English is so painful to sit through some mornings. Both
literally and physically. I shift back and sideways like a middle school kid
who has used up too many bathroom passes. Blocking out my
"Professor's" (which I cringe- out of distaste and lack of respect-
to call him) ramblings between "ummm-ummms" and constant
battling of the wits with classmates...I daydream about this baby in me.
I remember my way of thinking when I was a little girl, such an
omniscient point of view on my future. I pictured my self a lawyer, as I was a
7 year old expert at arguing any point to exhaustion, even if
completely wrong, and a love of observing people's traits and antics...holding
close, like a secret power, almost a sixth sense of people's transparency. I
had my entire life planned out according to a life of Disney movies, my parent’s
mistakes I would never make and, my salvation, Long Hollow Baptist Church. I
dreamt of a broken home I would never have- because of the one I came
from, no curse words because it's not a Christian way of life, a big white
house with no clutter or tension, and porcelain dolls and bookshelves lining
every wall of my home. My kids, all five of them which I had after college and
marriage, by 25, would sit in their canopy day beds and read all the books I
saved as a kid. "This book belongs to Nicole Samantha"
written in the covers with pens I wasn't supposed to use. Happily ever after.
Will she be as emotional and sensitive as I was? My heart would
burst when I would see my dad grab my naturally frown faced mom off the couch-
as she did what seemed like mountains of laundry and begrudgingly sat through
MTV's Bevis and Butthead- to slow dance in the middle of the living room to
Eric Clapton. Oh that feeling that our family was "all better"
because I would hear her infectious laugh break the tension of the abuse I
only had a Titanic's view of. My heart would sink into a deep place when I
would see an old man limping or a child with a mental disorder. I cared SO much
for everything and yet knew so little about it all. I used to pray to God, then
Jesus, and finally the Holy Spirit ( who ever that was) that everyone would
love me. That was all I wanted from him. To feel a constant love-- that I
craved from my parents. My dad was absent a lot. Always
leaving on "business trips" which were later discovered as
separations. Always absent where we needed him and too present where we
didn't. My mom-- always over-stressed, nothing said softly or with patience
behind it. My dad wore a cloak of gregariousness and false stories to entertain
whoever was near and my mom the burden of his truths and the damage of an
abusive marriage. You'd think as much as I loved to play dress up, with my
supposed ever so present sense of transparency, I would have seen such
costumes. Alas, love is the biggest mask of them all. To sum my
juvenile emotional-state up, my kindergarten report cards would come home, written
in (what took me a few minutes to decipher due to this secret code between
teachers & parents called cursive) bold pen "Samantha cries WAY too
much." I specifically recall my mom and dad jesting to friends about how
emotional I was, saying "She cries at the drop of a hat." Where I
followed up with tears and anger "No I DON'T, I NEVER HAVE...tell me when
a hat dropped and I cried" as their laughing only perpetuated the tears.
Oh how little I knew when I knew it all.
If she is this way...I welcome it openly and hope she
grows from it like I did. I laugh looking back at my rendition of my
future, a hope to live out some Christian parable with lessons learned and
perfection dotting every I.
Reverting back to English class, I found myself softly giggling aloud--to
the point that it startled me, as my train of thoughts were the above, that the
only part of my perfect life --in the mind of 7 year old me --was that in the
nursery sits an antique bookshelf full of my childhood books, that I have held
on to with extreme sentiment, that will be hers. I daydreamed of reading her
the books just like my mom did with me in her bed, sounding out and explaining
words to the point of exhaustion. And did I proudly giggle.
When I came home I sat and stared at that bookshelf with a
content smile- as I AM the woman, still, that I wanted to be, and so much
more.
