LAYING POSSUM

The little girls’ batteries begin to run down after eight at night. You can measure the younger one’s fatigue by how much she cries. As for her full of energy older sister, she survived today’s kindergarten, but now she’s run out of juice and is sleeping on the sofa. Mom’s the one who’s supposed to get them both upstairs to bed. After a 10 kilo and then a 17 kilo freight transfer to the second floor, Mom’s ready to give it up, but when she comes back to the living room, there’s another child who’s hurriedly taken over the couch and is now lying on it with his eyes shut. “Go to bed !” No surprise there: another 24 kilo load would put quite a strain on Mom’s chassis.

Mama knows how hard you’ve been trying to be a good older brother to your two little sisters.

She knows how hot it was today from the sweat marks when you took off your backpack.

She knows how you let go of my hand and turned away when your younger sister started to cry. And that you were trying to be patient but unintentionally hit your sister when you swung your arm in frustration.

Your mother knows that her right and left arms were commandeered as pillows for your sisters and that’s why you’re sleeping alone with your back turned towards her. And she suspects you’ve got your eyes narrowed to slits to keep track of what Mama is doing.

It’s only when I get busy that it’s difficult to give you the attention you want. With only two arms, Mom can’t hug three kids at the same time. The son on the couch knows this full well.

Of course if he’s “sleeping”, then he has to get carried upstairs, and there’s no way not to hug him in the process… and maybe that’s what he needs.

She’s picked him up. “You’re always trying hard to do your best, aren’t you…”
“No,” he whispers in a small voice.

So, he is awake after all.

Quietly by his ear, “And what face are you making now? I think I know !!”

Halfway up the stairs the 24 kilo boy’s body suddenly goes limp and gets even heavier.

Famale | Fukuoka Prefecture

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I COULD HAVE PICKED A BETTER MOTHER

Always at work, never at home; oh, how I hated my mother.
When I thought I heard her at home, I’d find her standing there at the kitchen sink with her back to me.
By middle school, I was fed up with everything. One day something happened at school that bothered me and everything went haywire. At home, I blew my top and turned on my mother.
“If only I could have chosen my mother ! I would’ve picked a better one !!”
I could see I’d really hurt her. Suddenly, I felt so lost. She left the kitchen without a word, and I chased after her.
“You’re not interested in anything I have to say. I know how much you hate me !!” I blurted out at my mother whom I’d cornered on the toilet. I’d actually followed her there because her reaction in the kitchen worried me so, but I didn’t have the guts to tell her at the time, much less to apologize.

After high school, I went to college abroad. I started to notice how much I was skyping her. When something went wrong, I’d always call her on skype and have it out with her. And if anything nice happened, she’d always be the first to get the news. When I came home to visit, Mom would always ask, “What would you like to eat? How ’bout some sushi?” And I’d always answer the same way, “No, I want your cooking. Anything you make is the best.”

Whenever I was happy, she was happy with me. When I was angry, she took the sting from my wrath. She was always there for me. That’s who my mother is.

My mother did always keep her back to me in the kitchen, but it never meant she hated me. She was there to make a meal for me no matter how busy she’d been at work. And her food was always the best. Very soon I will be having my own child. And now I stand alongside my mother at the kitchen where she’s teaching me how to cook. And we joke about all the horrible things I used to say.
Now, I have the guts to tell you.
I’m sorry for what I put you through.
If I could have chosen a mother, it’s you I’d pick; now, then, and forever.

Famale | Hyōgo Prefecture

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THE DAY I BCAME A PARENT

I suddenly became the mother of a 10 year-old, American boy.
Not a blood relation, but a foster parent.

He was cute for the first month, but from there on, he plunged into rebellion.
He was difficult and emotionally unstable.
How many times did I think I should to stop being a foster parent?
When I thought of giving over my role to a social worker, the words stuck in my throat and I couldn’t go through with it.
Our mud-slinging went on for a half a year, till that fateful day: Mother’s Day.
He’d never called me mother.
As if that was reserved for the woman who had left him; because they shared the same blood and there was a special love or bond between them.
Who did he think I was, this person who didn’t even look like him?
The hired help who washed his dirty baseball uniforms? A teacher’s aide who tutored him late into the night? Or maybe just some complaining meddler.

The following morning, there were candles by the side of the bed spelling the word “family” that danced before my eyes. My foster son had gathered the candles beforehand and stealthily placed them by my bed while I slept at night.
Knowing nothing of weeping for joy, maybe he sought to escape any confusion.
Days later at his therapy session, he made a drawing. It was a picture of him, my husband and myself walking together. Looking at the letters through eyes blurred by tears I could see that “1, 2, 3: Family” was written on the drawing.

Eight months later, a distant relative took charge of him.
The fourteen months I spent with him were filled with intense up and downs.
What I most remember is finally overcoming his mistrust and the young boy I loved in the hope of restoring his childhood. The therapist told me that I was the only foster mother who had not abandoned him.
And then it was time for us to part. When I couldn’t find any words, he broke the silence by saying, “You’re my favorite.” After continuously refusing my hugs and signs of affection, he clung to me now with tears in his eyes.
We were parent and child.
Trials of emotion and perseverance had led him to look on me as a parent, a bond beyond blood and names.

Famale | America

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IT’S JUST ABOUT BEING TOGETHER

“Your stomach aches again? You know, if you say that every morning, people will stop believing it’s true. Then when it really hurts, no one will help you. Now get up and get ready to go.”

From kindergarten through first grade, for 4 years, it was the same every day. My daughter would complain of stomachaches and refuse to get dressed. Even if I drove her to the kindergarten, she wouldn’t get out of the car. When it came time for us to separate, she’d burst into tears, and I’d be stuck with her at the doorway for twenty or thirty minutes. Back in the car, I’d bemoan my own fate, try not to see my daughter following me and coldly leave her in her tracks. I’d be filled with guilt. “All those happy students; why was it only my daughter…” I’d think over and over again. In elementary school it was the same thing. Every day I’d take her to school, to the doorway or all the way to her classroom, and every day she would make a scene when I left.

When I asked her why she hated school so much, she said, “I don’t hate school. I just don’t want you to leave. I always want to be with you.” When I heard my daughter say this, I was suddenly filled with regret. Until now, she hadn’t said anything like that, just complained of stomach pains. I really felt that I’d failed her, that I should have understood all this much sooner.

Around about that time, my daughter was reading picture book called “Genki-san kara no tegami”. It’s the story of a mother who while in the hospital wrote letters to her daughter in the name of “Genki-san” to keep her spirits bright. I decided to do the same kind of thing. Because she’d liked the book, I thought she’d quickly get in the habit of checking the mailbox each day when she came home from school.

I wrote a short letter to my daughter and put it in the mailbox.

“Dear Yuna, thank you for checking the mailbox everyday. You’re going to school everyday now. And you’ve been helping out a lot around the house. Your mother’s been so happy. From Genki-san”

When my daughter came home, she found the letter and seemed to be crying while she read it. Though it may seem strange, she said she herself didn’t understand why she was crying. I believe it’s because I had finally accepted my daughter’s distress, and it made up a little for all my blindness. After that my daughter gradually adjusted to school and was able to go there by herself. Now she’s a sixth grader, and until this day checking the mailbox is part of her daily routine.

age:39 yr | Female | Chiba Prefecture

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