Moms Don't Do This...

A mother’s voice can penetrate like no other. I made the regretted decision of calling my mother first thing this morning. Obviously distracted by a blaring YouTube music video in the background, I offered to call her back. Unnoticed, she went on to rant about what I thought would be her real estate predicament. “Oh, so I may have found someone to rent out your grandma’s condo to…ya-da-ya-da-ya-da- Damn! This pianist is amazing!” Following her tangent, I replied, “Yeah, I love listening to piano, I wish I knew how to play. I always wanted to take lessons.” Then without any hesitation, nor filtration from cognitive thought to voice, she replied, “Sandy, you would never make it.” And there it was, so matter-of-fact. Absolute. Six hellish words that have pitch forked my life for the past 29 years; six words that have paved my non-directional path.

“You would never make it.” “It’s different, because you’re a girl.” “You would not be good at that.” “You wouldn’t like it anyway.” “We’ll see if you will actually graduate.” Her venomous inclinations always administered directly into my veins. Slowly. Over time, poisoning my self-esteem. Her unspoken words, mannerisms, and glances of doubt, all sting and scar more severely than any instrument or substance on earth.

What’s wrong with me? What have I done to give her this impression? Why do others who are close, see me through such different eyes? I must have done something wrong. Maybe I didn’t walk soon enough, speak as well as others, or live up to her expectations. I don’t know. But I do know that on my own, I skipped a year in high school, was awarded a full scholarship in college, always graduated at the top of my class, and have been placed in charge of many nursing staff, most older than my mother. Alone. I accomplished them all without her support. No mom cheering in my section. I suppose those things have no merit. No tangible worth. Well at least, not to her.

As I write this, I’m sitting at a playground with my daughter. My eyes wring out familiar tears, as I hope to cultivate finer ways within her. I also can’t help but look around and wonder. How many of these uncontaminated children will be filled with poison? Their emotional growth stunted before even given a chance to laugh or cry? How many will suffer the uncensored disappointments of their mothers, consciously and unconsciously, echoing in their minds forever.

Heading Home

Reuniting with someone from the past can send the most self-assured person into a frenzied mess. Somehow it instills a level of anticipation, curiosity, and sometimes fear. What will they look like? What are they doing now with their life? Will there be that weird silence? Does this skirt make me look fat? A hodgepodge of questions and concerns racked my brain as I received a text message confirming a small reunion.

This month I managed to haul my family down to Miami to see my parents and grandmothers just in time for the dreadfully hot, sticky summer. In the midst of the mosquitoes and family madness, I managed to break free for an evening to reunite with my college friends. Seconds after booking my ticket 3 weeks prior, I knew I had to do something with the way I looked. The last time I saw these girls I was single, 2 sizes smaller, always in heels, punctual, and wearing a great south beach tan. Fast-forward to July 2007- none of the above, except maybe on occasion, punctual.

So there I was. Standing in the bathroom of my parent’s house 5 years later, pacing in anticipation of seeing my old friends again as a mom for the first time. I latched on to all means possible in recreating my then 24- year old image. Exfoliating every inch of my skin. Meticulously combing my lashes with mascara, hoping it would somehow lengthen my youth. Caking pressed powder on my face in a futile effort to cover up the many traces of my motherhood.

As I sit down into my uncomfortable wooden chair at the noisy restaurant, I realize that about a dozen empty seats surround me- at least I’m still “punctual.” Soon the seats around me fill with familiar faces, and I realize that they’re mostly moms too. The moment I gave each a hug, I immediately remembered the care-free, single life we all once shared for a period in our lives; A time that I hold very dearly; times that have molded me into who I am today; memories that I often visit. Soon enough, the 5 years I’ve spent away quickly faded, and it didn’t matter that my mascara had smeared. A good friend whispered in my ear and chuckled “we’re all so grown up now, aren’t we?” It’s crazy, but true. These gals, who I spent endless hours with studying at Starbucks, celebrating finals at a local bar, were now- mothers. Those reckless times seem so intangible now. As we fondly looked through old photos from us all hanging out, my friend described those times for us best, “it was….
T-h-e-r-a-p-y”- Indeed it was.

Twenty-Something

Certainly some of the best things in my life thus far have been unplanned. Growing up in a strict and disciplined home, I was molded into quite a workhorse, but bucked at any notion of spontaneity.

When I saw those 2 pink lines that cold winter morning, I froze. Sliding down the wall as my legs gave way; I sat atop the cold ceramic tiles of the bathroom floor, stunned by the sheer hard truth that fell before me. Pregnant, and twenty-something– not exactly what I planned.

After many years of working with the most fragile, tiniest preemies in the world, one would think I would be better prepared for this role of motherhood. I mean, I’ve helped a fair share of children born at less than one pound to survive all odds in this world. And I’ve also seen many more suffer and pass; sometimes in my very own hands, alone.

This acute, fast-paced career of mine would surely have me groomed for being a parent one day. Or so I thought. After a year and half in this parenting business, I find just the contrary.

I’m a twenty-something mom caught in the cut throat, evolving world of motherhood. Yet again trying to find my way, and a new self. There are “young moms” and there “older moms”, but “20-something moms” are caught right in between. Like the listless middle child struggling for their own identity. There’s a reason why they made Jane Brady a little nuts-o in The Brady Movie.

I’m too young to know enough or accomplish all that needs to be before starting a family.
And I’m too old to hold on to those reckless dreams; to just break free and run. At times I feel as if I don’t have enough tread worn from my sneakers to be taken seriously, or I’m just a tattered old sole that must be tucked away in the suburbs. I’ve reached a point where I want to just take my shoes off, leaving nothing left for them to judge. How’s that for spontaneity?

I’m a mom. I don’t want to live my life like Britney Spears (I like my hair). I’m not ready to live in the confines of some gated community in the ‘burbs. I want to be a good mother. I want to feel like a woman, a mother, an individual. I don’t want to live my life in sweat pants. I don’t want a white picket fence.

Quarter life crisis, anyone? I’ve got one here, hot and ready to serve.

Hit the "Reset" button

Wandering down 7th avenue in Greenwich Village, my friend and I stumbled upon the Village Vanguard. (Yeah I know. Shocker I left the house, much less trek to a trendy town in NYC for a day). The endless line outside their dark and eerie doors drew intrigue. How curious this tiny place could draw such a crowd? Once at the door, we were greeted by a kind-faced man requesting “$35 dollars please”. My thoughts-- this place better be damn good!

As the heavy door swung open, a steep and dark staircase led us deep beneath the depths of the bustling city. A small, congested room appeared as we turned the corner. Soon another 70 or so people crammed themselves in there with us, making us a sure fire hazard. The rows of seats were solid wood, and terribly uncomfortable. Drinks were pricey and reminded me of those tiny beverages offered on airplanes. But no one sat down here for a comfy seat or tasty beverage. What would soon begin is what we all came to consume.

The room darkened more and a warm red light filled the stage before us. Six musicians took their places and began to gear up- two saxophonists, a drummer, guitarist, bass player, and a signature piano man. A miss-mash of keys and chords played as they warmed up. Then with one deep breath, a “1-2-3”, I was soon blown away to a whole new place.

I was captivated as each musician grew lost in their own ecstasy playing their instrument. What are their thoughts while up there on stage? Do they worry about their bills, kids, or even a ride home? Watching the man with his eyes closed tight while straining to hit a high note, I thought- No way! This must be their escape; their bliss. Doing what they love, and playing before a crowd hooting and hollering for more. What a feeling that must be? To satisfy the music cravings of people each night.

And that I did. I craved. The music. The city. The absolute escape. And then it happened-a key change. The piano man massaged the ivories with a bit more oomph, and the guitarist strung a heavier chord. The music ran right through me. As the walls shook from the passing subway train, my body warmed from every sound within the room that came to create perfect harmony. A moment where I wanted to lie down before the stage and close my eyes to remember; to just devour the moment for just a bit longer. Ironically enough, I turned amicably to my New Yorker friend, only to find her fast asleep (oh geez, and not even a mom yet!). I chuckled. My night owl eyes were still wide open at this ungodly hour, like they were years ago.

In a New York minute, everything DID change--body, mind, and spirit. What a difference a day makes. Twenty-four little hours. It was my much needed mommy escape. A re-awakening of my soul. Only in New York- the city that never sleeps.

Winter-07