So, the family we don’t choose. You know. The ones we are born into or adopted into (maybe even...legally). That family. Ya, them. It’s cray how much they teach us. Some provide safer learning environments than others. Sadly. But, I digress.
I’m not going to lie to you. My mom has been really pushing my buttons lately (and I’m sure vice versa). So, I’m up. Writing. I have three writing deadlines. Due tomorrow. I’ve made two. And, boom! Writer's block hit. So, productive procrastination, it is. Why not write about yo shitake, Em? You know, yo shitake w yo mama. Ya. Ya. I prolly need a break. If I process that s*** than maybe just maybe - poof - writer’s block - be gone! Or maybe I’m just procrastinating. Yup. That’s likely too.
Back to my moms. There’s this story she tells. Well, I guess it could be a fact. The deal is...she says that I GAVE her varicose veins. Pregnancy.
Keepin’ it real time. As a kid, I remember having...opinions...about her veins. Truth? They weirded me out. And you know what...I got that s*** too. When. I. Was. Twelve. I guess technically my sitch is different. Broken capillaries v broken veins. And I sho didn’t get them from being preggo. Never been. (Especially at 12.) Tried hard as hell to to be for awhile...but that’s another story that I might share. Later. Maybe.
You want to know the sad part? I HATED the purple pathways in my leg. To the point that in 80 degree humid Northeastern summers, I wore pants.
Ok, parT peeps. So what’s the lesson? What has my mama’s story taught me? I have two answers for us. And I choose to release one. The other is welcome to shtick around. Want the good or the bad first? Ok, ok, I’ll choose. Bad first, good last w the optimistic perspective that the last will be what’s burned into our brains.
After 36 years of life (not sure how many of those years my moms has been sharing this fact), it dawned on me...I felt guilty. I GAVE my moms those “weird” (and maybe painful) purpley-blue pathways on the side of her calf and behind her knees. I felt SHAME when I heard the story. F it though. That’s my shitake. Not my moms’. If I ask her I am 99.9% sure she would say #1, I am worth it. And #2, she had no idea.
So, here’s the good stuff. Acceptance. Self LOVE. My moms has rocked those veins. She never hid them under pants. She’s never paid a poop ton of dinero to zap them away w saline. She has proudly worn that life changes inextricably (I assume) as a mama. And you take all of it. And you consider it a-mazing...most of the time. All of it. Varicose veins and all.
So. What’s my J.O.B.? I’ve acknowledged this GUILT, this SHAME = my s***. Time to be real w my moms. But. First. Time to finish my third writing deadline. Productive procrastination S-U-C-C-E-S-S.
Mom, I love you.
Thanks for reading.