mothers

My cyberstalker is my mother — but it wasn’t always this way.

I am willing to spend time with her — if she's not smoking around my son or me.

When we got home my wife was unpacking our bags and noticed the condoms we keep in the toiletries bag looked weird.

When my mom died, I made a list of things that made me similar to her: My favorite color was purple, I liked to write, I loved reading, I adored cats, I didn’t wear makeup, my favorite soda was Pepsi, I lived in oversized sweaters. I was 11, so I didn’t add “I love to drink” to the list, but it crosses my mind now whenever I’m at a bar with friends, and I decide to order a cocktail.

My mother and I may never see eye to eye on politics, and our value systems may seldom align. Sometimes it feels like we try to breach this divide; other times we dig a deeper rift.

My mom and I are extremely close. Some would say we’re a little too close, but since she fills two roles in my life — mother and best friend — I think it’s fair that she get a double slice of my love and attention. I was completely devastated when she announced that she was moving to Dubai. But now, my mother has lived abroad for more than two years, and I can see that her move was a good thing.

I find myself in this place again. I am numb. I feel empty. I almost have no words.
In 2012, around the time of the birth of my son, I had a similar feeling. Trayvon Martin was killed. I was pregnant with a black male in a world that was not ready for him.