On good days, we used to sing the “Mama Day” song. Mama would dance in her pink terrycloth robe, smile wide, and open her arms to us. She would turn on all the lights in the house, tell stories about when she was a girl, and once did a cartwheel. Back then, I didn’t know how to tell if it would be a Mama day or a Mom day. Mom days were longer; she was quiet in the mornings, and after work, she would pick fights. Some Mom days were spent entirely on the couch, but she could never tell you what was on. Laughter and manic sobs sound remarkably similar through the cracks under your door.
Mama never acknowledged Mom, nor did anyone else, for that matter. As the years went by, Mom stuck around. She shattered the TV remote and called me a whore for the first time in my life; it is still banded together, the remote and my sense of self-worth. She pushed my brother against the wall and took the keys for more than a few nights, that's about when he started disappearing too.
Mama still came around every so often, but couldn’t understand why her babies wouldn’t dance with her anymore. Mama taught me to cook, garden, to always send birthday cards and thank you notes, and all about the magic of the radio. Mom taught me to be independent from the world, to never have needs, that guilt and volume get you further than reason.
For years, I tried to reconcile how I could love and be loved by both Jekyll and Hyde, but now I just hug her, expecting barbs.
I am not as mad as I used to be, now that I hold babies and wish that it could be my fate one day, but how can I create the greatest love of my life with this sword hanging over my head?
My friends joke about the biological clock ticking away, but freezing my eggs won’t deactivate this bomb. I understand why she chose to bring me into this world; she wanted to experience that great love that only a mother knows. But I know that love too, I feel it so strongly that I have saved the child that never was from ever losing that love.