From Whence Cometh My Help…

I don’t know why I thought of my grandmother MaryBelle this morning, but her face popped up in my head when I awakened to start my day. I am up at 6:30 am each morning now that my first-born is in middle school and the bus arrives at 7:15am. I am not a morning person, but I’m glad that he is, because he is up, dressed, fed and on the bus in 40 minutes! I hate getting up so early, but it does give me some quite time for myself before my little firecracker of a kindergartner awakens. These past few days my little one has been sick with some type of stomach virus, and even though she’s the one who’s ill, after a few days it tends to take a physical and emotional toll on me. With no parents or grandparents to turn to, I start to feel so alone doing this all by myself. My ex chooses not to help me since he supports financially, so that door is closed. And though my friends are so kind and helpful, you really can’t ask a friend to sit around and clean up your child’s vomit all day while you run off to work. Sometimes when you’re sick, you just want your mommy. I know the feeling. The really difficult part of being an entrepreneur is that your clients are but only so understanding when you’re unavailable day after day and there’s no one else to replace you. I don’t get much sleep, I’m doing way more laundry than normal and it’s tough trying to juggle work and a sick child, while still recovering from a mild concussion myself. After the day is done, I sit down in exhaustion and look around, and there’s no one else there, and it’s tough not to have a pity party.

So I guess my grandmother (we called her Mom-Mom) showed up to help and to keep me from partying alone. I made it to Whole Foods yesterday to buy an Organic, whole chicken to make home-made chicken noodle soup. Now, this is something I’ve never done, so why I even embraced the idea is beyond me. Must have been Mom-Mom in my ear. After my daughter left her lunch on the floor of the supermarket and we headed (quickly) for the cash register, I went home to start my project. And yes, I did tell someone there was a cleanup in aisle four! 🙂

For some reason once I started cooking at the stove I turned into someone I didn’t recognize. Now I must say I think I am a great cook, but there are still some old southern recipes that I haven’t yet mastered, and home-made chicken soup is one of them! The chicken smelled so good and as I put away some of it to freeze and use later, the thought came to me to leave some in the pot to make gravy and serve it over biscuits and rice. I then reached for the yams I just purchased, put them in a pot and started making my list of herbs and other items I needed and added a bag of black-eyed peas to the list of things I would make for dinner.

It was as if I were channeling my ancestors and that they had taken over my thoughts and were helping me to take care of my daughter and to remind me once again that they are around. I had to smile and think that if anyone would show up to give me a cooking lesson it would be her. Mom-Mom was the one who showed my mother around a kitchen when Mom was a new bride and soon to be mom at the young age of 19. Mom-Mom was such a small, quiet woman of few words, and I miss her. I used to wash and braid her silvery hair until she left this plane, and I always enjoyed our girl talks and moments alone. She gave me such full seeds of wisdom and was the most compassionate woman I knew. And I’m thankful she’s still around sharing her wisdom. I am still exhausted, still wishing for Supernanny to come do my laundry and wash my dishes, but when I put the chicken soup, candied yams, biscuits and gravy and black-eyed peas on the table for my family to eat, I will smile and know from whence cometh my help. Thanks Mom-Mom.

Do you ever feel your ancestors near?

October 24, 2012 7

Toni’s Memoir (Pain is Inevitable…Draft) Page 1

Memoir Draft. Page 1…..

My first vivid memory of my childhood was of Kindergarten. I had been home with my mother since birth and was devastated when she left me at the doorway expecting me to stay in a room full of strange kids without her. I cried and cried, but she never returned. I didn’t know how difficult that moment was for her until I had the same experience as a mother. My teacher was beautiful like the Barbie dolls my father would never let me buy. Although she was part Native American, Miss Sullivan had skin like cream of wheat, with dark hair down her back and as sweet as pie. Eventually my mother Ethel volunteered as Ms. Sullivan’s aide. I don’t know if it was because I continued to have difficulty separating or if she was just too afraid to leave her little girl in school. I’m not really sure is the truth. Mom was home with us all until school age which is why before the age of five, I was able to read independently. My mom, a high school drop out, had taught me how to read. I remember being afraid yet excited at the same time. I sat on top of the black licorice colored grand piano because I was still too little to sit in the big chairs in the classroom, and read a story to my class sitting below me on the floor. Their faces were frozen and they looked in amazement. This shy girl, who sat next to them during playtime, eating cookies and chocolate milk, was now in the role of teacher, reading to them all during story time. The principal even came in to see what his ears could not believe.

That is where the expectations began. I was put on display, positioned to be the star; the one to crawl out of the pit. The one child who would make my daddy proud that any of us were born. The savior. Such a heavy burden for a little five year old girl, and at that moment I had no knowledge of any of these expectations, nor how they would shape my life.

I am the only girl in a family of four. Three brothers – two are older and one younger and but for the grace of God we are all still breathing, able to tell our own individual stories, with children and homes and our good health. I thought being the only girl in the house was the biggest curse when I was younger. I was trapped in a houseful of silly, selfish boys who found pleasure in stringing my Barbie dolls from the basement water pipes, and extracting the batteries from my talking dolls so they could pretend she was dead. I was in Hell. That’s what I felt I was living in at the moment. And I still had to get though grade school.

June 21, 2012 2

My Angels always show up for the after-party…

It’s just a part of my reality now. I’ve accepted the heartache that wells up inside my soul when the Mother’s Day commercials start to pour in. Even though I am a mother, and I get my props this time of year from the media (and boy how that makes me feel valued!), I still feel the abandonment. It’s been over a decade but I still want to be able to buy a card, deliver it, and get a big warm hug. So each year about a week before the holiday, I fall into a slight emotional and physical slump. It’s usually unsuspected because each year I think it’s going to be the last, but you never get over your first love.

It used to hit me like a ton of bricks, but now I’m so used to it and have accepted it that I plan the party. My pity party that is. Poor me. I lost mom at such a young age, I have no living grandparents and my heart aches for my kids who did not get to experience her here on this plane. I feel overwhelmed. I feel alone. I feel sad. And I feel like crawling up under my covers and not coming out until someone else arrives. I put on my terry cloth robe, some warm socks, get a good glass of red wine and some chocolate (preferably with ice cream too) and find a few tear-jerker movies to watch on television. My preference is Beaches, Terms of Endearment and Steel Magnolias – always sure to envoke a good, deep soul-wrenching cry. Of course I never invite anyone to my pity party, or it wouldn’t be as meaningful. It’s usually ended with not much sleep and I feel the emotional hangover the next day or so until I decide the party is over or someone needs their tutu or baseball pants cleaned right away. And somewhere between the tears or the chocolate, I ask my Creator to help me embrace joy again and I ask Mom to show up somehow during the week to let me know I am not alone. The alarm rings, the kids have to get to school, and I have to get back to work. Back to reality.

And as inevitable as the pity party, so is the after party. And my angels always tend to show up and deliver ten-fold!

May 25, 2012 0

Joy in the Journey

I have to admit that I was never the type of Oprah fan that watched her show every day or even taped it or stayed up at night to see what it was unless a friend called and said “you have to see this!”. I never tried to get on any of the Oprah’s favorite thing giveway shows because I figured only the people who had the time to watch, send letters and email had a chance at those shows anyway. Once in a while I would catch it on a holiday or during the time I was home with my newborn (Janai at the time), and a topic would be profound for me, but not often. However, I will never forget the show she did on Mother’s Day interviewing some of the young victims of September 11th. They had not been killed, but their mothers had, and some of them not even old enough to speak would never be able to celebrate the holiday with their Mothers. It really made me get off the pity pot that day and made me realize how blessed I was to have had my mom in my life for several decades.

November 26, 2011 1