Nineteen years ago today my belly was tight and round with a dark line down the middle.
Nineteen years ago I was younger, naive, full of awe and wonder as you rocked me with your somersaults and hiccups. You were determined to make your debut despite a huge snowstorm and an ice rink of a hospital parking lot. The IV drip the nurse started only made me desperately dizzy. The contractions continued, and my doctor booked an OR. Twenty-nine year-old me hadn’t planned on having preemies who’d end up needing to stay in the NICU for three weeks.
But there you were, swimming in preemie onesies the hospital provided.
Now you’re about to turn 19. I haven’t had you under my roof in almost five years. The last time I got to celebrate your birthday with you was when you turned 14. I dropped a lot of gifts off on your dad’s front porch. I mailed you a lot of cards and texted you a million times. Now you’re in college and I don’t have your mailing addresses. The ones who do have them are not allowed to share with me.
I have caused you tremendous pain and anguish, and I am sorry for all of that. I’m working hard every day to be a better person who puts good things out into the world. I am sorry that I have not been the mother you wanted and needed. I take full responsibility for my many faults and fuck-ups, and while I will never be perfect, I have learned a lot from losing you. I carry this loss with me every day like Sisyphus: I lug the big boulder up the mountain, only for it to roll down and have to heave it up all over again. This is my punishment. Monster Mother.
So much has happened since we’ve been estranged. You left not long after your grandfather passed away, but just before COVID hit. You’ve survived a pandemic, high school, and losing your stepmom, just to name a few. I wish I could’ve been there for you through those things.
I wonder what you are like as young women now. Seeing glimpses of you in photos others share is proof you exist (because sometimes my brain insists I dreamed you, made you up inside my head) and painful because it’s a reminder of what I’m missing.
If I could do it all over again I would yell less and listen more. I’d perch on the foot of your bed to admire you instead of nagging you to finish your homework or clean your room. I’d bite my tongue, linger longer, and hug you so often you’d cringe.
People always tell you there are five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance; however, they don’t warn you that grief isn’t linear, and you can be upside down, inside out, and sideways every day. You can go to therapy, take your medicine, exercise daily, and write your heart out. But my grief feels different because it’s incomplete. You are not dead; you are still very much alive. But I didn’t get to say goodbye, so I didn’t get closure. Maybe that’s the price I must pay for being Monster Mother.
That boulder is calling, so I’d better get back to it. Happy early birthday, my beautiful daughters. I will never stop working on myself in the hopes that maybe you’ll see how sorry I am and how I wish things were different. I can’t un-do the past, but I can strive for a better future.
I love you, Abby and Izzy.
Love,
Mommy
