When I returned, my phone stampeded me into the day with the buzz of a text alerts, distracting me from my morning peace. All the predictable Mother’s Day expressions: “Let them spoil you today!” “Treat yourself Mama!” “Bring on the pampering.” It brought to mind all the memes I use to share in texts, “Always buy your mom wine on Mother’s Day. Remember you’re the reason she drinks.”

 

By Allison Deraney

 

Sobriety has gifted me with so many breakthroughs.

Things I couldn’t have predicted, yet intrinsically needed. This past May landed me in my 3rd Mother’s Day as a sober woman. I kept my same routine that morning despite my husband’s sweet insistence that I sleep in and let the kids bring me breakfast in bed. This was tempting and heartwarming, yet I knew that today I was going to parent myself—which I find myself doing consistently in my recovery.

What I needed was coffee in silence, before the house bustles with activity, followed by a walk outside with nature as my lead.

When I returned, my phone stampeded me into the day with the buzz of a text alerts, distracting me from my morning peace. All the predictable Mother’s Day expressions:

“Let them spoil you today!”

“Treat yourself Mama!”

“Bring on the pampering.”

It brought to mind all the memes I use to share in texts, “Always buy your mom wine on Mother’s Day. Remember you’re the reason she drinks.” Willfully moving the phone to another room, I noticed a woodpecker made the white oak in my front lawn his new home. The incessant pecking on the bark is exactly how the text notifications feel to me—each ding an auditory intrusion to the sweet silence I crave.

Lowering my body on the yoga mat I start in corpse pose recalling past Mother’s Day mornings when my body lay just like that except in my bed until noon—too hungover to participate in the day.

Telling myself the celebration the evening before was warranted—that I deserved the so-called rest. Today’s stretch is intentional yet the volume in my mind is cranked too high to stay reclined. I follow its lead, pick up a pen and dump it out on paper; hoping the pen can keep up energetically with my mind’s lyrics.

Recalling all the gifts 862 days of sobriety has given me, I set out to make an artifact I can one day hand my daughter.  A permission slip of sorts. Or perhaps an apology within a question?

How did I do mothering you?  

Climbing in the car the week before, after a frustrating softball game, she drags her bat while contorting her face. Her tears are now the opponent. A battle of cries pours out after having been shoved down for the last two innings. The backseat becoming her own confessional. Her 9-year-old body shakes and I stay a quiet witness.

“Mom, I’m sorry. I’m sorry,”  she repeats. “Why am I like this? Why am I crying so hard? Those pitches were right over the plate. That ump was so unfair.” I hold in my words as I glance in the rearview mirror. We make eye contact and I let my eyes speak first. I saw in the tear drops on her cheek a mirror looking back at me. Releasing my foot from the gas pedal, we glide over to the safety of the curb. I turn my whole attention to her.

“You never have to apologize to me for your tears, Caroline. You are a person who feels all your emotions and that means you are fully alive.”  After a few deep breaths with the windows rolled down, we made our way home. I begin to feel my eyes filling, tears of shame over all the times I barked different words at her.

“Put your tears away.”

That refrain was on repeat in our house for years. Under tones of disgust, hauled her way when her big feelings interrupted Friday night cocktail hour. Quick to tears was how I always described my daughter—with a tone of utter inconvenience. Today I know differently. I know her tears are one of her strengths: a sign she is paying attention.

So many things I want to tell her—always notice, sweet girl. You don’t have to be on call to the temperature in the room. Set your own thermostat and forget if anyone else needs a blanket. Fan yourself off with reckless abandon.  When you come home after a long day in your world, I see you shut your door, closing it all out and entering another.

My hope is that you share more of yourself.

Bring back that four-year-old inside you, flipping her body off the cushions of the couch, moving her body before her mind could direct the next step. Climb the trees; hair hanging, toes dirty. Always eat the French fries, lick the salt off your fingers. Dribble that basketball up and down the court without glancing at the sidelines for commentary. Let yourself answer a question with, “I don’t know.” Always love on animals.

You are the softest creature yourself. Lay your body on the ground and sing loud. I wish for you to know your worth even when you must own your mistakes.

On this Mother’s Day I wanted to tell her all the things I never told myself—all the ways I wished I had been parented.  So I whispered them to me and will one day hand her this artifact. With tears in my eyes and on my cheek and a heart full of love.

 

 

 

Allison is a 45 year old woman in recovery from alcohol. Sober living has brought her back to her first passion— writing. She is a real estate attorney who is looking to pen more creativity into her days, sprinkled in between transactional contract legal work. She is a wife and a mom who spends her free time wandering in nature with her dog, Stella—her furry soul sister.  

 

 

 

Photo: Pixabay

Editor: Dana Gornall

 

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