“Your Mom Has A Rockin’ Bod”. That’s what the handsome surfer looking dude told my eleven- and seven- year old daughters about me – their forty-eight year old mother. It was December 2004. Seven months after my husband said he wanted a divorce. Five Months After He Moved Out. Four months after a Palm Springs Hotel offered me an irresistible package deal for a Christmas stay. Three months after I looked up an old boyfriend David… who happened to be living in Palm Springs. Ten minutes after being in the hotel hot tub in an unusually cold California December. The…
Author: Mom Egg Review
Tilda Swinton made small talk as we strolled through quiet, cobbled streets to the door of her garden apartment. We followed her in, my husband and I, and were met by a tortoise-shell cat. A decorative railing marked off a section of the main room raised like a stage she might perform on for a room full of guests, or for no one at all, for herself alone. Were we rude to have barged in? She seemed not to mind; she kept talking as she kicked off her shoes and flung her shawl on an easy chair. The smell of…
Amongst the things I did not realize about having four children was the fact that there’d be so much stuff to manage. I’m not even talking about the doctors’ appointments or school forms (there are those, too, groaning to-do lists’ worth). I’m talking about physical objects. I’m not a terribly orderly person. Here I need clothing for each child—and must shepherd clothing from the first to the next to the next and so on. We are playing with a baby doll stroller and games I have no idea how to play. We are in the land of Itsy Bitsy Spider…
When you see the word “choice,” you might first think about the emphasis of the “pro-choice” proponents on free will, as opposed to the sanctity of life that its opponents emphasize or the privacy aspect that was the basis for Roe v. Wade. I think about that too. As a college writing teacher, I find it to be a powerful rhetorical choice, since we do value free will, particularly as Americans. The idea of free will is closely related to the American ideals of individual freedom and democratic government; at the same time, the vast majority of Americans self-define as…
Two years after my mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, my brother and I moved her from her house in River Vale, New Jersey, to a nearby dementia unit called Memory Lane. I wish I could say it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but since then she has continued to decline, and we’ve transferred her to a nursing home. A few months after my mother was settled into Memory Lane, my brother and I put my mother’s house up for sale. My brother asked me to come by and help him sort what we would save from what we…
The Mom Egg Vol. 8 2010 “Lessons” Selections Get the Issue LANGUAGE CLASS (written on Qualla Boundary; for C.M.) Kimberly L. Becker Little by little we are reclaiming the words Just as the land was once large, so, too, our voice Some words lost on the Trail have been found They lived hidden in baskets, in pockets, in the very tassels of corn (Selu, Selu) Now the words live again See? When I say nogwo it is now, both the now of then and the now of not yet The words work secret medicine and strong, forming us…
In Bali, where I live in a big bamboo and grass house, “Ibu” means mother… I am a mom, to 8 people ages 4 to 34! I am also a midwife, which gives me the astonishing day and night attendance to miracles. …(A) dear sister~writer living in Paris, urged me to look at The Mom Egg… and I have, and it’s an amazing project. The title and the graphic are perfect, for as a midwife who has squatted by the birth of a few thousand souls, I can tell you, it is not only the Baby who is Born… The…
“I wonder if my children will ever really know me?” My friend, mother of four, grandmother of many, asked me this when she was sixty-something. At this time she had become a certified counselor for elders encouraging them to uncover their own wisdom. This moment redacts in my memory at thoughtful moments of quiet. Another question seems even more pressing; “Did I every really know my own mother?” During my long years in therapy, this was not a question that I asked, nor did my therapist. During incessant self-absorption, I kept asking: “Does my mother really know me?” I wasn’t…
Today when I visit my mother at the dementia center, one of the residents convinces several of her companions there is a cat on a nearby roof. She can see it, she says, and I assure her that I can see it too, though I’m pretty sure she’s talking about a dark vent that stands out against surrounding gray shingles. Others say they see it, and then they begin to worry about the poor cat. I tell her that cats are resourceful and this one surely knows a way down. Later, one of the women shows us something on her…
Growing up in the shadow of my absentee Vietnam War veteran father, it always seemed like I inherited some, and too much, of his post-service sensibilities—he was diagnosed with Post-traumatic Stress Disorder before his second tour finished. I’ve always suspected much of my hyper-vigilant survivalism, and fear of people and divinity, is connected to how he was when he and my mother conceived me. Or maybe the Vietnam War is just an easily accessible historical context in which I can place him in order to connect with him in some tangible way? In any case, as an adolescent this desire…