Motherscope LLC | San Diego, CA motherscope.com Cover Illustration by Alexandra Harvey | Mothershaped The Mom Salon logo by Samantha Acker | Gemini Designs Copyright © 2021 by Motherscope LLC and the individual contributors. All rights reserved. Leonard, Jackie (editor) The Mom Salon | November 2021 The Mom Salon features the writings of Motherscope’s 2021 Contributors, appearing in rotation from Mar. 2021 through Feb. 2022: Kate Bailey, Eunice Brownlee, Kelsey Cichoski, Heather Cleaves, Laci Hoyt, Micah Klassen, Shanthy Milne, Alyssa Nutile, Holly Ruskin, Kaitlin Solimine, Colleen Tirtirian, Megan Vos, Melaina Williams
SUBMISSIONS We believe every mother has a compelling story — and we are challenging you to take ownership of your story, to speak your truth. Motherscope examines the corners of motherhood we don’t often talk about. Be specific, be personal, be real. We want to hear from you! Check our Submission page for up-to-date information on how to contribute to our next issue. motherscope.com/submit Inquiries: hello@motherscope.com
In This Month’s Mom Salon: Laci Hoyt | Mothering Through Hard Times
1
Micah Klassen | One Size Fits All
8
Colleen Tirtirian | Unlimited Cupcakes
13
Kaitlin Solimine | The Bluest Egg
18
Mothering Through Hard Times By Laci Hoyt Our van moves down the highway, my husband behind the wheel. In the passenger seat, I wipe tears from my cheek. We have just left our firstborn child at college for the first time. This loss has been looming for the last year. All summer, I tried to cram in as much quality time with her as I could, hoping it was enough to make up for the past, knowing full well that it wasn’t. And I was not prepared for the rumination this transition would cause, but here I am thinking back over pieces of the past. 2008 My five-year-old hop-skips down the driveway with her little brother and me following close behind. Her backpack flaps against her, too big for her body. Her excitement is palpable. Today is the first day of kindergarten. My son and I are going to the drop-in daycare center after the bus leaves. We’ve spent a lot of time there playing and making friends. Even though it provides me with the only daycare I can afford, I usually stay and play instead of leaving. But now that my daughter is in school, I begin to split my time between the kindergarten classroom and the drop-in center. We have full lives. We go hiking on weekends. We hang out with friends and go to soccer practice, and every night we read together. I go on as many field trips as the school allows. We play outside and inside and upside-down. We dance in the living room, and in the evenings I make dinner from scratch. Time passes. My son starts school, and I accept a paid job in the dropin center. I volunteer at the school on my days off. At home, I clean, I 1
discipline, I show up where I’m needed, and I finish what I start. I don’t yet know how our lives will change in one year. 2011 I lie in my bed awake but immobilized. When I open my eyes, the room spins. Fireworks ignite inside my brain. Every sound is coming at me through a megaphone. Even with the bedroom door closed, I hear my children fighting as if they are standing above me. I put my pillow over my face, pinch it around my ears, begging through tears for the sweet protection of sleep. Hours later, I reawaken. The throbbing has eased enough that I can open my eyes. The world is still spinning, but if I move carefully, I can manage to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the kids. I ease myself onto the couch near them. They start eating and telling me about their fight. I listen as best I can, but I’m on a merry-go-round. I’m on tilt-a-whirl. I’m falling through the air. There is a refrigerator sitting on my legs. The refrigerator is actually crushing my legs. It’s not a refrigerator; it’s an elephant. I’m either going to die underneath this elephant, or I am going to lose my legs. Please, let me lose my legs, I beg inside my mind. As if through a haze, I hear a small blurry voice speak, the pitch of its words ending in a higher octave than the rest. Some functioning part of my brain recognizes this sound as a question. One of the children has asked me a question. Did they ask for something? About something? I don’t know. My concentration is like that of a goldfish. I ask the voice to repeat itself. I miss the words again. Say it one more time, I plead. The need to repeat themselves is something my kids hate. “Why don’t you ever listen?!” one of them shouts at me, exasperated. I don’t know how to explain this to them. I don’t know how to help them understand. They are only six and eight.
2