My Mother's Day Pearls

Aren't pearls intriguing?

When you see a strand of pearls, the first thought that comes to my mind, and yours too perhaps is, "Are they real or really fake?"

Or, perhaps you may just go about your lives, never really thinking about pearls and their unique and distinctive existence.

I can remember one day after church three years ago. I was sitting in the passenger seat while we drove away from church. My mascara running down my face like the dark gloom of a loss. As I pulled the visor down to try to take a deep breath and wipe the teared streaks from my face, I saw my strand of pearls innocently hanging around my neck. I had put them on for a special occasion that day. After almost a year of overcoming a severe bout of depression, Fred and Sienna were taking me out for Mother's Day brunch. In the past, I had always planned special Mother's Day outings for our mothers but this year, I was finally learning to try to take care of myself and not worry about everyone else as much.

The spring-like buds tried to color the scenery but the winter's wear of salt-stained streets was still upon us. That day, I was feeling a little claustrophobic in the pews so I decided to get a breath of fresh air. Since my recent struggles with depression, I was still withdrawn and being in crowds only made me more self-aware of my loneliness. I had left church a little early while Fred and Sienna stayed until the service ended and met me in the car parked along the EL tracks. While I was waiting, I decided to phone my mother to wish her a Happy Mother's Day.

Although it was late morning, my mother was still in bed, as usual. She was such a glutton. I fought with my judgmental voices every moment I was around her. That day was no exception. Anyway, we made some small talk and then I told her that I wanted to call her to wish her a Happy Mother's Day. There was a pregnant pause. Then I asked her what she was going to do for the day. She replied, "Nothing. I don't go out on Mother's Day. Mother's Day is the worst day of the year for me."

Trying not to pick up the rope and play a nasty game of tug a war with her, I kindly said my farewell and hung up the phone. And then, that is when I turned on the mascara flood. I tried to take a deep breath and regain my composure as I heard the church bells ring and knew any minute my beloved husband would be walking hand in chubby hand with my curly haired Sienna.

As they got in the car and buckled up and I glanced at my string of pearls in the mirror. They were imperfect but they were real. All through college I wore them proudly. I would even tell my friends that they were my grandmother's. My mom gave them to me shortly after my grandmother passed away. They were one of the only things my mother had given me that wasn't from the Dollar Store or KMart. I think I remember my mom telling me that Grandma had selected the oysters herself on one of her vacations. As a child I thought that was amazing.

As a child, I thought my grandmother was amazing. She used to bring me a large stuffed animal, usually a monkey every time she'd come to visit. My mom would invite her to come and stay with me while my mom traveled the world with her boyfriends. By the time I was about nine though, I realized how abusive and awful my grandmother was. She was a mean drunk. When she would come to visit, my mom would hide and lock all of our liquor in a suitcase. It didn't matter that my mom would hide her own liquor though. Grandma Helen would just have me bring in the special sack from under the driver's seat, the one with the large bottles of vodka. And, if those bottles weren't enough to get her through one visit while she stayed with me, she'd drink all our cough medicine bottles dry.

Just as a young girl who idolized her grandmother because she used to spoil her with stuffed monkeys, I grew older and some would say more disrespectful. Although, I believe that I was just more disrespected the older I got. I can't remember why my grandmother would slap me on the face, usually later in the evenings. I just knew that her slaps hurt more and more the older I got.

And now, as a grown woman who knows the difference between authenticity and garbage, I realized that the strand of pearls although genuine, are still just garbage. Tempted to open the window and toss them out onto the side of the graveled street, I tried to not be over dramatic. I didn't want to cause a scene. I wanted to enjoy this morning with my husband and daughter. I wiped the tears away and tried to close the door to the painful memories as a child. As I started to put the visor up, I caught a glance of my own daughter, trying to catch my eye. I smiled warmly at her and realized that I am no longer the child of my mother but I am now my child's mother.

Confessions of a Second Grade Closet Eater

I used to be a closet eater. I would not eat lunch at school or during slumber parties. From age eight until age 32, I would only eat when no one was watching me. To this day, I worry about what I eat in public.

All through elementary school, I would rush home from school at 3:00 sharp and eat all the food I could. Only so much so that no one would notice my bingeing. My mom and step dad used to have a large glass milk jug that they would dump their spare change into daily. I would quietly pour out the change and get just enough money to take to the Village Pantry or 7-Eleven down the street. That is when candy bars only cost 30 cents. I started getting my candy bar fix with the stolen spare change. Then, I worked my way up to stealing enough change to purchase an entire box of Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme pies. I would be ever so cautious about this addiction by hiding my wrappers carefully in the garage. This was age nine.

It was at age nine when my mother married her second husband, Graham. He had several children by previous wives. He was domineering and dominated my mother's every moment. My mother and I were best friends up until Graham came along. After all, after my father divorced my mom when I was two years old, it was just my mom and me, living together like roomies in college. During her single years, she dated a lot. And, just like a college room mate would, she'd bring her dates home with her. I think during these years of my childhood, I have more memories being with baby sitters. My mom would travel a lot with her boyfriends. After she passed away, I recovered many photo albums of romantic getaways along with boxes of love letters from these men, some were even married and others were her boss! While she lived foot loose and fancy free, I spent a lot of childhood with babysitters, my drunk grandmother or being sent away to summer camps at the ripe age of seven!

Now my own daughter is six and a half, I couldn't imagine sending her away to a camp or to stay with her drunk grand parents. (Fortunately, my children do not have any alcoholic grandparents so I don't have that as an option!) Another memory I have as a seven year old is riding the Greyhound bus back and forth from my mom's to my dad's! This was a four hour drive with a 'layover' in Cincinnati! I can still recall the mixed smells of cigarette smoke, toilet cleanser and the bus fumes. When I was seven, I thought I was so cool. I was SO independent and since I hadn't eaten all day with either of my parents, I was SO hungry. At the layover, I would buy one of every candy bar and I would stash them in my suitcase for late night snacking as soon as I arrived for my visitation at my dad's.

One night, I got caught eating candy at my dad's. It was far past my bed time, when my step mom opened the bath room door and I quickly hid the candy in my cheeks. She noticed the wrapper behind the toilet and scolded me. I can recall begging her not to tell my dad but she did. It was one of the most shameful experiences of my life. I just wanted to be loved and accepted by my dad and mom. And, unfortunately, I feel like my father has measured out his love for me my entire life based on my weight. He is in a wheel chair now, he comments now on my daughters' weight and what they eat. It saddens me so much! My father and his parents were also plagued with eating disorders.

I was in second grade when my mom started back on Weight Watchers. And, since we were BFF (that is current text lingo for "best friends forever"), she put me on the diet too. I'd go to all the weigh ins with her. We would go to the MCL Cafeteria where we were allowed to eat fish and green beans for most of our meals. This is really what did me in for a life long struggle with an eating disorder. The diet and rejection, not necessarily MCL's fish!

More about my eating disorders in future posts...