The Writing Mamas Daily BlogEach day on the Writing Mamas Daily Blog, a different member will write about mothering.
If you're a mom then you've said these words, you've made these observations and you've lived these situations - 24/7.
And for that, you are a goddess.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Where the House of a Mother Reflects the Home of Her Daughter
Monica Balius lived a few blocks away. It became our daily habit as two new best friends to stop at her house after school for a snack and play time. At Monica’s house, there was always a red-stained plastic gallon jug filled with Kool-Aid and an assortment of Keebler cookies waiting for us.
On this Saturday, our roller skating marathon had taken us up and down our neighborhood’s hilly streets, and we both needed a break. She needed a bathroom and I needed a drink, and there we were, staring at my brown front yard from the sidewalk edge.
“Can we stop at your house?” Monica asked, innocently. My mother had never subscribed to the southern hospitality thing, that “ya’ll come back” spirit of dropping by for sweet iced tea. Our ten-foot backyard fences went up as soon as the moving vans left. I turned the front-door knob of our house trying to convince myself that there was nothing to worry about.
As I opened the door, I half-heartedly called for my mother. Maybe we could get in and out before she knew we were there. I had just directed Monica down the hall to our bathroom, when Mom roared in from the living room on my right side, making me jump.
“How many times have I told you not to bring friends over without asking!” she said, snapping her words with a tone that scared me. “Now you go find your friend and tell her it’s time to leave!”
I held back the tears of embarrassment and panic that she would scare away the first friend I’d made as the “new kid” in fourth grade. I was experienced enough to know that no amount of explanation would soften her outrage over the intrusion of an uninvited guest, even a nine-year old one.
My own daughter, Mackenzie, is in fourth grade now. She called me into her room one Sunday afternoon, turning down her Radio Disney to explain the stack of folded papers in front of her.
“Mom, I’m having a tea party next Sunday for my friends. They’ll bring their favorite dolls and we’ll have a contest, just like in my book.” She held up her tattered “Best-Loved Doll” paperback. “This will be just girls. I finished the invitations. Can you help me find the addresses?”
I marveled at my budding party planner, patting myself on the back for giving her the “host” propensity that was such an important part of our growing family’s style. As I addressed the last envelope later that afternoon, I pulled out the invitation, just to make sure I knew the details. It was only after I’d put on the last stamp that it dawned on me that Mackenzie had never asked for my permission to have this party.
She knew I’d say yes.
By Kimberley Kwok Stumble This Post
This is so powerful. Poignant and beautifully written. I'm glad your daughter has a much different experience. Hats off to you for being able to provide it.Post a Comment