I Didn’t Know

July 3, 2021July 3, 2021 ~ Nancy Malcolm ~ 1 Comment

I didn’t know I should play with my children or join them in creating art with finger paints, Play-doh, or watercolors.

I never knew to let them help me in the kitchen, baking cookies or bread.

Growing up without my mother short-changed my own daughters in ways I never expected, in subtle ways that surprise and sadden me. My mother became ill when I was three years old and died when I was four. I have no memories of playing with her. I have no memories of her interacting with me at all. My basic needs were met as a child, but playful interactions by an adult were extremely rare.

I recall once, my father coloring with me, but when I didn’t want to outline each picture and make sure I was within the lines, he lost interest, feeling frustrated at my lack of perfectionism. To this day I can feel my relief when he stopped correcting my coloring and just moved on.

“Go play,” I would say to my girls. “Find something to do in your room or just go outside.” But now I see my own girls teaching their children how to play games and think creatively. Their interactions are sweet and tender and not rushed, the way I imagine my mother might have been with me. They show patience by letting a little one crack an egg to help make cornbread or when they play ‘Go Fish’ for the hundredth time, seemingly having fun, and enjoying their time together. It amazes me.

As a mother, I was always hurrying, and if I am honest, I was always anxious. Children hate to hurry and often it would be me causing their meltdowns, by forcing a quicker pace. In the mornings, I wanted to get as much done as possible before heading out for school. “Make your bed! Brush your teeth!” I barked at them, while I hurriedly straightened the house, wanting to leave everything in order. Rushing a child is like herding snails, it rarely works out well. My underlying anxiety was focused on doing ‘it’ right. “Am I doing it right?” I constantly asked myself.

I only knew how to be productive, as in working. I worked at work, but I also worked at running my home and parenting my children. My heart was filled with love for my girls, but I didn’t know how to relax and enjoy the moments together. An impromptu tea party would have made more memories than mess. If I could only go back.

As a working mother with two girls, I felt exceedingly inadequate and always lacking. I lacked time, energy, and patience. With deep shame, I confess my short fuse and agitation at their questions and childish dallying. I felt I had to run a tight ship, remembering to color within the lines. I didn’t know there was another path with less resistance and much more peace.

I began my grandmothering in much the same way. When my grandson was born, I was more than excited; I was genuinely in awe of this child of my child. I felt honored to hold him and tend to his needs. But soon I became aware of an underlying tension that threatened my happiness and serenity. It lived right under my skin for months. One afternoon when he started to cry, I walked him around the house and patted him, but nothing would work. “Shhh shhh,” I whispered in soothing tones. No nourishment or jiggling or patting; nothing would quiet him and so without even being aware, tears began to pour down my face and I sobbed right along with him for reasons different than his own. I had to lay him in his crib, and I sat sobbing in a chair nearby.

“Dear Lord,” I prayed. “Help me. Calm me. Help me to be enough. Forgive my anxious, anger at not being able to soothe him. Change this, change me and heal this hole.”

My mind shifted that day and my heart cracked wide open with such reverence, and love that I finally saw my truth and felt a change within me. I felt calm, and I realized that my trying to be perfect, to do “it” right, only caused me to feel less than and kept me from just loving. In the time it took to whisper my prayer, I hugged that little one to me and felt a peace inside that began from the inside out. I was able to slow my breath and heartbeat and when I did, his did too.

“Oh,” I thought. “This is what it feels like.” And I took a long, deep breath. If ever I start that anxious dissent or forget to enjoy the little moments, I have only to whisper, “Help me.” And the calmness returns. I can breathe in the joy and settle my insides. I can stay in the present moment and let go of unattainable perfection that threatens to flatten me like a penny run over in the streets.

And so, my house is messy now when our grandchildren are over. Train tracks, Hot Wheels, and glitter. Dress-up clothes, blocks and books are scattered about because we have fun together. Playing, imagining, laughing; all the things that create a bond of love. The love in my heart is demonstrated as I showed them through my time and attention how important they are to me.

Last year, my little granddaughter and I spent an early morning watching the snails on our patio table. We created the Snail Motel and talked about life as we herded the snails back into their make-shift housing. And as much as I feel I didn’t know these things while my daughters were growing up, I do know this now. That morning on the patio was delightful and pure and memorable, and I am filled with gratitude for another answered prayer.

My grandmothering has become an amends to my daughters. Amends for the things I didn’t know back then. Amends for so much hurrying. Amends for not enough play, silliness, and laughter. Amends for too much stress.

And almost as important is the amends to me. For after all, I did the best I knew how. I just didn’t know.

But I do now.

Hello, Old Friend

May 3, 2021 ~ Nancy Malcolm ~ Leave a comment

Hello, Old Friend

It matters not if your mother has been gone for six weeks, six years or sixty-four years, as mine has. A mother’s love was our first love and remains that anchor always.

Sometimes unexpectedly, I will feel an ache deep inside that sits heavy like a boulder and has the makings of an avalanche. I go about my day, my life, as if there was no weight upon my heart, but my insides recognize this visitor. I am reminded of it, this faint knowledge that it’s almost Mother’s Day, and I hope the rockslide of emotions don’t start. I want to stay the course and keep everything in its place.

I love being a mother, myself, although I have endured times of angst as I stumbled along trying to do “it” right. Being a mother and grandmother has been my biggest blessing. My daughters have grown up right before my eyes and no longer make me macaroni angels or hand painted plaques that say, “Prayer Changes Things.” They are always so good to shower me with gifts and thoughtful cards that I save in a big box, safely tucked away. Someday, when I am gone, they will find it and laugh at me for saving so much, but that’s alright, I could not bear to throw away their words or thoughtfulness.

Yet, when it comes to Mother’s Day, I fall silent. I feel uncertain of what to do with myself and I am deeply aware that the sadness I feel is not in aligned with the way most of the world thinks.

I want to cry and sit alone with my sadness. I want to look at pictures and have a cup of tea or a glass of wine. And, at the same time I want to go with my daughters for a long walk among flowers and beautiful trees, feeling the sunshine on our faces, confirming I am alive. My feelings are a contrast as day is to night.

I want to celebrate my mother. I want to celebrate being a mother and my daughter being a mother. But there’s that ache deep inside that wants nothing to do with sunshine, long walks or brunch. That ache says, “You’re alone, so be alone. No one understands anyway.” That ache makes me separate and odd because I hurt on a day others feel joy and gratitude.

I’ve long ago made sense of being left motherless. I understand that sometimes bad things happen to good people, and more than that, I understand that this ache will not kill me. While there are times I thought it might, it has become an old friend, although unwanted, that is familiar and will retreat after a time. This old ache will go back to where it lives, underneath my heart, lodged over to the side. But it will come back another time, perhaps unannounced, smaller in size.

Please don’t feel sorry for me, as that is not what I want. I know I am okay. I am not alone on this motherless journey; I know there are far too many who travel with me. I want them to know it is fine to have feelings that go back and forth. It is okay to have the ache and still want the sunshine. It will not always hurt this bad, so go ahead and feel. God in His wisdom has given us the ability to see both sides, to feel both sadness and sunshine.

“And gradually his memory slipped a little, as memories do, even those with so much love attached to them; as if there is an unconscious healing process within the mind which mends up in spite of our desperate determination never to forget.”
― Colleen McCullough, The Thorn Birds

Listen

November 12, 2020 ~ Nancy Malcolm ~ 5 Comments

I was not prepared for the relationships with my grown daughters. I am forever their mother, but I am not needed as a parent anymore.

That was and is a hard dynamic for me to change. We wrestle with control and often talk in circles, trying to be heard. We have a back and forth, push and pull dance with multi-meaning dialogues. They seem to understand this much better than I do.

“Mom, I KNOW. I know what I need to do,” I hear them say.

“Mother, you raised us, don’t you realize we KNOW what you think?” they recite.

“Mom, I just want you to listen. You don’t have to fix anything or give advice.”

But, sometimes I say ‘it’ again, only louder or rephrased, thinking they didn’t hear me or quite understand my point. The real point is, I think I know what is best for them and what they should do. On one such occasion when frustrations were high and tempers rising, I heard a voice inside myself whisper,

“Listen. Listen with your heart not your ears.”

My lips clamped shut almost instantly, but my self-righteousness still wanted a voice. Smugness is a deadly sin you see, and even a shaft of light cannot penetrate the hard outer shell of a superior, puffed up wisenheimer. Old habits are hard to break.

My mother died of a brain tumor when I was four years old. In my childish mind I envision myself as the perfect daughter. So perfect in fact, she would never have left me. I would have been obedient, and hung on her every word. I would have sought her wisdom and cherished our talks. I would give anything to hear her voice and listen to her point of view. I saw myself that way and I admonished my girls for taking me for granted. My self pity reminded me that I had no mother to listen to and my ungrateful girls had me.

“Listen,” my whisper said. “Heart listening opens closed doors, hushes smugness, sends love not loathing…listen.”

My sanctimonious attitude does not listen well. It strains to get one more word in. It plans a good comeback. It is selfish and self-centered.

I heard an acronym once: WAIT- Why Am I Talking? There are very few times in life when you should keep talking and talking. Most of life is listening, at least if you want happy relationships and peace.

“Listen” my whisper said. “Hush.”

Listen to the ocean when you are there.

Listen to the toddler ramble on about his musings.

Listen to your husband’s snore and be grateful he is alive.

Listen to the elderly person in the grocery store and ask a question.

Listen to your heart, your gut and your best friend.

I wanted my daughters to listen to me. But, what I really wanted was to be heard. My thoughts, my heart, and my words were all vying for a way out, expressing what was inside. My outside didn’t match my inside and I wanted the real me to be seen and heard. Instead, I said to my daughter, “You’re not listening to me.” Neither one of us was listening and we ended our conversation agreeing to disagree, leaving dissatisfied and hurt.

Finally I got quiet and sat with my hand over my heart, a practice I knew, but had conveniently forgotten. “What’s wrong?” I asked myself. “What can I do to make you feel better?” And then I listened. I heard myself ramble on about my feelings and fears; my doubts and worries; my suggestions for my daughter. Sometimes my worries are so vivid that I can’t seem to stop the cycle of obsessive thoughts. I want my girls to be happy and I mistakenly think I know what is best for them. I forget to remember that my adult children must listen to themselves. They have their own inner guidance and wisdom to tap into and their own hearts to follow. They are wise, strong and courageous.

So, I listened to myself and in the process I did feel heard, all without continuing to talk. My shoulders lowered, my breath deepened and my body finally felt relaxed.

“Go on,” I whispered to myself. “ I’m listening.”

Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep

February 6, 2018 ~ Nancy Malcolm ~ 1 Comment

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Now I lay me down to sleep

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

If I should die before I wake

I pray the Lord, my soul, to take.

When I was growing up, that was the nightly prayer I said before going to sleep. My Daddy made sure I knelt beside my bed and recited these simple words.

There are few things in life harder than losing a child. It doesn’t matter how old, how young, miscarriage, or stillbirth, the death of a child is unspeakable. Those who have not walked this path, rarely understand the deep emotions. Their sympathy is sincere but the empathy only comes from experience.

In 1977 my daughter, Autumn was stillborn. I had never known anyone who had lost a child or had a stillbirth. I had a lot of shame surrounding it and since my own mother was deceased, I felt I had no one to share this shame and confusion with. My shame stemmed from not being able to give birth to a healthy child and I felt totally inept as a woman. I had no one to help me understand or guide me in being compassionate towards myself.

A few of my friends had experienced miscarriages in their early pregnancies, but I had gone through hours of labor and delivery only to find out she had never taken a breath. Now, 41 years later, I have known a few women who have had the same sadness. I have had the privilege of sharing my experience, strength and hope with them and they with me.

Recently, I have found two organizations that give hope, love, and support to the grieving parents. One was in our local newspaper recently, called, “Angel Wings of Lake Travis.” These volunteers make burial gowns for these infants who are victims of an untimely death. Often the parents are unprepared or unable to provide a garment for the child to be buried in. These precious burial gowns are made from donated wedding dresses. The volunteers sew little gowns with a vest and bow tie for the boys and an exquisite gown for the girls. The gown is given to the family free of charge. What a meaningful way to help these parents say goodbye to their precious little one.

Another organization dear to me is, “Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.” When I was taking a photography class recently, a volunteer spoke to us about giving our time as a photographer. NILMDTS trains, educates, and mobilizes professional photographers to provide beautiful portraits to families facing the death of their infant. The free gift of a professional portrait serves to honor the child and the family, thus providing an important step in the healing process.

What makes these so special to me is the fact that I had neither for Autumn. She had no burial clothes and I have no photograph or tangible reminder of her little soul. I know I cannot change these facts, but I would give anything to help another family have the healing closure they and their babies deserve.

I hope you will visit these two websites and take time to read about their missions, and to donate if you are so moved.

Thank you for reading and allowing me to share something so close to my heart.

://www.nowilaymedowntosleep.org/about/mission-and-history/

http://angelwingslaketravis.wixsite.com/angelwingslaketravis

The Autumn of My Life

July 7, 2017 ~ Nancy Malcolm ~ 4 Comments

Old Grief and New Loss The Autumn of my life began in July 1977. I was 8 months pregnant when I suddenly went into labor and delivered my daughter….stillborn.

As suddenly as a life is conceived, a life may end. As much as we may want, anticipate and long for a child, we may equally grieve and mourn and fall prey to depression. There is no guidebook or manual to read that instructs us on how to be…how to cope… or how to live with the sadness.

Because my mother died when I was very young, I didn’t know what to expect with pregnancy or delivery. I didn’t know about children or even the smallest part of mothering. You would think, however, that I would have known how to deal with the loss and pain, but alas.. I did not.

It seems I was completely inept at grieving. All the years of missing my mother somehow tumbled into the loss of my child. It became one and the same. Old grief and new loss melded.

Through time, of course, a slow mending began and healing took root, but parts were hard and lonely and dark. Then finally, another pregnancy. During this 2nd pregnancy, I dared not to plan or prepare. I waited to think of names and I drug my feet at buying a crib. Then somewhere after the 8th month, I took a breath and instinctively knew it would be ok. I felt an inkling of peace, a boost of hope, and a firm resolve that no matter what, everything would be alright. And, it was.

My Autumn would turn 40 years old this July. In my mind, she is a baby. A wee little soul flying back from whence she came. I sometimes like to think that maybe my mother is holding my daughter. Hopefully, my mother was there to meet her as she floated to the other side. Perhaps, the two of them have enjoyed these 40 years together as grandmother and grandchild. It heals my soul to think so. My mother, who never lived to be a grandmother and my daughter, who didn’t live to be a child, living perfectly together, healed and whole; connected, just like I would have wanted.

Someday, when my time here is ended, I know those two will be there to greet me as I cross the bridge. Hand in hand, two souls will welcome me and whisper, “We missed you!” My heart will know them instantly and in that moment, the Autumn of my life will be complete.

Mothering Motherless

July 8, 2016July 8, 2016 ~ Nancy Malcolm ~ 3 Comments

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Being a motherless mother has its own set of rules, fears and thought patterns. I cannot speak for all motherless mothers, yet, what I’m about to say will make perfect sense to them.

I used to have an idealistic vision of myself as a parent. I was not prepared for this overwhelming feeling that I wanted my mother. For me, because my mother died when I was so young, I did not have a mature enough mindset to even begin to grieve her, until I became a mother.

As strange as it may seem, I felt blindsided with emotions and grief because all of a sudden I was stepping into ‘her’ realm, motherhood. Which also meant, that something bad might happen. It could happen to me and it could happen to my children.

I had an overshadowing feeling of fear. I was afraid I was doing “it” all wrong, after all, I never even remembered being mothered, how could I know what to do? I read Dr. Spock’s book, watched and asked my friends and constantly second guessed my ability to mother. While this was happening, I was simultaneously severely over protective and fearful about everything. Neurotic? For sure.

These feelings would seem to settle down until a new phase of development would begin. How do I know the right thing to do? I couldn’t ask my mother and I needed her reassurance so much. I kept telling my children that I loved them. I wanted them to know, really know. But, then the questions would start…what if they forgot? Or what if I died, would they be able to remember my words? My voice?

Every since becoming a mother, I have had the stark realization that I could die at any time. The year I turned 33 was the longest and most dreaded year of my life. My mother died when she was 33. While I knew intellectually it (probably) would not happen, emotionally I waited for those 365 days to pass, so I would know for sure.

I have made it well past the age of 33 and now even both of my girls are past that age. I’ve learned a lot about living from this fear of dying and I know in my heart, that my mother was giving me her love and assurance all along. I see it now and I can look back without staring, without blame. I can forgive myself for some of those crazies and breathe a little more deeply.