Whisper of Knowing
images by Jen Sosa
Yesterday was one of my hardest mothering days. At nap time, I held Romeo as he cried because he didn’t want to sleep and I found myself standing in the dark, crying right along with him.
I realized then, how he and I are the same - both tired and needing rest but resisting in some way. So I soothed him. And I soothed myself. And in just a bit he was down.
My patience for him stretches to patience for me and my whisper of knowing reminds me how so much of motherhood is mothering myself.
Once Romeo was asleep, I abandoned my ‘to do’s and just let myself fall into the sofa and weep. For all the time I tend to & nurture my child’s emotions — what about mine?
How are you doing, Liz? What do you need? How is your heart feeling?” I asked myself.
“I miss my mom.” I replied to myself.
Sometimes I just want to hear her voice. To talk to her on the phone. To have her near, to feel her love. To draw from her strength. I miss the sound of her voice. And it’s achingly painful to know that for so many years she called. She called. But so often, I didn’t answer. I was so busy in the day-to-day of life and work and doing, that I’d make a mental note to call back when I had a second or in between errands.
And I knew, even then. Or rather, She knew, my Knowing. She whispered wisely to me, “this will return to you. not answering these calls.”
So I tried to do better, and I did. But still, I could’ve picked up the phone more. And here I am wishing for anything that I could pick up the phone now to hear her beautiful, warm, lofty voice instead of the gravelly ragged sound that is now her voice. Her ability to speak, lost. Ravaged by rare neurological disease.
“I miss my mom.”
This was what came up for me through all of my tears. And underneath all that was, “I want my mommy.”
Just like Romeo.
So I texted her.
3:12pm
Hi mama. I’m missing you extra today. I wish I could just talk to you the way we used to. I miss really talking with you
I felt silly as soon as I sent it. Why would I have sent that to her? She probably won’t even be able to reply, or she won’t be able to interpret it for the cry for connection that it is.
And then, my phone rang, —
Mama Janet Mobile
“Mom?” I answered.
“Hi” she graveled.
I broke open, and wept. I fell into her proverbial lap and told her everything. How I missed her. How I missed her being able to talk with her, how I miss hearing her once beautiful voice. How I wish we could spend time together. How sad it makes me that she’s ill.
And she just listened.
And she wept.
And we cried together - though miles away, holding each other close.
“I’m sorry for all those times I didn’t answer when you called, or I didn’t call you back. I feel so terrible mom. I should have called you more.”
She paused.
“Well,” she graveled…. I could hear her thinking, “you didn’t know.”
That was it. After all of it, she didn’t judge me. She understood. She loved.
We sat in the quiet, sniffling together, and in a moment it hit me — we’re doing it. Spending time together, right now. I felt so very connected to her in this moment, and I felt so deeply held.
How healing to know, mom — I can still be with you. It just looks very different now.
But mom look at us - together, we are.
Footnote: My favorite part of the story, is when later, on one of our now routine calls I told my mom I was writing. About her and us and life and motherhood. And I asked if she’d like to read what I wrote about us (above). Her reply still makes me smile because although it was typed out, I can hear her beautiful voice exactly how she’d say it. She replied:
We are! Together! Mom