Excerpts from Motherhood: Lost and Found
Chapter One
A cold front moves across the piedmont of North Carolina. The wind lifts my horse’s mane from his neck, causing us both to shiver. He stands like a statue as I mount. His ears are alert, catching the sound of stray leaves being stripped from trees. The sky is clear, but the sun feels farther away than usual. In another hour, darkness will fall and frigid air will sweep across the fields, the ground below the ring will begin to harden, and a layer of ice will form on the puddles left behind from last night’s rain. I urge Crimson forward, feel the lift of each hind leg as he walks.
Before going into the ring, we warm up around the outside. Crimson is lazy by nature, but with the wind behind us, he launches into a loose, flowing trot. I give him his head and he seems to float for an instant above the ground before pushing off with diagonal legs. The cold breeze stings my cheeks and my eyes water, but I wouldn’t give up this feeling for anything.
I am thirty-three years old and have been riding horses since I was nine. From the beginning I was entranced with their power, their muscled fluidity. I was a typical young girl in love with horses. But there was more – a nuance I couldn’t articulate, and still struggle to name. Call it a connection, an invisible fiber that runs between me and these four-legged creatures, as if we are one and the same. Crimson’s large brown eyes, his very skin seem to absorb every sensation and emotion that passes through me. Standing in the aisle this afternoon, brushing his coppery coat, it was as if he intuited something was different, that I was different. Could he feel the new life growing inside me?
Page 102
All weekend, Mom searches for her notebooks and appointment calendars—the ones she can’t read when she finds them. I wonder how the house feels to her as she wanders around it, day after day, darkness creeping around the corners. I’d like to ask her, but when I do she gets upset. Her mouth forms a thin line that crumples, her face falling. She says my father has stolen something from her.
She fluctuates from childlike and aggressive to her gentle, wise self, intent on doing the best for her children. One moment she is furious with my father or sure someone is having a party without her. Then she throws out a statement like, “Now we don’t want you all worrying about us.” Her voice changes from hard and cold to warm and soft as fur in an instant. For someone like me who likes to categorize things, it’s hard to get a handle on what is happening, who she is. I don’t know where to begin. When I’m convinced she’s over the edge and needs constant supervision, she turns back into my mother, her voice smooth, soothing all my rough edges.
My father must feel overwhelmed. I wonder how someone his age can handle the constant care my mother needs. She’s become like a toddler, always on the go, with no sense of what can hurt her. The house is in a shambles. Not only my father’s desk, but every table, every flat surface is piled with junk mail, magazines, empty paper bags and old napkins.
Mom, always the one to do laundry and straighten up, has taken to hiding things in drawers, leaving the rest scattered about the house. In my old room, my dresser is filled with her notebooks, letters and odd shoes. The linen closet is empty and I find stacks of sheets and pillowcases in strange places—on the coffee table, the corner of her desk, the steps to the basement. When Daddy asks Mom if there are any clean towels, she turns on him, furious. But her words don’t match the subject. “Why can’t you support me?” she yells. “I’m just trying to take care of you!"
A cold front moves across the piedmont of North Carolina. The wind lifts my horse’s mane from his neck, causing us both to shiver. He stands like a statue as I mount. His ears are alert, catching the sound of stray leaves being stripped from trees. The sky is clear, but the sun feels farther away than usual. In another hour, darkness will fall and frigid air will sweep across the fields, the ground below the ring will begin to harden, and a layer of ice will form on the puddles left behind from last night’s rain. I urge Crimson forward, feel the lift of each hind leg as he walks.
Before going into the ring, we warm up around the outside. Crimson is lazy by nature, but with the wind behind us, he launches into a loose, flowing trot. I give him his head and he seems to float for an instant above the ground before pushing off with diagonal legs. The cold breeze stings my cheeks and my eyes water, but I wouldn’t give up this feeling for anything.
I am thirty-three years old and have been riding horses since I was nine. From the beginning I was entranced with their power, their muscled fluidity. I was a typical young girl in love with horses. But there was more – a nuance I couldn’t articulate, and still struggle to name. Call it a connection, an invisible fiber that runs between me and these four-legged creatures, as if we are one and the same. Crimson’s large brown eyes, his very skin seem to absorb every sensation and emotion that passes through me. Standing in the aisle this afternoon, brushing his coppery coat, it was as if he intuited something was different, that I was different. Could he feel the new life growing inside me?
Page 102
All weekend, Mom searches for her notebooks and appointment calendars—the ones she can’t read when she finds them. I wonder how the house feels to her as she wanders around it, day after day, darkness creeping around the corners. I’d like to ask her, but when I do she gets upset. Her mouth forms a thin line that crumples, her face falling. She says my father has stolen something from her.
She fluctuates from childlike and aggressive to her gentle, wise self, intent on doing the best for her children. One moment she is furious with my father or sure someone is having a party without her. Then she throws out a statement like, “Now we don’t want you all worrying about us.” Her voice changes from hard and cold to warm and soft as fur in an instant. For someone like me who likes to categorize things, it’s hard to get a handle on what is happening, who she is. I don’t know where to begin. When I’m convinced she’s over the edge and needs constant supervision, she turns back into my mother, her voice smooth, soothing all my rough edges.
My father must feel overwhelmed. I wonder how someone his age can handle the constant care my mother needs. She’s become like a toddler, always on the go, with no sense of what can hurt her. The house is in a shambles. Not only my father’s desk, but every table, every flat surface is piled with junk mail, magazines, empty paper bags and old napkins.
Mom, always the one to do laundry and straighten up, has taken to hiding things in drawers, leaving the rest scattered about the house. In my old room, my dresser is filled with her notebooks, letters and odd shoes. The linen closet is empty and I find stacks of sheets and pillowcases in strange places—on the coffee table, the corner of her desk, the steps to the basement. When Daddy asks Mom if there are any clean towels, she turns on him, furious. But her words don’t match the subject. “Why can’t you support me?” she yells. “I’m just trying to take care of you!"
