I took my mother far into the men’s room today,
not because I’m making a political statement but
because as her caregiving daughter I’m sleep-deprived.
I walked out of the store the other day without paying,
not because I wanted to take something (I immediately went back in) but
because as her caregiving daughter I was livid with anger at someone who is opposing us.
I snapped harshly at my mother the other day when she tried to sit on a chair of air,
not because I wanted to be mean to her but
because as her caregiving daughter I wanted her to be safe, again.
“Take time for yourself,” they said.
I went to a movie and all I could think of was wanting to be with her.
During the 12 times a night she calls me I can’t say no to her heart-breaking cries.
“Take care of yourself,” they said.
“Take care of yourself.”
It’s a good word of wisdom. But…
Do they realize the only free time I have I want to sleep?
Do they realize I don’t have the emotional energy to “put myself out there?”
Do they realize what it takes to do this?
They don’t. And it’s Ok.
Because I don’t realize the level of their hurts, pains and hardships either.
My past insensitive words to them have more than likely been on the same level as their words to me.
Grace. To them. To me. To the world.
It’s better than time.
Time would be nice, but I don’t always have it.
But grace? That’s a choice.
A choice I can give to myself that lightens the burden of obligations.
A gift I can give to others when they say and do what isn’t needed.
A well of life when I confront decisions that I don’t want to do but feel are necessary.
When I was about five I stopped my mother from going to the men’s room.
Now that I’m an adult she returned the favor.
After we got out of there quick, we laughed.
We were graced.