Sarah Kay once said that everyone has their own truths — it doesn’t even have to be factual — and that those truths can be used to tell their own stories. Hear me out in my little story telling session.
I know that…
Daniel Handler is Lemony Snicket. I equally love his A Series of Unfortunate Events and Why We Broke Up (even though its ending is pretty predictable).
Motherhood is never what I expected it to be — I cannot repeat this sentence more, because I keep getting surprised by it. I sometimes stop and marvel at its beauty. And then other times, I crumple at its crudity. The only word that I have to describe it is this: paradox. Because I still haven’t quite grasped how motherhood can make you feel so loved, yet also so alone. How it can make you feel like the strongest, most capable person, yet also leave you helpless when you’re alone and your child cries in the middle of yet another sleepless night.
Motherhood is beautiful, but not in the sense that it is glamorous. It’s beautiful because it’s dirt-in-the-ground, snot-in-the-nose ugly. It’s beautiful because it’s real.
There’s a bigger being. Call him or her what you will — God, Allah, Yahweh, Mother Nature, Mr. Wednesday, Big Boss, Chief — but there’s no question that there’s someone out there who perfectly planned all of this. I mean, look at your body, it’s no accident that it’s put together that way — all parts functioning well together, all parts with a purpose.
I’ve been big my entire life and it somehow feels good to think that there’s someone bigger than me.
My mother and I have a love-hate relationship. I once hated her for not allowing me to go out ‘til nine – I was thirteen and was desperately trying to be one of the cool kids. I hated her for not understanding my love of books. For being too chatty when all I wanted was some quiet. For being too cheery when I didn’t feel like being cheery. I hated her for a lot of reasons; most of those reasons were silly and stupid. But she loved me for a lot of things. Things that do not merit loving, but still did. She loved me for my tiny fingers and nails. She loved how I looked like my dad so much – sometimes she looks at me with these sad eyes because I remind her of her dead husband. She loved me because I folded the laundry. Because I changed the sheets. Because my scrambled eggs were cooked just right.
My mother and I have a love-hate relationship. And it’s one of the things that I regret the most. Mostly because she did not deserve to be hated, not at all. But more so, because she’s the one who loves me the most.