Lately, as I have been thinking about what to blog about next, I have felt that I need to share more"Joy Moments". I figure if I am going to spend all this time typing away, maybe I can write some things to share with my children (and all of you) that otherwise wouldn't be written. Sure I keep a journal (attempt to anyway...), but that is for everyday things...now. I want to write about memories, moments of the past to pass on and have fun doing it. My goal is to write a Joy Moment about once a month. So en-joy:)
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"52 Weeks and a New Tradition"
"52 Weeks and a New Tradition"
“How many weeks are there in a year?” As simple as the question was, at the ripe age of eight, I really didn’t know the answer. What eight years old knew that?!? Not me.
“I don’t know”, I mumbled, not too sure what my mother was getting at.
“Fifty-two”, was my mother’s response. Mom was so smart. She always had all the answers. But if she already knew that answer, then why ask?
Looking back, I did not realize how important of a role that a single question, that one particular moment would play in my young life. In pecking order, I am the third of five children, three boys and two girls - Brian, Aaron, Me, Jesse and Tessa. And boy, I can say that I was elated when Tessa was born. Yes! Victory! I am not the only girl! But, since I was seven when she was born, she could not really help defend me in the “being tortured by my brothers” dep
artment. Don’t get me wrong, I dished plenty out myself, but there’s only one of me and three of them and even then I knew that strength came in numbers.I was daddy’s little girl, and mama’s pride and joy. I wore dresses, and I relished in the moments when strangers smiled at me, knowing it was because they thought I was cute (or so I thought). It was fun to be that cute little girl, but deep down, all I wanted to do, was be like Brian and Aaron. They were sooo cool. They got to play baseball, and run around, play in the mud, and wrestle with dad. They always played “G.I.Joe”, and when I tagged along, I always got “killed” first because I couldn’t make the “gun” noises right.
They got to wear pants whenever they wanted. Heck, they didn’t even have to come inside when they had to go pee. Boys. Nope, I couldn’t do any of that.I was a “young lady”, so I was told, and I had to act proper. I had to sit with my legs crossed. (At the time I didn’t understand what the big deal was…). I took dance lesson after dance lesson for almost nine years. Mom, being the great mother that she was, made sure I was taken care of and had everything that she was never able to have. I was living out her dreams. The only problem was they were hers and not mine. If I said that I wanted to quit ballet, I was called a quitter. And there were no quitters in our family. The sacrifices that everyone else made on my behalf only made the guilt trip worse. Time was taken away from my brothers, when what I really wanted to do, is be like them, especially Aaron.
I looked up to my big brother (still do) as every little sister should. Sure, he was mean, and gross, and rude and he hit too hard, but he was my big brother…that’s the way they’re supposed to be right? But when he wasn’t looking, I watched him. He has this way with people. He can see pain and hurt and love and all the other emotions that the “adults” try to hide. He could tell when dad was hurting or when mom was sad, and he knew just what to say. He
even does that with me today. He knows just when to call, and knows just when to tell me that I am being a “stupid-head”.As much as I admire those qualities, I used to be jealous of him. I could never talk to mom or dad like that. I never knew what to say. If I tried to say something to make them feel better, I usually made it worse. How did he do that? How does he do that? It’s a gift he is blessed with. But as a kid, I did not understand that.
I remember times here and there, where Aaron and Mom were talking. It usually happened after naptime, and later on after school. They would just sit there and talk. Sometimes I would try to be part of the conversation, but even at a young age, tact was not my strong suit. I ended up annoying one or both of them. It’s not that I got any less attention from Mom or Aaron. I think I just wanted to part of what they had. I wasn’t even sure what that was, but I knew it was something special.
Birthdays are always a fun day. I watched the clock slowly tick, the bell finally rang, and school was out. I ran the whole block and a half home (yes I know, such a long way…poor me), just to hear my mom ask, “How is my birthday girl today”? Today was my day, and I knew it. That youthful selfish part of me loved having all the attention. What kid doesn’t? (It only happens once a year and you might as well take full advantage of it). I then got a big bear hug… you know the kind that just makes everything okay and where all the world is good even if it is just for that moment…an all-healing mama bear hug. Ooooo, I loved those.
I put my things away. The house was still quiet. The boys hadn’t gotten home yet. I came into Mom’s room, I can’t remember why – I think I was just bored. She was sitting on the waterbed, one of those big ones with the hutch-type headboard and captain’s drawers. The bedspread was a leopard print faux mink type mess, with an avocado green background. I always thought that thing was ugly. I didn’t get it. Why make a leopard print, and then use green for the back ground? But, it was really soft. I climbed up on the bed curled up next to my Mom, and snuggled into the sea of green with black spots. Mom then wrapped her arms around me and opened a book. She said, “I have a story I want to read to you”.
She began reading, “February 3, 1979…”
“Sheri”, she asked, “do you know what day that was?” Of course, it was my birthday!
“Sheri Ann weighed 8 pounds…” My Mom was reading from her journal, an entry she had written eight years prior. It was a simple, but sweet entry. In my little mind, it was grand. Those words she read – I could feel them connecting me to her. I could feel how special they were. I felt the love conveyed in her voice as she read her words written from not so long ago. I saw a side of her that I rarely saw, someone who let her guard down and was tender and taken back in the moment. Having experienced motherhood now myself, I now know what overwhelming emotions of love and gratitude she must have felt, but back then, I didn’t understand what I was feeling or why she was crying. I just knew it was something special, and this time something special for me. It was my special moment.
She finished reading the entry, and we sat there for awhile, not saying anything, enjoying the silence, the peace. We eventually started talking again. She gave me a mother’s perspective on life, what her hopes and dreams were for me. Some pretty deep stuff for an eight year old. I finally had a connection with her.
The conversation gradually lightened up. She asked what I learned at school on my birthday. I explained to her in a very know-it-all tone (for I was a big girl now) about the Earth’s rotation, and how it takes 365 days to make it around the sun. “And that makes it a year.”
“Okay”, she said, “How many weeks are there in a year?”
It now has been 982 weeks since my mother passed away. You see, she knew she was sick with cancer when she read to me that day. She gave me a moment. She gave me her advice, and we shared a bond. I have reflected on that one conversation too many times in my life to count. When I got married, when each one of my children were born, and then sometimes for no other reason than to just want some advice.
Now I find myself in the throws of trying to raise a daughter of my own. Trying to be fair when life affords it. And trying to let Aleana be Aleana. My dear sweet Aleana turned eight this past week. Life has a funny way of bringing things full circle. While I am not in the same circumstances as my mother by any means, I still wanted to make what I experienced, a tradition, a moment to pass down, a bond to continue.
After all the birthday festivities came to an end, and the day was winding down, I invited Aleana to come sit down with me. She looked at me with curiosity, and I simply replied, “I have a story that I want to read to you”.
