May 11, 2013
To honour of a mother I wasn't born of
To most of you who have your mothers still or who's mothers are in heaven looking down and smiling upon you, I hope you have a great day with them or remembering them.
I want to take a moment to honour my own Mother. No I wasn't born of her but she's fought and struggled to be my mom since she came into our lives.
My bio mom died when I was . . 6? 7? I don't remember much, her memories are like faded snapshots from long ago. Without the few photographs we have of her, I wouldn't remember her at all. But don't be sad for me, I'm not. From what I remember, she wasn't that much into. . . parenting, let's just say.
My father was lucky enough to meet and fall in love with this women who's strength knows no bounds. Still to this day, she's one of the strongest women I've ever come across.
She'd have to be. Married at the tender age of 22, four children and my dad in tow. Her parents warned her it wasn't a wise thing to do and she was in for a hard life. < go figure! :-/ >
But love is what love is and, like her strength, it knows no bounds.
I have to be honest, if that was me, knowing what I know now having raised two girls, I would of ran for the hills.
I think back to what we put her through and I just sit and shake my head.
Hell. Just sheer hair pulling sanity trying hell.
Not at first mind you, we were young and cute as buttons but the cute era only lasts so long with the teenage years materializing and as the saying goes, ' hormonal highway going hell bent for leather'.
Throw in an extremely difficult half brother with a major chip on his shoulders, problems from him best left unsaid, she eventually found herself with three teenage girls of various ages, graced with three vastly different, at times difficult personalities and by then a wee babe at home.
Having raised two girls and knowing what I know now, I would of RUN.
How she survived those years, I have NO idea but my admiration of her, my love for her has grown 100 fold over the last ten years.
I won't go into details but there were some years we went without speaking. I refused to forgive her for being. . human. For being strong, for things she had no control over. For things she couldn't be to me. I said cruel hateful things to her and I was well in my 20s by then, a time I should of known better.
Even to think of how I treated her sometimes still brings tears to my eyes. It's my guilt I know and although I know she's past it, I've yet to fully forgive myself but that will come.
When I go home for a visit now, I visit my MOTHER, in every sense of the word. I hug her and feel the love coming from her, I bask in it. In those hugs comes forgiveness from both of us, the years of hell I put her though, forgotten on her end, a mother's end. To her it's past and it's where it will stay.
I smile at her with my heart, hoping she knows how I feel now, where we stand. We greet each other as mother and daughter, as friends. At long last.
I take the love she's always had for me, regardless of what I did, I let it sooth away the stresses of my life. Yeah, I'm still greedy enough to take certain things from her and that I'll take.
I want to dedicate this weekend to my MOTHER, the woman who has loved me through it all. She, who took on the weight of another woman's four children, had one of her own and somehow miraculously survived it all.
For those of you who think I am strong, come follow me home and meet the woman who taught me what strength is.
She's who I will try to be like till the day I die.
Come meet my Mom.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom.
❤❤
May 1, 2013
Take a moment and 'hand' it to me, will you.
Daddy's Hands
'Daddy's hands were soft and kind when I was cryin'
Daddy's hands were hard as steel when I'd done wrong
Daddy's hands weren't always gentle but I've come to understand
There was always love in Daddy's hands'
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hey you! Yeah,you. . I see you looking at my hands. Not pretty looking I know. Sadly I'm powerless to change them.
If you know me in real life, I mean really know me, my hands have been a source of stress for me. I hate the way they've aged faster than I have. I've always tried to hide them the best I could, hoodies with extended cuffs and thumb holes, Pockets work well in a pinch.
I'm not famous, I can't afford the exorbitant cost of what it takes to 'fix' them. However I notice a lot of celebrities overlook their hands. Their faces made up to perfection, high end surgeries from experts in the field of body alterations. Recovering in exotic places away from prying public eyes, then coming back home to live the lie.
Yeah. . I notice the hands, having had a hate on for my own,for so many years.
Till now, last week in fact. If pressed for a time I'd have to say approx mid-afternoon.
I'm not sure what shifted in my world, nothing special happened when I gave up the fight with my ugly hands. I was a passenger going along for the ride on what was remarkably a non busy highway that usually fights for the right to own the entire stretch.
I can tell you this; I had just finished staring at the backs of my hands for a ten solid minutes. I think I went somewhere deep in that head of mine. I don't remember being aware of the passage of time.
When I came back to the world of the living I knew I was past tired of hiding. I was,at the very moment ,exhausted from being swallowed by the hate I had of them.
I simply do not have the strength to fight what I can't stop. My age, my aging. My hands that have seen 50 years ( God help me, my breathing momentarily stops when I say this number still.. But like my hands, I'm working on it.
So I say this to you now. . .see these hands? Let me tell you about them:
These hands are a hard working woman's hands. They don't shy away from the curveballs life throws at me. They've held newborns, they've nursed the sick back tho health. They've held and helped dying animals/pets reach the end of one path and hopefully the start of another.
They've loved, they've hurt others, been rude times and yes, they've scolded when it was warranted.
The food they've prepared with care, the mountains of dishes they have washed would probably stretch across this great country I live in.
The rivers of tears they've captured and held, many of them my own in a bid to righten an immediate world gone mad.
The faces of the loved ones they have stroked, the hugs they've freely given along with my heart.
The cuts, bruises, the abuse they have gone through.
See these hands? They are MY hands and every line, every vein you see are MY badges of honour, my right to brag of what they've done.
Who am I to hide what I have worked so VERY hard for? They are a testimony to the life I have lived, an honest hard working life.
And now I choose to be damn proud of that fact.
A life to which I still have a whole lotta livin' left to do and I will do so with the help of these hands. These hands that can not tell a lie.
But I will tell you this, they're done hiding.
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