Mothers & Daughters

I read an article today in which a mother between the ages of 60 and 70 truly looked at her daughter.  The mother recognized her daughter’s age of 40.  The daughter had wrinkles around her eyes and streaks of grey in her hair, her kids were running around their grandmother’s yard.  40 years had gone by and the woman was finally seeing that her daughter was responsible, stressed, happy, busy, and a slew of other adjectives that might describe someone at age 40.  And the mother was shocked at how quickly 40 years had gone by.  Just like that, the daughter had aged and appeared different in her mother’s eyes.

 

Mother and daughters.  Your mom is the first person to greet you in this world.  Your mom changes your diapers.  Your mom teaches you how to ride a bike, how to put makeup on, warns you of boys, tells you you’re beautiful, comforts you after your first heartache, makes you breakfast in the morning, helps you prepare for your wedding, teaches you about money, and loves you unconditionally, even though you may disappoint her, rebel against her, not take her advice, lie to her, upset her, and say things you don’t mean.  My mom always tells me that I’ll never know the love a parent feels for their child unless I have children of my own.

 

The article I read got me thinking because as a child, I never know what my mother is thinking when she looks at me.  When boys look at girls, you know what they are thinking.  When your best friend looks at you, you can tell based upon body language, tone, and what she says what she’s thinking.  You can tell what your sibling is thinking because usually they’re just annoyed with you.  But a daughter may never know what her mother is thinking about her.  What does a mother see?  Does she see all the bad things: her daughter isn’t using sunscreen, her daughter keeps picking at her nails, her daughter is looking a tad round in the middle and plumper in places?  Does a mother see all the things a daughter is doing right: her smile is so genuine and brilliant, the way she talks about her job is inspiring, she looks fit and healthy?  Does a mother see what she did right in raising a child: insisting her daughter wait to have children, telling her about stocks, showing her how to cook?  Does a mother see her daughter still as a child and think about the past and the memories?  Does a mother see a reflection of herself in the woman she has raised?  Does a mother see something I cannot fathom?

When Did I Grow Up?

myquoteshome.com

 

When did I start counting how many times I went to the gym and restricting my diet?  I remember when I’d just run around outside  or play soccer and then come inside for dinner and all I wanted to eat was pizza.

When did typical conversations among friends become about gossip, drama, and relationships?  I remember when we’d hang out and pretend to be teachers or the cast of Harry Potter.

When did love become something that could hurt me?  I remember when I only knew the word in its context of saying I love you to my parents.

When did I have to start making big decisions about my life, such as where to go to college and where I should apply for a job?  I remember when the biggest decision I’d make was the snack I’d eat after school or if I wanted to hang out with my friend at my house or hers.

When did fighting become dirty: rumors, being stabbed in the back, being taken advantage of, and and being manipulated?  I remember when the worst fight I’d have was over what game me and my brother wanted to play.

When did I start judging people by their appearance?  I remember when people I didn’t know were strangers and that was the extent of it.

When did I start wanting stylish new clothes that show off my best assets?  I remember when all I wore were Nike sneakers, pants, and a T-shirt.

When did I start wanting to be home less and less?  I remember when I never wanted to leave home and I refused to sleep over anyone’s house because home was my sanctuary.

When did I start writing about the horrors of our world and begin churning out poetry and writing that is considered depressing?  I remember when the saddest book was Stellaluna, but only in the beginning, and Bambi was the saddest movie.

When did I grow up?  Because I certainly don’t remember making the decision.

 

 

 

The Homesickness

When I was maybe in second grade, I distinctly recall I was at a friend’s birthday sleepover party.  We were watching a Goosebumps movie in which a green house plant is created and takes over a basement.  I was bawling my eyes out on the sofa as the other party attendees comforted me and asked me what was wrong.  I said I missed my mom, my dad, my family, my home, and I wanted to sleep in my own bed that night.  I had slept over this girl’s house before, so this was new.  Luckily my house  was only five minutes away, so around midnight my dad came and picked me up and I fell asleep under my sheets under my own roof.  From then on, I could not stand sleepovers.  I tested the waters a few times, but in the end I’d come home.  Or I’d stay really late, but then leave to avoid a sleepover.  I refused to participate in sleep away camps because I knew I couldn’t handle it. For 7th and 8th grade field trips in which we went to another state for a week, my father was a chaperone because I didn’t want to go alone.  I experienced homesickness on a regular basis.  There was even one night I had slept over my grandparent’s house, and I had cried because I missed my parents.

It wasn’t until the tail end of 8th grade and the beginning of high school when I finally overcame my strong dislike for sleepovers and my overwhelming sense of homesickness.  I was breaking away from my past behavior and was home less and less.  I stayed at friend’s houses, hung out until the morning, stayed after school, and like a normal teenager, I probably saw my friends more than my family and I was rarely home.  12th grade I flew in my first plane and went to New Mexico without a parent.

Then when time was ticking for me to go off to college, I started to worry.  I was going to be 730 miles from home, a 12 hour drive, or a plane ticket away, either option would not be feasible or doable to get me back home.  I thought I would get extremely homesick because I hadn’t experienced anything like college, and sleepovers, though I could handle, were not my forte.  I had warned my parents that if I could not handle the distance, I did not want them to come get me.  I told them I had to stick it out, and I would remain at college and toughen up.  I didn’t want homesickness to interfere with my freshman year; I wanted to be a happy, involved, enthusiastic college freshman, not a homesick, sad student.

First quarter was a breeze; I made friends, participated in events and activities; learned and accepted that sometimes I’d be alone and have to be independent, I aced my classes, and skyped every Sunday with my family.  I was never homesick, per say.  I missed my family, of course, and friends, and my cat, but I wasn’t longing to be back home because I was content with college and my college life.  My winter break lasted for over a month, and returning to school was an easy transition.  I had missed my college buds, and was excited for classes to begin.  Winter quarter went the same as fall quarter: homesick was not in my vocabulary.  I spent spring break at my college because I didn’t feel as though it was worth the money to go back home for a few days just to return to school.  I was excited for my spring break, even.  I explored the beautiful city I now reside in, I caught up with friends I hadn’t seen much during the quarter, I relaxed, enjoyed having the dorm to myself, and I simply focused on me and for once.  I was stress free and relaxed.

But as spring break comes to a close and my friends are returning from their homes.  I must admit, there is a pang of homesickness resonating in my heart.  Now, it’s not indescribable homesickness, I am not crying like I did when was little, begging to be brought home (in fact I haven’t even spoken a word of this to my parents, they’ll be reading this in my blog!).  A little part of me wishes I had gone home for spring break.  I miss driving my car, I miss playing with my cat, I mis sitting down at the dinner table and talking to my parents and my brother, I miss my mom’s delicious home-made food (cafeteria cannot compare), I miss my water bed, and I miss the people back home.  I only have ten weeks until I return home, and I know before I even realize it, I’ll have one week to go.  But, for now, I wish I was falling asleep in my own bed.  I want to hug my father good night, and kiss my mom on the forehead and wish her sweet dreams.  And I want my brother to come into my room and sit on the edge of my bed and talk to me for a few minutes before we agree it is time we both surrender to sleep.

 

blogpsot.com

A Kid At Heart At College

Currently I am looking at this miniature stool that I bought for 16 dollars yesterday.  The little, wooden stool is less than 11 inches in height, and has a giraffe painted on the seat.  The giraffe is blue with purple, yellow, and green spots with pink ears and pink hooves.  The stool looks out of place in my dorm which contains textbooks, my bed, my living necessities such as food, laundry, and hygienic items; my purse, and my laptop.  The stool looks utterly ridiculous and childish in the dorm room of a college student, so why did I buy it yesterday?

A friend had taken me into a store and instantly I was drawn to the tiny stools on the floor.  There were about 12 of them, and each had either a horse or a giraffe painted on the seat.  I felt like I needed that stool, but I couldn’t explain why at the time.  I sat on the stool for quite a while, even had a conversation with a worker and my friend bout said stool.  But, since I am not one to impulse buy, we left.  Yet as my friend and I walked arm in arm down the street all I could talk about was the stool, what I could do with it: take it outside and write, use it as a footrest, and use it to get to high to reach places.  For some strange reason, the stool was on my mind, and I couldn’t let it go.

Then after meeting up with other friends, I dragged them back to the same store that had the stools.  They were calling to me, and after much internal debate that went something like: I don’t really need to spend 16 dollars on a mini stool, but I want it, but I don’t why; and after calling my mother who insisted that sometimes we just need to buy something because we want it; I finally made the purchase.  And now the stool occupies space in my dorm room.

But still the question remains, why such a ridiculous purchase?  Because I am a kid at heart, and the stool symbolizes childhood.  When I sit on the stool I feel like I am sitting in one of those tiny chairs they have in kindergarden classes.  I am viewing the world from a lower perspective, like a kid does.  The giraffe on the seat of the stool has that playful, fun quality kids are drawn too.  And even though I love being a college student and making my own decision and I’m enjoying growing up, sometimes I just want to be a kid again because being a kid was easier.  When I am incredibly stressed I want nothing more than to let my stress go by swinging on swings or drawing with chalk or skipping outside; I act like a kid to relieve stress because being a child is not a stressful time.  And now, I’ve brought a little bit of childhood into my college environment to lighten the mood.  I am even sitting on it as I type this blog post.

 

blogspot.com