Wednesday, 17 February 2010

mom 2.0



I bookmarked this post with the intention of watching it later... later is finally here (two weeks later), and I watched it at last this morning. And I had to share it. I'm finding it difficult still, after almost two years, to deal with my oldest daughter not wanting to live with us, and I received news again this morning (for the second week in a row) that she won't be coming home this weekend (it's only going to get worse - her dad split from his partner of ten years before Christmas, and they have moved almost 250kms away, making weekend access visits even more stressful by increasing travel time from thirty minutes for all parties [1hr total each weekend] to almost 6hrs total per weekend visit)

So, of course I started blubbing as I watched. And I can't think of a single way to share it with her, so I'm sharing it here instead, in the off chance she might read my blog, and click on the button, and remember that even though we fight, I really do love her, and so does everyone else.

WHAT I WOULD TELL HER: (If I knew what to say.)
You are a miracle.
And I have to love you this fiercely:
So that you can feel it even after you leave for school,
or even while you are asleep,
or even after your childhood becomes a memory.
You’ll forget all this when you grow up.
But it’s okay.
Being a mother means having your heart broken.
And it means loving and losing and falling apart and coming back together.
And it’s the best there is.
And also, sometimes, the worst.
Sometimes you won’t have anyone to talk to.
Sometimes you’ll wonder if you’ve forgotten who you are.
But you must remember this: What you’re doing matters.
And you have to be brave with your life so that others can be brave with theirs.
The truth is, being a woman is a gift.
Tenderness is a gift.
Intimacy is a gift.
And nurturing the good in this world is a nothing short of a privilege.
That’s why I have to love you this way.
So I can give what I have to you.
So that you can carry it in your body and pass it on.
I have watched you sleep.
I’ve kissed you a million times.
And I know something that you don’t, yet:
You are writing the story of your only life every single minute of every day.
And my greatest hope for you, sweet child,
is that I can teach you how to write a good one.

2 comments:

  1. love those words you have for your dd. i do feel for you........ my 5 oldest boys have been with their father for 5 years, he took them on an access visit and never returned them(bit diferent situation to you), he moves more than i can keep up with, changes the kids schools about 2 times a year. at the end of last year my oldest had had enough and came back, he knows(at 16) that the way his father brings them up isnt the best way and he has other options...hope things work out for you and your daughter

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  2. Hello Cate ~ I have no words of wisdom to leave here in this comment, just want you to know that my heart aches for you. I can only imagine how difficult this situation is for you. :o( I'm glad that you blogged about it...and posted this very cool video. Hang in there...I'll be thinking of you.
    xo

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I love reading comments from you. Thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts. xox

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