Mothers’ Lore

I walked into her room ten past 8pm.  I was running behind and, having warned my girls that I’d be leaving around 8, I expected to pop my head in, give some air kisses & go. Instead, I look down at my youngest, her curls over her drooping head, slowly looking up at me with tearful eyes.  She didn’t have to say anything. Around her were 4 different worksheets of what appeared to be math & her school iPad in front of her. 

“What’s going on?”, I asked. I let out a sigh & let my incoming frustration begin to show.

She’s always been a thinker; taking her time to answer a question until she’s certain of what she’s about to say, meaning, she sat there silently, tears welling up faster than I cared for.

“Darlin’, tears aren’t going to do your homework for you.”

Tears no longer welled. They fell. Oh geez, I thought, here we go. 

I try not to be like my father unless it’s to be the version of him that doesn’t instill immediate fear in my children. “You won’t like me BUT YOU WILL RESPECT ME!”, he’d bellow. Respect & fear, to his generation, was one and the same. Our parents' ignorance or incompetence in the face of a changing world came not from wanting to cripple us emotionally but, rather, from their own fear of things they did not understand. So as I approached my parents with questions and ideas I needed help with, it was easier to yell at me for being in school, having a teacher but having rocks in my head. It wasn’t their intention but I internalized that as not being smart enough &, to avoid being reminded of my stupidity, I learned to be afraid to ask questions.

My other daughter, 19 going on her 5th lifetime, sat in the background, propped up on her pillow, holding her phone sideways, playing a game. 

“Nisi, can you help your sister with this? I’ve gotta go.”

“Girl, I do NOT understand that. I looked at those worksheets, “ she stated without looking up at me.  Lucy now crying as the reality of her situation settled in. Not even her sister knew how to tackle the jumble of letters & numbers in front of her. The tears, oh God, the tears, I thought. They are NOT helpful. 

“Tears aren’t gunna do your homework for you, “ I repeated. 

“Maybe you could validate that she’s feeling overwhelmed instead of telling her that crying isn’t helpful.”  My eyes shifted from my crying 17 year old on the floor up to her.  She had typed HUG HER on her phone & had turned it towards me to read.

Oh. Yea.  

How did that thought escape me?  Obviously, I never want my children to not feel seen or heard. At the ripe age of 39, I have done enough work to be introspective.  When I had my daughters, I knew I wanted to do better than my parents.  Not to minimize their efforts; I do believe they broke cycles I may not even know about, but with much relational work to be done, I had decided at an early age to bear the cross the remainder of the way. I had learned, long ago, to ask questions, to not be afraid of not knowing & to allow myself to be a lifetime learner, but as I read the large text on my oldest daughter's phone, it dawned on me that I was failing - in that moment - to see something important: my child, defeated & overwhelmed. And a mother, seeing herself in her child. It was hard to see because it was hard to feel.

I nodded at Nisi, bent down & hugged my still crying baby girl.

There’s a balance to this, I figured. I can be present for her, & respect the people waiting for me. I can see that she’s struggling & also not incapacitate her by removing responsibility from her table.

“Baby, your brain sees this big picture. Meaning, you’re thinking I DON’T UNDERSTAND TRIGONOMETRY. That may be true, but it’s also a really broad statement you’re feeling.  Sometimes, when we see things that way, it removes from us the ability to respond (i.e.,  response-ability) because the job is SO BIG. & you’re not entirely wrong. What we need to do is see it small picture. So focus, instead, on the question right in front of you. Worksheet B, question 2A. That’s a lot easier to tackle.  So, while I’m gone, email Dr. T & ask her if she has any video resources for helping you with that one very specific question. Then, when I get back in 2 hours, we’ll take a look at what’s been done & what hasn’t. Ok?”

Her tears had stopped. She was looking at her work, then at me, & nodding.  Nisi, in the background, nodded in unison & thumbs upped me.

After a bit more encouragement, I kissed my tear-free teenager & left.  Climbing into the truck, however, it dawned on me that Nisi needed to know her mother’s lore.  The cycles my parents’ likely broke but I have no knowledge of have left a gap in understanding for much of our lives, & it was time to bridge that gap - here.

I picked up my phone.  I texted my daughter.  It remains true that when a child is born, a mother is too, but also….I learn how to be a mother every day, for every day is an opportunity to meet myself in spaces that I hadn’t before. And I hope, if anything, I will have taught my daughters to do the same; for themselves, for each other & for me.