issue #11: (no subject) (same subject)

(always the same subject) (always always always the same subject)

Photo by Jason W on Unsplash

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Take care of each other, I say to my kids before sending them off to school or sports or out to play. Take care of each other, I tell them daily, multiple times, with the hopes that the message will seep through their skin, into their flesh and deep into their bones. That they’ll always know, and so, always will take care of each other when I’m not around. When I’m no longer here.

What I don’t say, what I never say, is the second half of the sentence. Take care of each other because you have to. Take care of each other because no one else will. Because there are so many ways to hurt in this world. Cars and drugs and war. Bullies and broken hearts. Guns.

Guns and guns and guns. Enough guns to fill an ocean. All the oceans.

To be a mother in this country, in this world, is to live with a choked up ball of grief permanently lodged in your throat. It’s to know that all you can do is figure out how to deal with it, surpress it, to keep it from coming up into your mouth in gasping sobs or shooting through your veins like rage-fueled adrenaline that could punch through a brick wall while you’re playing blocks or making lunches or filling the bath.

To be a mother in this country is to constantly fight down bile when while scanning headlines, constantly swallow the pain of other mothers, other mothers whose children have been slain by cops or war or guns, guns and guns and guns, until the pain and heartache flows through your veins like a drug, one that keeps you alive and also keeps you from living.

To be a mother now is to guzzle down the vomit that creeps up your throat as you read bedtime stories because your mind and your heart is thinking of all the bedtime stories that will remain unread that night in all the homes around this country, in the world. Because there’s no more children to be read to.

To be a mother is to look your child in the eyes while you explain to him gun laws and political nonsense and watch him nod slowly and realize that maybe the world is not what you told him it was and stay silent in the face of all you want to say.

You know there’s terrible things in the world, of course you do. But do you know how powerless I feel every time the door opens, every time you walk out of it.

Do you know that for every teacher who unflinchingly throws their body in front of a student to shield them from harm, there’s a hundred voters who unflinchingly choose guns over children.

Do you know, my angel, my baby, my entire world, how many people, how many lawmakers, how many lobbyists, how many of your fellow citizens, don’t even give you, your existence, your right to live, a second thought?

Do you know how many? Do you know? HOW.

I sit at the park and watch you all play in our new town, our new home. An older gentleman sits on a nearby bench with his dog and I catch him watching you too. You have a beautiful family, the man says. And I wonder if he sees in me what I don’t. The gentle tones, the big hugs. The painstaking patience in answering all of those curious questions. They love the world, don’t they, he says. They do, I tell him, they do. But I stop there.

I don’t say I wish the world would just love them back.

Instead, before you run off to the field, I tell you to take care of each other.

Take care of each other because not everyone will take care of you.

Instead, as I watch you run, up the big hill and down, you boys paying close attention to your sister, making sure she doesn’t trip, that she doesn’t fall, I think of all the ways I lie to you daily. You can do anything, I tell you often, but do I even believe it? Because all I want to do is keep you safe and I can’t.

You can do anything, I tell you, you can be anything, when you grow up. You can change the world.

When you grow up. When you grow up.

If you grow up.

If.

I write these letters about motherhood as personhood because I hope these thoughts are not only my own. When I put these out, it makes me feel a little less alone and I hope it does the same for you. If you like this letter, you can click the heart at the top of the email (or bottom of the app), forward it to a friend, share it on social, or leave a comment. Thanks for being here. I appreciate you.