That First Year

My second mom says I asked a lot about cancer the year after my first mom died. She says she can scarcely remember a moment that I didn’t plod down the stairs, rubbing my eyes with my hair sticking up, and ask where my mom was, how she died, and if I was going to die, too. She said it broke her heart, because she was working so hard to make our new life fun, interesting, and full of love, and yet those questions kept coming.

But I don’t remember asking.

I do remember my second mom singing “Five Little Speckled Frogs” and “Over The River” to my sister and I at bedtime, each of us perched on the edge of the bed, following the hand motions and glubbing at the appropriate parts. I now sing those songs to my son, and he giggles at my glubbing that I learned from my mom.

I do remember apple crisps fresh from the oven, the smell wafting up the blue carpeted stairs and into the bathroom where I was getting a bath. I remember my wet hair dripping streams down my back as I dashed downstairs in my nightgown to get the pieces of crust with cinnamon and sugar on them that she called “crustos.” I make apple crisps every now and again just so I can eat those “crustos.”

I do remember the snow woman we made with my mom’s pink apron circling the waist. All of us out together in the snow with pink runny noses looking for the perfect rocks for the eyes and mouth. I hope to make a snowman like that with my son and husband this year.

I remember Glade’s picnics at the library park, where the seagulls eat your fries if you aren’t careful. I remember asking her to braid my hair, and how often she would make sure not a hair was out of place. I’ve never had it that smooth and perfect since I started doing my own. I remember her made up words like “crankola”(to describe one that is cranky) and “dinero” (for dinner). I remember her teaching me to tie my shoes, and quizzing me on parts of the body for preschool. I remember her playing “Heart and Soul” and “Amazing Grace” on Sunday evenings in the living room.

I remember a lot of it, I cherish a lot of it, and I love her.

Gaining a new mom was hard, I won’t deny it. But that first year of having her as my mom is something that I happily remember. Thank you, Mom!

Practice

You begin a book like you make a friend: suddenly. You don’t shake their hand, and immediately puke up your backstory on them, making sure that their view of you is accurate. You just let them see you in whatever you happen to be wearing that day. Smudged eyeliner and your shirt tucked into your underwear on your left hip (without your knowledge, of course), your newfound friend is forced to make assumptions about you as a person without knowing that you heroically flushed your sister’s dead goldfish and replaced it with a new one all before Chugginton  finished just this morning. And in that split second, as their eyes trace the crusty toothpaste left behind on one corner of your mouth,  they are confronted with a decision: do I continue this relationship, or do I cut it off here by smiling a half-apologetic grin, and wave at some other friendship candidate? And just like that, you either have a reader, or another failed introduction. Not that I would know, of course.

You see, I’ve never got past the introduction of a book. Never squealed with glee as the phrases that I put to paper practically dripped gold as I read them over and over again. I’ve always wanted to, but as is typical of my behavior, I am afraid to fail at it. But now the tugging, daring section of my personality urges me to fail at it, to fall flat on my back and struggle, arms flailing, to right myself again, with the breath stuck somewhere between my chest and mouth. That urging, pushing, bossy part of me wants me to crash and burn if only because it means that I have something to fail at, something to call a failed beginning because it is better than nothing.

It is because of that that I have decided to finally write. Finally start the words that have been covering my brain in a sooty haze that engulfs me at traffic lights, and distracts me while skimming over my textbook. So, if I intend to start, you may ask why in the world I am only writing about starting. Good question. It could be that I am quite good at procrastinating, but I would like to think it’s because I want the practice. I want to type some small bit of literature that is insignificant before diving into the story that I have been holding so close to my heart, afraid to let it fly, to fail, to die. Or to live. (Hopefully it is the latter) So, today marks the day that I practice with my most dearest marble, my favorite baseball, in hopes that I don’t loose them. Wish me luck.

Monsters Under the Bed

I am scared. Terrified. Horrified. Daily. About everything. Big things like looking into my son’s eyes and wondering if I, like my mother, will only see those eyes on this earth for three more years before a unexpected diagnosis sweeps the remaining days past me faster than he’ll ever remember. That’s a big one. On those days, I hug him more frequently, tell him stories as he chatters back, and let him nap in my arms while I rock gently.