Memory Stickers

As a Mom, I find myself anxious and excited to find out which memories my cute boys will retain as adults. In my dreams, they remember all my sacrifices, quiet moments snuggling them to sleep, and trips that cost us money, energy, creativity, and time to put together for them.
In reality, I know they'll go through some disgusting teenage years, with brains wired to rebel & hate, and will probably only remember this:




Instead of this:




And this:




Instead of this:




I pray they'll forgive me for those tiny, negative snapshots in their childhood that stand so enormous in their little long term memory banks. I hope they understand the mistakes I make only account for 10% of my parenting, and that other 90% is pretty awesome. I hope they feel there is no other Mom as amazing as theirs. I pray.
So, when mistakes happen, I try really hard to follow them with positive stickers. I rub at that little negative like a smudge on a dry erase board, and hurriedly snatch up my positive sharpie marker, ready to create something prettier for their lil hard drives.
And then it happens... every random once in a while, when I'm just about exhausted from dancing around for Memory Stickers, one shines through:




Last week JD gave me a Mother'a day card. In it, he had to fill out a questionnaire, detailing his favorite things about his Mom. I nearly cried when I read this:



"We like to ___________ together."

JD writes "find seashells."

I win.

- Mrs. Akers

Mommy knows best

To my Baby Boys:


When you fall, lay there for a few moments - ponder the last few steps - before you pick yourself back up again. Understanding the decisions that led to your face plant is every bit as important as the ability to climb back to your feet.


And please... PLEASE get back on your feet - even when it feels like you have no more energy, confidence, or will. Army crawling your way through life was only cute when you were 6 months old.


(and man were you both the cutest babies!)

Your Momma has always learned her greatest lessons by falling flat on her face, scraping herself along the asphalt for a few moments, and then slowly scraping her stubborn, pissed off body from the floor. I hope you can learn life lessons much easier than I have learned mine. If not, rejoice in that road rash... It will teach you how to be a better you.


Remember: you'll never be too old for me to kiss your owie, and never do anything wrong enough for me to stop loving you. You can forget everything else, but never forget how to come home to me.


I love you & I like you,
Momma

Sand Dollar

The way my Mom and I look at eachother in this moment, captures our relationship perfectly. However, it did not come without countless battles, abundant tears, under the breath cursing, and sleepless nights for both of us. 

To all the mothers struggling with teenagers daughters who "hate" you; please do not give up. Love them when they do not deserve it. One day, their eyes will be open and look up to you again.

For all the teachers, mentors, and adults who work with these hormonal, dramatic, teenage girls, please try your best not to feed their negativity. Gently guide them towards love and understanding. I am forever grateful for my high school teacher, mentor, and friend, Melissa Bianchi, for pushing my 18 year old drama queen self to write the following piece about my Mother. It created healing and became the cornerstone of the priceless relationship I have with my Mom, today.

Sand Dollar

     You ask if you ever do anything right for me, as you look over my shoulder at the angry words I'm writing about you. My immediate response is no, because some part of me still wants to hold it all against you. Or, maybe I had just forgotten:

     Me, sixteen years old, planting purple and yellow pansies with you along the front walk just before sunset. Our dirt stained hands work side by side to dig them a bed. We tickle their toes, pour them a drink, and tuck them in for the evening hour.

     Me, a fourteen year old victim of depression, waking up the morning of my suicide attempt to see you asleep on the couch beside me. Your eyelids flutter open, and all I can think of is how much I hate you - your insistence that you can prevent your own daughter from killing herself. I see your love for me in that moment... now that I am older.

     Me, a twelve year old animal lover, watching you construct a nursing box for my pregnant rabbit. My hand cuts out the green strips of carpet to line the bottom. You staple it down snugly.

     Me, a ten year old, burned by a kiss of sun, bare arms nipped by wind brushing across raw skin. I walk the beach with you, small hand in yours, and look down into the tide for sand dollars. I hold them up proudly, my fist full of those beach treasures; you smile your approval.

     Me, an eight year old, body on fire with fever. Veins pounding the walls of my head. Your hands lined with oils, rub the bottoms of my feet. You run your fingers along each searing toe, talking in hushed tones as I sniffle my pain.

     Me, a six year old sister, fighting over my half of your lap at church with my younger brother. I crave your soft fingers that run over my back as I fall asleep during the Bishop's talks.

     Me, a four year old little girl, stumbling into your bedroom at night, curling up in the nest always prepared for me beside your bed. My haven from the grip of nightmares. Your hand reaches down to me and softly caresses my face until I fall asleep once more.

     Now, as an eighteen year old young woman, High School graduate, one week from moving across the country, I finally realize...

So much depends on the imperfect mother

     Whose bed I crawled into in the middle of the night;

          Dream catcher of my nightmares.

               Two year old cheek against soft breast,

                      Tears staining pink, Care Bear pajamas,

                              And your motherly hand running fingers

                                      Through golden locks of hair,

                                            Brushing bad dreams

                                                    From memory.

- Mrs. Akers