My mom is having surgery
Diary Entry
On her knee. For most people this means nothing, but for me it means EVERYTHING. My mom has always been as close to perfect in my eyes as humanly possible. Growing up she was never sick, helpless, hurt... she was invincible. Dinner hot, being promoted at the Gamble (until she quit after 14 years), and everything at home had it's place. She ran the home with the same determination as she used to graduate with top honors from her masters program with three children and to win the most prestigious business award (while working all the way through) in undergrad. She was PTA president and at every single school and extracurricular activity and never seemed tired. She ran a tight shift at home and we always knew we were loved without too much "mush" and "over-emotions".
"Shelby, you are tough because unlike all the other children when you fell, I didn't run over and pick you up. "
I was always the most impressed with my mother during the "take your child to work" days at
P&G. We were always early. Her with her large coffee (second of the day) and me dressed in a nice "business" outfit. No sweats, jeans, or child-proof tee-shirts like some of the other children.
"We dress based on where we want to be."
Her desk was untouchably organized, our paintings hanging up in a straight row around her cubicle, a couple family pictures, a card/roses from my father and during lunch instead of eat with everyone else, we would go to aerobics.
"Shelby, we must hurry we have an hour and a half to work out get cleaned up and be back. We will grab something on our way back in."
"Okay, mom," I would say but while walking to the gym, I would always find a way into tricking her into a delicious lunch, just me and her for an hour and a half. I admired, adored, and wanted to be her. I loved the way that we could never go anywhere without cat calls from men - young and old. She was constantly asked if she was a model and I wanted what she had. I wanted a thin long body instead of being short with a big tummy. I wanted to be so dismissive and cold to those on the streets and yet so incredibly humble. I wanted to be beautiful and strong. Thin without being fragile. At a young age, I learned she was a model and so, that's what I would be. I would be a model. I would be a business woman. I wouldn't be a cry baby, I would be tough.
Later when I realized that I was too short to ever be a model, I hated school and was as sensitve as a baby's butt, and couldn't keep anything organized - I would rebel against what she was. I would become the best anti-Lynne there is. I was messy, FLAWED, got terrible grades, loud, and swore against aerobics. I would sit around in front of the television, hating to cook, hating to clean, would declare the rejection of marriage and children ...
All this to say, since this phase...he--, during this phase...she has remained my best friend, mother and I still admire, respect and secretly want to measure up. So, for the first time in my life she is hurt and will be helpless, under the care of someone else, weak, and on crutches...and it hits me in my core. More than ever, I see that she is human, wounded and completely helpless...she is vincible. More than anything, I want to be the one at home taking care of her with the patience that she always gave me, making her special "snacks" and running errands for her BUT instead I am here...praying that at 1:00 pm, I get a text saying that she is better than ever...
On her knee. For most people this means nothing, but for me it means EVERYTHING. My mom has always been as close to perfect in my eyes as humanly possible. Growing up she was never sick, helpless, hurt... she was invincible. Dinner hot, being promoted at the Gamble (until she quit after 14 years), and everything at home had it's place. She ran the home with the same determination as she used to graduate with top honors from her masters program with three children and to win the most prestigious business award (while working all the way through) in undergrad. She was PTA president and at every single school and extracurricular activity and never seemed tired. She ran a tight shift at home and we always knew we were loved without too much "mush" and "over-emotions".
"Shelby, you are tough because unlike all the other children when you fell, I didn't run over and pick you up. "
I was always the most impressed with my mother during the "take your child to work" days at
P&G. We were always early. Her with her large coffee (second of the day) and me dressed in a nice "business" outfit. No sweats, jeans, or child-proof tee-shirts like some of the other children.
"We dress based on where we want to be."
Her desk was untouchably organized, our paintings hanging up in a straight row around her cubicle, a couple family pictures, a card/roses from my father and during lunch instead of eat with everyone else, we would go to aerobics.
"Shelby, we must hurry we have an hour and a half to work out get cleaned up and be back. We will grab something on our way back in."
"Okay, mom," I would say but while walking to the gym, I would always find a way into tricking her into a delicious lunch, just me and her for an hour and a half. I admired, adored, and wanted to be her. I loved the way that we could never go anywhere without cat calls from men - young and old. She was constantly asked if she was a model and I wanted what she had. I wanted a thin long body instead of being short with a big tummy. I wanted to be so dismissive and cold to those on the streets and yet so incredibly humble. I wanted to be beautiful and strong. Thin without being fragile. At a young age, I learned she was a model and so, that's what I would be. I would be a model. I would be a business woman. I wouldn't be a cry baby, I would be tough.
Later when I realized that I was too short to ever be a model, I hated school and was as sensitve as a baby's butt, and couldn't keep anything organized - I would rebel against what she was. I would become the best anti-Lynne there is. I was messy, FLAWED, got terrible grades, loud, and swore against aerobics. I would sit around in front of the television, hating to cook, hating to clean, would declare the rejection of marriage and children ...
All this to say, since this phase...he--, during this phase...she has remained my best friend, mother and I still admire, respect and secretly want to measure up. So, for the first time in my life she is hurt and will be helpless, under the care of someone else, weak, and on crutches...and it hits me in my core. More than ever, I see that she is human, wounded and completely helpless...she is vincible. More than anything, I want to be the one at home taking care of her with the patience that she always gave me, making her special "snacks" and running errands for her BUT instead I am here...praying that at 1:00 pm, I get a text saying that she is better than ever...
