scribblechic

For as long as I can remember my mother treated self-pity with sugary doses of Pollyannaisms; forced optimism disrupting splendid displays of youthful wallowing.  As a child I wanted to sit in my bad mood, splash around a bit; I wore my temper like a blouse clinging against wet skin.  My dramatic displays a shield of pessimism crafted by a child to ward off disappointment and loss.  In truth, I was a cautious optimist.

I was six when my parents divorced, too young to remember the details of the daily adjustments.  I recall rather a moment frozen in time as I glanced over my shoulder at classmates, saying goodbye to friends and joining my parents as they walked blindly in different directions.  I look at this time through the filtered lens of my lifetime, a child letting go of the familiar and guarding herself against the unknown.  Pieces of my pessimistic perspective have roots in this moment.  More consciously I recall a summer day three years later.

On this day my father was driving my brother and I to visit our grandparents.  In the aftermath of my parents’ divorce holidays and summer vacations were often spent at my grandparents’ home; a cornerstone of consistency as my brother and I transitioned between our parents’ homes.  Eager to fall into tight hugs and familiar spaces I was lost to anticipation as we made the lengthy trip by car.  Unexpectedly, my father detoured to a grassy park, unceremoniously informing us our grandfather had passed away.  I stood in the sunshine unaware of the cemetery in the background as the air around me spun out of control distorting reality, death eclipsing the last traces of my familiar world.  This was the moment I began constructing boundaries.  I tucked my hope and faith away, to dull the ache of loss.

I could map the difficult moments of my youth; it is a terrain I, in part, created.  Ever mindful of disappointment I often overlooked opportunities for joy.  I held people at bay, safely detached until my first child was born.  The moment I became a mother every carefully placed brick in the wall around my heart was dislodged with a joyful swelling, my hope and faith renewed.  I catch myself spouting ridiculously confectionary sentiments, reminiscent of my mother’s.  On occasion I attempt to stifle myself, but find the act is almost reflexive.  It would appear I am my mother’s optimist, my half empty glass runneth over.