Letters For You

Laughter Is My Only Good Advice

Posted on April 24, 2012 Written by Tonya

They say laughter is the best medicine and when it comes to raising kids, there has never been a truer statement. Take is from Tracy, also known as Sellabit Mum.

I had the pleasure of meeting Tracy at BlogHer last year and she is simply lovely. We have always had a fun banter and this letter to her eldest daughter is down right perfect and I am thrilled to welcome her here today.

Dear Eldest Daughter,

I’m glad we’ve reached the point in our relationship that you can laugh at me and not just laugh with me and get my jokes (although – thank goodness, as developing a good sense of humor is truly important), because I want you to know that I am human and that I hurt and also make many mistakes. Also, my jokes are always funny. Write that down.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s hard being the oldest child. Your parents obsessing about getting it all right. Buying the right crib, painting the nursery just so, finding the perfect potty chair, feeding you the right foods, reading you only the best books, taking you to all of the right classes, getting you professionally photographed every damn month. Not that I would admit to doing all of that but if I were to fess-up…pretty much we just wanted what was best..when honestly we had no idea what we were doing.

So then I wonder if it’s hard being the oldest child because you have little siblings watching your every move – the struggle for independence, the bedtimes pushed a little later, the trendy clothes, and the new fights with your parents.

At times it can be so overwhelming as a parent just knowing the immense responsibility we have raising kind, generous, contributing people that maybe we don’t stop the think that you carry some of that same weight. You get to experience our failures first-hand like a strange science experiment of the parenting kind.

I apologize. Also, no you can’t stay-up until 10pm this weekend. BECAUSE I SAID SO.

All of the above is just to really say that I’m scared. Very scared. You’re turning 10 this year. The next few years ahead of you will be filled with wonder, hormones, laughter, tears and probably pretty crazy fights with your mother. There will be days that you just want to play on the playground with your sisters and days where you feel like you don’t have a friend in the world.

But we will get though it and you need to know that the other side of it will be beautiful. Truly.

So for now – before this all starts and I stumble and fall and likely have to apologize 100 times for my unpreparedness…please remember that it all just boils down to these very simple things:

1. You are loved

2. You are beautiful

3. You are kind

4. You are important

5. You are smart

6. You are strong

but mainly…

7. You are too good for that boy, so get in the house NOW young lady and finish your homework.

See, it’s the laughter that is going to get us through. God willing.

Love you,

Mom

Dear Sixty

Posted on April 17, 2012 Written by Tonya

This motherhood thing is hard. Some days feel like we are just trying to make it to nap time, or at least a nice long quiet rest and if that doesn’t happen, then bedtime. And then there’s the guilt, always the guilt, but also the love.

We should all be so lucky to live to see 60 and if we do, we will be much wiser than we are today, won’t we? We’ll know for certain that we always did our best and that our best was good enough.

Here is what my friend Jamie of Chosen Chaos will tell herself when she gets there.

Jamie is a wonderful writer and I have no doubt, mother as well.

Over at my place people are always talking to their younger selves. Imposing words of wisdom that we all know good and well we wouldn’t have listened to if we had the chance. In truth, I think the writing experience is a lesson to our current selves. A lesson to appreciate what our past has provided us today. I think I am currently living in the place every person longs to be, my present. When we are young all we want to do is grow up. When we are older all we want to do is go back to when our kids were babies. At least that’s what I hear and read all the time. So this letter is to me, the 60-year-old me.

Dear Me,

I’m writing to you from the living room in the hood that took five years to furnish. Surrounded by Trio blocks that didn’t get put away, a pink polka-dot stroller and a giant green Fisher-Price dinosaur push-toy. It’s rest time. Biggest is resisting, Middle is enjoying, and the girls are breathing deep. It’s a beautiful spring day. The clematis that refuses to die is reaching for the sun, the knock-out roses are overtaking the deck and the grass in that one spot still has not grown back. Do you remember this snap-shot? This is the time of day your life mostly revolves around. The rest-time time. The re-energize time. The reset, redo, reboot button. Whatever happened before this hour can be erased away with just a pinch of solitude. Whatever happens after this… well the goal is now just to get to dinner, get to when Babe is home, and get to bedtime. We work in small chunks right now!

The moments I remember from even just last year are so few and far between. Life is happening so fast and yet bedtimes can’t come soon enough more days than not. I am not wishing away this place in time and I am in no hurry to get to you at the third-phase in our life. People ask me all the time (truly, ALL the time) how do you do it? Truth, I have no idea. I don’t have time to sit and think about how I do it. I’m assuming at 60 maybe I will, have the time that is. If that is the case I want to be sure I/you keep something in mind. Over time memories have a tendency to cloud reality.

Keep in mind that you are doing it. Every day you are doing it. The best way you can. You wake up, serve a warm breakfast to four beautiful growing children and you don’t stop. You drop-off, pick-up, squeeze, change diapers, encourage, scold, wipe noses, yell, laugh, and repeat. All day. Every day. You try your best every day. Sometimes, unfortunately, your best is just not good enough. One of the harder lessons you’ve learned about being a Mommy. Please do not spend any time wishing you had done more, played more, laughed more, hugged more… you are doing it, all of it. Every day.

It’s hard for the me that’s writing this to imagine the little people being 27, 30, and 32… what must they be like? Who have they turned out to be? I hope they are coming home to visit soon. I miss them and I’m not even you yet.

Times up. Feet are scurrying. Princess B is yelling “Mama”. Bedtime countdown starts now.

Love,
Yourself

Live Openly

Posted on April 10, 2012 Written by Tonya

Alexandra, otherwise simply known as The Empress, writes the blog, Good Day, Regular People. She is a supportive blogger, extremely insightful and an amazing writer.

I am always thrilled when I get a comment from Alexandra because her words are rich and heartfelt and I feel like she doesn’t just read my posts but she reads between the lines and knows what I’m trying to say better than I am often able to convey.

I am honored to have Alexandra here today sharing a letter that in her words, “In honor of April Child Abuse and Neglect Prevention Month, [I] knew I had to post on Domestic Chaos”.

Alexandra reminds us, ever so eloquently to live openly, own our stories and never be ashamed of sharing them.

To Those of Us Who Grew Up in Dysfunctional Homes:

Many, many times, I have wished for people in my real life who can listen to my life story without judging. Someone who hears my words without pity, who gets to know me and accepts me with all the left overs from the home life I had.

I want this letter to be that understanding friend to all of you out there in the world who grew up in a damaged home.

Growing up as a child from a dysfunctional home, I’d look around all the children at school or in my neighborhood, and think how lucky they were. All the lucky ones raised in idyllic surroundings; homes with tender words spoken and with eyes meeting theirs, looking back brimming with love. Whole homes with everything a child needed to grow up feeling cared for and cherished.

Things are much harder for someone like us. Maybe we don’t have a family support system right now, and never had one. Frequently, there are no role models, no warm memories of what it feels like to have a parent care and tend to us. There are all sorts of sources for the brokeness we carry around inside: abandonment, foster care, divorce, a missing parent, abuse, neglect, poverty, alcoholism, addiction, death, none of a parent’s time given to us.

Sometimes it is the parent’s fault, sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes it’s all they can offer or are capable of, many times being broken themselves.

If you are a child of a home that left you feeling sad, scared, hurt, forgotten; what I want you to know is that you are not what happened to you. Your life is a part of you, but it’s not the whole you.

You may still be carrying around the childhood shame from growing up so different than what you saw around you. This shame that clings to you is a shame that you did not earn or create for yourself. Living as though you are the guilty one for having brought your life upon yourself will leave you frozen in your childhood.

Shame confuses us into thinking we had a part in our life’s situation. We didn’t. We feel shame because we know our lives weren’t what is right for a child. We feel shame because we fear people will judge and whisper and look down on us, have pity for us. We think shame will keep us safe from the pain of having our secrets heard, of being found out; if we just stay quiet about our lives and our story, then no one will hurt us with the way they think about us.

But living in shame and secret does the opposite of what we think it does: it doesn’t protect us. It leaves us isolated and unknown and not a part of anything.

I write to all of us, all of us today, to say: live OPENLY. Tell your story, own it, make it a source of your inspiration and use it as a way to find your people, your community. Open your mouth and share the gift of who you are and all that you bring to others, so that anyone else out there feeling alone in a world of not being understood, can hear your story mix with theirs and feel accepted.

Take a deep breath, trust the universe, and let your truth become your connection to the world, and not that thing that keeps you separated. Invite people into your life, open that door, and the world will come in.

I know. I first told my story only a year ago at the Listen To Your Mother show in Madison. I have never felt more a part of this world and everyone in it since that day forward.

To read the piece, The Reach of a Small Moment that Alexandra read for the Madison Listen To Your Mother show, it can be found here.

Letter To Me

Posted on April 3, 2012 Written by Tonya

Admittedly I don’t read Mandy’s delightful blog, Mandyland as much as I wish I could, but I dig this woman so much, especially after reading the letter below.

Mandy has had a rough year surviving a divorce with two young children and has not only lived to tell about it, has handled it with grace and dignity.

Her poignant letter proves that sometimes all we need to know is that no matter what curve balls life throws us, every little thing is going to be okay.

Dear Mandy,

I heard that old song on the radio again. Do you remember it? Letter to Me? As I sat in the car and sang along, I came up with the idea to write a letter to myself and hope through some sort of magic, it will be delivered safely to my hands when I need it the most. If I had a guess, I’d say spring of 2012. I know that was a rough year.

First of all, I want to assure you – the Apocalypse doesn’t happen. However, all your friends will rave over the zombie cupcakes you’ll bake and you’ll keep canning and gardening. Just in case.

Whatever you do though, don’t buy a goat thinking you’ll make cheese. It’s a huge waste of time and that stupid thing will eat all your plants.

Now that I’ve eased your mind in that respect, let’s get serious. I want to tell you it’s going to be okay. I know you don’t feel like it will be and you’re annoyed as hell at all the people saying it to you, but it’s true. Everything is going to be okay.

The kids are going to be just fine. Joseph doesn’t end up a serial killer and Elizabeth won’t be a dictator.

In fact, do you remember how Joseph always said he wanted to be a firefighter when he grew up? I’m not going to ruin the surprise, but suffice to say, that same caring, loving little boy who wanted to help people is going to grow up to be a caring, loving man who does. I’m so proud of him. He came by the house for dinner yesterday and told me something I think you need to hear. He sat at the table, that six foot plus man who used to be a little armful, and said, “You did the right thing, you and Dad. You did. I don’t think there was anything else you could do.”

I teared up. I know you’re worrying right now about whether or not he’ll ever forgive you. Please know he never blamed. He never thought there was something to forgive.

As for our Miss Elizabeth…I’m not going to lie. Her teenage years were tough, but you’ll both get through it. A little battered and bruised perhaps, but if you can see her as I see her today, you’ll know you did a good job. She’s beautiful, strong, independent, and most of all, just like her Nana.

I know! You think it’s your worst nightmare, but trust me. It’s not. She has a big heart and a steely resolve. That girl conquers the world and she does it with her dimpled grin in place.

As for Chad, well, he’s going to be there. He’s still one of my best friends, coming over for Sunday brunch at least once a month. Does he have someone special in his life? He does. And don’t worry. You’ll get along just fine. In fact, better than you do with Chad half the time.

And I know you’re wondering if you’ll find love again. Don’t be a dork. Of course you will. And he’s pretty rockin’. Just remember, relax and trust in your heart. It’ll take a while, but you’ll get to the point where you’ll feel like you can trust another person, so stop freaking out. You are not going to be a lonely old woman with chickens and cats. Mostly because the cats eat the chickens, but I’m getting off track.

It’s going to take you most of 2012, but I promise you, by the end you’ll come into your own. And yes, you’ll keep writing. And no, I’m not saying anything else. Just trust me on this one. You’ll find love and a publisher. No. They’re not the same person so stop Googling single publishers.

Please remember to be kind to yourself. Cut yourself some slack. I know it’s not in your nature, but you need to ease up on yourself and stop feeling guilty all the time. You’re working full time. So what? The kids will be fine with it. You’re not going to miss out on anything. They know they’re loved and that’s really all that matters in the end.

I thought long and hard about when I wanted to deliver this letter. For a moment I almost sent it back to 2002 and told you to stop seeing that guy Chad and concentrate on the teacher for troubled youth. What was his name? Nevermind. It’s not important. What is important is realizing I don’t regret marrying Chad. I don’t regret it because it gave me the two more beautiful, precious gifts a woman could receive. When you’re feeling that tinge of regret, just remember that.

I’m going to end this letter without a lotto reveal – though now that I think of it, that’d be a great idea – instead I’m going to end it with the phrase you hate, the phrase that you’ll come to realize is true:

Every little thing is going to be okay.

Love,
Me

Dear Daycare

Posted on March 27, 2012 Written by Tonya

Kristin of What She Said is my guest today. Kristin and I have connected via Twitter and I love her easy going nature. I also love her description of why she writes her blog because her reasons are mine and I wish I was able to articulate myself this beautifully:

I write because the emotions I felt upon becoming a mother were so encompassing, I needed a place to deposit them lest my heart explode with love and awe and frustration and fear. Because I want to hold tightly to my most cherished memories of my daughter exactly the way they first materialized in my mind’s eye. Because I hope she’ll one day want to read those memories and experience her life – and some life lessons – through my eyes. And because I’d like to set an example for her to find her passion in life and then wholeheartedly embrace it.

Her heartfelt letter below brought tears to my eyes, not only because of the message, but because I am beyond blessed to be able to stay at home with Lucas and I know for many women that is a luxury they simply cannot afford. Leaving our children in the care of anyone takes guts and Kristin definitely has those!

To My Daughter’s Daycare Teachers and Administrators:

You no doubt know me as an active and involved parent. One who offers a welcoming smile in greeting when our paths cross each morning and afternoon; who takes an enthusiastic interest in her child’s daily activities; and who enjoys both hearing and sharing stories of Lil’ Bit’s personal triumphs and tribulations.

To you, I hope I seem friendly and approachable – confident in my belief that we are allies bound by our shared interest in my daughter’s growth and development.

So, there’s no way you could know the dread with which I once anticipated the end of my maternity leave. Or the guilt that consumed me at the thought of relinquishing my four-month-old baby into your care, when mine was all she had ever known. Or the bone-deep apprehension I felt at the thought of no longer being the center of her universe.

There’s no way you could know that, on the evening of her first day at your facility, I calmly laid down the knife I had been using to chop vegetables, slumped forward until my forehead rested on the kitchen counter, and sobbed. With complete and utter abandon.

“I.CAN’T.DO.THIS!” I gasped to my alarmed husband, mentally crafting my resignation letter while clawing frantically at the recesses of my mind for any means by which we might afford to live on one income. At that time, you were not my ally. Though not quite an adversary, you were at the very least a collective entity to be regarded with skepticism and mistrust.

And today, nearly two years later, I want to tell you that I was wrong. And I’m sorry. And most importantly, thank you.

I’m not a woman who attains her identity through her career. Having never quite discovered my true path, I work more out of necessity and obligation than any real sense of purpose, and am driven not by ambition, but by family. All of which seem to be unpopular sentiments among modern working women.

For this reason, I once wondered if I was better suited to be a stay-at-home mom. Which, in turn, left me feeling as though I were somehow cheating both employer and child. Which then confounded my already-oppressive working mom guilt. Which eventually led to a stunning spiral into the depths of postpartum depression. But that’s another story for another day.

I’m happy to say I no longer bear at least one of these burdens. Though I still struggle with a supreme lack of confidence surrounding my career path and continue to grapple with what exactly I want to be when I grow up, I no longer question if I’m doing right by my daughter by placing her in daycare. Because I know without a doubt that I am.

Under your care and guidance, Lil’ Bit has simply flourished. Her socialization, language, and cognitive skills grow stronger each day. Recently, my husband and I found her counting grapes in Spanish, a development we regarded with open-mouthed wonder, knowing she could have only learned it at school (seeing as we’ve been remiss in teaching her Spanish and she has no interest in Dora). She also enjoys telling us about her classroom activities and speaks fondly – and often – of her teachers and friends, to whom she has clearly grown attached.

But I’m most grateful to her daycare environment for the sense of independence it’s fostered. For when I look at my daughter, I see an adaptable, self-assured child – one who is as comfortable among her peers as she is at home with her father and me. And though it may pain my heart to hear her command, “Mommy, go to work,” each morning when I drop her off, in my head I recognize that she is actually saying, “I’m confident and happy here, Mom, and I’ll be just fine without you.” And this, I know, is a blessing.

So, I once again reiterate my mea culpa: I was wrong to fear you. I apologize for doubting you. But most of all, thank you so very much for the care you take in guarding and nurturing my most precious gift.

Sincerely,

Kristin

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I Want To Be Just Like My Dad

Posted on March 20, 2012 Written by Tonya

The very first blog I read was Coreen’s, The Adventures of Captain Fussypants & Little Miss. We were friends long before either of us blogged, but it’s was her willingness (know-how and wit) to share her life as a new mom that made me want to start Letters For Lucas.

Coreen and I are alike in so many ways and in the ways we are different, we learn from one another. She is not only a true confident and an amazing person, she is also one of the busiest working mothers I know and I’ll never know how she juggles it all.

I am blessed to have Coreen in my life and honored to have her here today with a tender letter to her husband carefully letting him know what a wonderful father he is and what amazing children they have created together.

Mi esposo,

When I learned our firstborn was a boy, I had a momentary panic attack. I’m a girl! What did I know about raising a boy, teaching him to become a good man? But that’s all it was, a moment. Because I knew I had you to help me.

We are lucky, you and I, that we share the same values, that we are a team and that we each come from parents that have been married over 40 years. Although we are two different people, our love is the same, solid. And as parents, we are a united front.

The awe and responsibility of caring for someone other than yourself is daunting. And with your work schedule taking you away days at a time, it’s even more so, for both of us. I know you feel you miss out. Childhood is full of so many firsts and made up of so many moments, that you don’t get to be a part of firsthand. Pictures, video, Skype, it all helps, but isn’t the same thing. But our children have only ever known you with this work schedule and they are not fazed by it because when you are home, you are there for them.

I know you worry that our son won’t be strong or be able to stand up for himself. Raising a child to be confident and self-sufficient is a huge undertaking. But I write this to assure you that he is already strong and confident. I watched him from the sidelines as he approached boys twice his age to ask to be part of their flag football game and my heart swelled with pride that he knew what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to ask for it. He will be able to hold his own.

I know you worry that he will be the weird kid who will only eat plain noodles. But I write this to assure you that he isn’t afraid to try new things.

I know you worry he’ll turn into a wuss spending so much time with his mama. But I write this to assure you that he won’t. I won’t allow that to happen, because while a mama’s boy at 5 may be endearing, at 25 it is obnoxious. But I’ll snuggle him as long as he lets me.

I write this to assure you that while our son is a sweet, smart, imaginative and kind boy, he is also willful, clever, and competitive. Just like you.

He is a perfect blend of the best of both of us and that is a gift we need to embrace. Because as he grows, he’ll become his own person and will need us less. But I write this to assure you that we are equipping him with the right ideals, what it means to be kind, how to share, work hard, be respectful and confident. We are making him strong.

Our son hangs on your every word, so I write this as a gentle reminder to chose your words with care because when our son says, “When I grow up I want to be a race car driver, a motorcycle rider, a firefighter, a paleontologist, a soccer player, a hockey player and a chef. There are so many cool things to be, I don’t know which one to pick”.

What he is really saying is, “I want to be just like my dad”.

I write this to thank you for being a good dad, a good husband and my best friend.

I write this because I can’t imagine doing it without you.

And if our not quite two year old daughter’s early “terrible twos” stage is any indication, then we are really going to need to parent as a united front during the teen years because I certainly don’t want to do that without you!

Love,

Coreen

A Letter To Things I Can’t See

Posted on March 13, 2012 Written by Tonya

Lori of In Pursuit of It all is the beautiful mind behind Project: Purse and Boots, a fundraiser she created to raise money for the American Stroke Association in memory of her grandmother.

Lori also does funny very well, like wine coming out of your nose funny.

But all you really need to know about Lori can be found in the words of the tender tribute she wrote, The Red Underwear, a piece that was selected by BlogHer last year as a Voice of the Year selection. I had the immense honor of waving a pair of red [paper] panties high in the air after listening to her read this moving piece aloud.

To say I’m honored still would be an understatement.

Dear Unexpected, dear Unknown, dear Unanticipated;

Forgive me my intolerance. I’m not so good with you. You make me nervous and you unsettle me.

I do best with a plan and a map. I like knowing the route and I like a path blazoned before me. It doesn’t have to be well worn or lit with a million lamps, but I like the comfort of a track through the grass and knowing there are no monsters around the corner.

You steal that security from me. And where I don’t mind the occasional bill that’s larger than expected or the last minute visit from a relative, there are times when not being able to see past you leaves me shaking and pushing paralysis aside with two ineffective hands.

You bring me terror when I think of my children. I can’t stand not being able to see the things they might trip over or the fears they may face. I don’t feel I can properly arm them when I don’t know what’s in front of them. Do I need to give them powerful words? More vitamins? A snarl to keep in their back pocket? A savings account? I wring my hands in anxiety, so worried that the one weapon they need will be the one I didn’t think of. Did I raise them to be too polite for ambition? Too sarcastic for affection? Or too determined to take help when they need it?

The way you cloud my vision of my beloved husband makes my throat tighten. I waited so long for him, for love so deep that carries me so steadily. I watch the turning pages of the calendar, feeling for the first time the simultaneous elation and dread that accompanies a plan to grow old with another. Will he be here through my latest days? Will I be here for his? Which one of us will let go of the earth first? The questions ricochet against the walls of my mind with sharp corners.

But maybe I’m being ungrateful. Why can’t I accept the temporal blindness you impose with the same equanimity that I wait to see what’s in the prettily wrapped birthday package? I don’t want to know what’s in the box until the time is right, for only then is the gift truly mine. So conceivably I could wrestle you into that framework – where unanticipated becomes surprise, unknown becomes mystery, and unexpected becomes wonder.

So maybe the fault is mine – I did not appreciate how you are dressed. I am too judgmental, perhaps, obsessing over the mud tracked on the floor and overlooking the flowers in your hands. It’s my way, you see – to watch where I walk and notice later what’s further on the horizon.

Because I like a path, remember?

Hesitantly yours,

Lori

Deep As The Ocean…

Posted on March 6, 2012 Written by Tonya

One of the main reasons my series, Letters For You exists is because of the gentle encouragement from my dear friend and fellow writer, Nichole.

I first fell in love with Nichole through her words at In These Small Moments and then had the incredible fortunate to meet her last August at BlogHer. Since then, our children have met and she and I have shared many heartfelt phone calls, tweets and text messages.

In many ways, Nichole and I are kindred spirits. We have suffered great loss and extreme joy and write about both.

I am so very proud to have Nichole here today and even more grateful for her friendship.

Dear Mom,

There are some nights when Craig and I come downstairs after putting the kids to bed and we’re so exhausted we just fall in a heap on the couch.

Parenting is difficult enough even when you have another person to lean on.

But, when I was a little girl, you didn’t have that support system.

You did it alone and you did an amazing job.

There are so many things for which I am grateful to you, but there never seems to be the right time to tell you.

So, I’ll share just a small handful of them with you now.

Thank you for always being honest with me…for telling me the truth about my dad’s death and trusting that with your help, I could work through it.

I am the woman I am today because of your encouragement to think through what I was feeling and to speak my mind with conviction. Thank you for never asking me to stop talking.

Thank you for sometimes splurging on toys. I now realize that you probably used your last dollars so that I could experience the joy of an occasional new toy. My Holly Hobbie, Colorforms, and Baby Alive are etched into my memory forever.

Thank you for never making a promise to me that you couldn’t keep and for always keeping the ones you did. You taught me that your word was gold.

Thank you for always being there to tuck me in at night….for scratching my back and talking to me at the end of the day. Those moments reminded me that you would always be there.

Some of the little things that you probably don’t think I even remember influence me as a mother. Thank you for always making cakes for school parties, playing Scrabble with me, and having slumber parties with me on the pull out sofa.

I always knew that as long as we had each other, we would be just fine. Through simple gestures like reaching for my hand to cross the street until I was a teenager, to comforting me when I had my heart broken for the first time, you taught me that together we could get through anything.

Thank you for showing me what it meant to be a mother. For teaching me through your own example what sacrifice, commitment, and determination look like.

Thank you for letting me spread my wings and leave when it was time. I hope to have that same courage when my own children grow up and move away. I hope that I can draw from the strength that you showed me then.

The childhood that you gave me was also a gift to Katie and Matthew. The lessons that I learned from you permeate their lives and I could never thank you enough for that.

I love you big as the world,
High as the sky,
Deep as the ocean,
Forever and ever,

Chole

Dear Mom

Posted on February 28, 2012 Written by Tonya

Jennifer of Midwest “Mom”ents is kind and always very supportive. She has a darling blog about her life and two adorable daughters and keeps late Twitter hours, which is where we connect the most.

I am grateful to have (Not Just Another) Jennifer here today with a sad, yet very loving letter to her mother.

Dear Mom,

How do you express thanks for an entire childhood in one letter? So much to say, I don’t know where to start. I know I was always a bit of a daddy’s girl. I always thought it was because he and I were more alike. But now that I’m older, I realize I’m exactly like you. That’s probably why it sometimes felt like magnetic poles pushing us apart when I was young, especially a teenager. But no matter how sassy or unappreciative of you I was, you always gave more with a smile. I don’t know how you did it. I know some of it is the innate maternal reaction of a mother. I love our girls, too, and that definitely plays a part in being able to tolerate a lot. But I certainly don’t have a servant’s heart like you do.

Now that I’ve been doing this SAHM gig while I’m unemployed, I gradually find myself doing more and more of the same things you did. I can’t sleep at night. I’ve always been a night owl like you, but I mean, I find myself awake until 1 or 2am most nights. Which is crazy since the girls are up at 6:30am. And there’s no reason why I should be sleep deprived except my own inexplicable need to stay up reading a book, doing dishes, watching a show, doing laundry, playing Angry Birds, putting together a craft project I found on Pinterest, etc. Unfortunately, the tired version of me is much less patient with the girls than you were with us.

I know there were times sis and I got in trouble and were sent to our rooms or heard, “Just wait til your father gets home!” But I really don’t remember you yelling at us or punishing us. I think of you working in the garden, sewing dance costumes, wearing yellow rubber gloves to clean, baking with us, teaching us how to crochet, playing games with us, working out to Richard Simmons, cooking awesome spaghetti, teaching us how to make the bed properly. I remember you consoling me after nightmares and kissing my boo-boos better and cheering me on at softball games.

And I remember you as an incredible wife. You always made sure that after we gave Dad our big welcome home hugs and kisses that we left him alone to “watch the news” for 30 minutes, AKA, take a nap. You were making dinner, and I’m sure we drove you nuts, but you knew he needed time to decompress, and you willingly gave him that space. You never fought with him in front of us. We could tell when you were mad, but you just said his name in a terse way, then pursed your lips, and bit your tongue. We knew you would be discussing things later, though. And now that I’m older and know more of the history of your relationship, I’m in awe of your devotion to being a good wife.

So when you started having memory trouble a few years ago, I felt like I should be there for you the way you have always been there for me. But I had a newborn, a husband, and a full-time job. I didn’t visit you as often as I should have to play games or cards or Memory with you. And I was a little bit in denial, to be honest. Now that you have been diagnosed with short-term memory difficulty and dementia, I can see how you had been faking it for much longer than we knew about it.

The part that’s the most difficult for me to grasp is the paranoia that’s begun this past year. The night you left me a message at 2am saying Dad was having you committed and if you disappeared that you wanted someone to know what had happened was the last time I went to bed without my phone on the nightstand. Then you decided that the neighbors who live in the house behind you wanted to break in the sliding glass door from the patio to your bedroom to attack you. That was about six months ago. You’ve been sleeping on the couch in the living room ever since. And a couple of weeks ago, you told me that Dad stole $400 from you.

I can’t imagine how horrifying it must be for you to feel that your husband is plotting against you and feeling trapped and isolated. I love you so much, and it’s heart wrenching to see you go through this and be unable to do anything to help. You are the kindest, most generous person I know, and you do not deserve to spend the golden years of your life in this kind of hell.

Here’s to you, Mom, the one I admire and strive to emulate and if I’m being perfectly honest, am terrified of one day becoming.

An Author’s Apology

Posted on February 15, 2012 Written by Tonya

I’ve only tried writing fiction a handful of times and I’ve always left my main character nameless because I felt if I named them, then I would grow too attached and having their fate at the mercy of my keystrokes is terrifying. I’m not that caliber of writer yet.

Roxanne, on the other hand, is an amazing writer.

This week’s Letters For You guest is Roxanne from Unintentionally Brilliant with a letter to Matilda, the protagonist in a novel she’s working on called Finding Agnes, the story of a girl who is searching for the mother that abandoned her as a child. You may read excerpts here.

I hope Roxanne and Matilda end their journey together in peace.

Dear Matilda,

I’m so sorry about all the pain and confusion I’ve subjected you to over the past year. Your life has been filled with ups and downs and rewinds and rewrites.

In the beginning, it seemed simpler. You were searching for your mother, who had left you and your father when you were 3. Then I decided to kill off your father when you were only 11 years old. But then you were 7 when your father died. And then you were sitting at the kitchen table at 16 and having a conversation with your father about your mother. Who had still left when you were 3.

Her disappearance was shrouded in mystery. And then it wasn’t. And then you found her second husband, only to find out she’d left him too. And it was another mystery. And then it wasn’t. And then you found out she died. And then she didn’t.

I kept getting stuck on your story. I wanted to write it, but you just weren’t speaking to me the same way Emily and Travis did back in 2010.

I had a breakthrough the other night, and I think you’ll be quite pleased.

Your mother still left. I’m truly sorry about that. But Agnes had her reasons. You’ll see.

I hope you’ll be very happy to see that I’ve decided to let your father live. Your life is hard enough, without having to lose your father too. But don’t tell him just yet. I want to surprise him with it this weekend.

One last thing. When I started writing your story, you were much older in the bulk of the plot. You’ve noticed that everything I’ve written lately has you in high school. This means that Charlie isn’t going to survive the editing process. He’s got to go. It was him or Delia. And, honestly, it’s just a little easier for me to write a sprightly young high school girl of 16 or 17 than a 20-something gay man without playing into stereotypes.

Blame it on Robbie. He’s my friend, who is gay. I had based Charlie on him (only slightly). And he totally plays into the stereotypes.

While I finish up the outline of your story, I just have one little favor to ask of you. I hope you don’t mind. I mean, I let your dad survive. That seems like you owe me one.

Help me finish your story.

That would be awesome.

Lots of Love,

Roxanne “Your Writer” Piskel

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