![]() The gynaecologist, an old church leader who I would later find out needlessly cut women open for the extra Caesarean-section money, reassured my mother from between my legs that my defilement had been botched. By then, I had discovered that the parts he was excavating were the parts she had been referring to. A decade later, lying on my back with my naked legs splayed out on an examination table, my mother would stand and watch as a man tried to force his fingers into me. She told me once and only once not to let any uncle touch me under my skirt, but I always wore long skirts there were vast expanses of skin under them and at the time of this instruction, even I had not found the parts that mattered most. We never talked about sex, Mummy and I never talked about boys or girls or desire or violence. I don’t talk about her decision to confirm if there was anything left of my hymen that after my mother learnt someone had raped me, she scheduled a visit with a doctor to see if the rapist had left anything behind. I talk about her making me feel something like the possibility of eventually being okay, even though I don’t remember how exactly. I say she cried with me, even though I don’t remember this for sure. Usually, when I tell the story of my mother’s reaction to the news that her sixteen-year-old had been raped, I talk about crying in her lap. I folded into her in the too-small armchair, trying to make myself invisible as my mother listened to a stranger talk about her daughter’s violation, their voices sinking lower and lower as if turning the volume down would lighten the weight of what was being said. Still, a face is far easier to forget than the feeling of being thoroughly loved, and I remember, clear as day, the way it felt to be in her lap as my English teacher whispered into the still air of our living room that someone had raped me. But it’s been six years since she died, so her face and voice fade in and out, clear only in dreams. If my memory knew how to cooperate with my heart, I would never have difficulty remembering my mum’s features. That long-ago day, my mother’s lap had held all of me in it, including the parts that had been killed. As if life had not turned itself shamelessly inside out, in order to teach me that dying can happen even to people that are loved beyond reason. In response, I was filled with a scrambling anger, a deep bewilderment, at the audacity of the world to keep stupidly spinning as if it had not abruptly ended. Waking up the day after my mother’s death, I recognised the dazed confusion I was feeling as a throwback: On a humid morning five years prior, I had gone to school in a body that had been recently broken into, and everyone had seemed so … normal. I hope that reading this shifts something about the way you see the world. I wish I had a chance to talk through the issues it raises with her, but that’s life. Shepherds Pie, a Family Favorite Comfort Food.In honour of the relationship that made me so much of who I am, and to introduce you all to some of my writing outside of The Correspondent, the rest of this newsletter is an excerpt from an essay I wrote about my relationship with my mother. ![]() Small Business Gift Guide for Her! 2023.Time for the little Christmas things □□.I pray my children will always remember how loved they make me feel to be their mama. The mother-in-law I’ve been blessed with has poured into so many areas of my life sharing wisdom and care.īeing a devoted mother in this era is the most underrated underappreciated career there is. The mom I have to look up to is my best mentor and encouragement by selfless example to do the hard things and not look for acclamation from anyone but worth in Christ. worth to me.Įvery Mother’s Day since then has been nothing short of having an overwhelming appreciation for the joy my children have brought me. I didn’t have all the warm fuzzy feelings about being pregnant yet or didn’t feel much validity yet.īut something I remember so vividly walking into church that day and standing in Sunday school singing was when my dad leaned over and whispered “Happy first Mother’s Day pumpkin.” It brought so. I had found out just a week before that I was pregnant with Hudson and was still not only processing the surprise, but also hadn’t shared it with anyone accept our parents. I remember my first Mother’s Day 4 years ago.
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