I am.
Thank you for being you, sweetheart. I love you.
How in the world I can have been so fortunate as to have the beautiful women that are my forebears, and the beautiful women that are my progeny, is beyond my understanding. Especially when so many in the world suffer so terribly. I feel very blessed in my sons and daughters. It is a sacred privilege.
Love you both.
K, it’s just one big love fest! Thanks for writing about Mom. Reading your blog I had a thought that in many ways Mom’s also sort of your “older sister”. Hah! You didn’t even know you knew how it feels :)
Mom, I love you and thank you for giving us the unconditional arms to cry in and address-irrelevant place to call home – you!