Warning – Contents Under Pressure

I used to tell my mother everything, before my father died.

We were as close as any parent and child could be, and in some ways, maybe a little too close. But after we buried my dad, it became harder and harder to open up to her. She was locked inside her grief, and understandably so. I found myself reluctant to burden her any further with my own mourning.

Soon, this holding back became a habit. And once we moved away, geography took an additional toll. Phone calls just aren’t the same as an afternoon of lunch, shopping and girl-talk.

Today my mother called me just before we were set to leave the house. Nothing went right today, and we were already 30 minutes late when the phone rang. I was in a hurry.

Then my mom asked me about some unsettling events happening with my husband’s work situation. I purposefully had not shared this information with my mom, so as not to stress her out, but it seems my sister mentioned it to her.

I opened my mouth to reply, to tell her not to worry, when all my fears and frustrations came spilling out. I found myself telling her how worried I am, how stressful it is to not know what our future holds.

And I don’t, anymore. We had a plan, and it turns out that plan was built out of Popsicle sticks. In academia, one’s fate can rise and fall with one person, and we are at the mercy of people who have no vested interest in our future.

Everything hinges on this year.

We don’t know where we will be living in the fall. Here? There? Someplace completely unexpected? We don’t know what kind of financial situation we will be in. We don’t know if we can sell our house. We don’t know if there are actual jobs available, or just bullshit one-year positions that don’t include health care.

We don’t know anything at all about what our lives will look like in six months.

I’ve been holding all this in, trying desperately to focus on the present. To go day-by-day, trying not to fret over where The Poo will go to school and whether or not I will be forced to return to work full-time, outside the home.

I’ve been trying not to panic, thinking about a future without health insurance. Trying not to think about the possibility of losing our home.

Trying so hard not to cry from the unfairness of it all, after having risked so much for a bright future that now seems just out of our grasp. It’s like so much water between my fingers; I keep trying to catch it, to hold it in my palms, and I can’t.

I’ve lived my life with blinders on in so many ways, always foolishly certain that everything will just work out. But it doesn’t, always. Parents die. Jobs are lost. The ties that bind come loose.

After I got off the phone, I hurried to brush The Poo’s hair so we could leave for our playdate. I was rough, pulling the brush too hard and fast through a nest of knots. She cried, and I yelled at her. Loudly.

And meanly.

Suddenly I found myself crying in unison with her. I’ve been impatient lately, more so every day. I stopped brushing and pulled her close to me, turning her around to see her face. She looked so sad.

“I am so sorry, baby. I owe you an apology,” I said.

She just stared.

“Mommy was wrong to yell at you,” I said. “It wasn’t right and it was mean. I am so, so sorry. I promise to do better.”

She sniffled and hugged me around the neck. “Me, too, mom,” she said.

We kissed and hugged and finally made it out the door.

As we drove to our destination, 40 mintutes late for our meet-up, I realized just how much I’ve been holding in. How much I’ve tried to be stoic, be a grown-up, not complain.

Today my mom opened a valve and helped me let some of that pressure escape, just like she used to, all those years ago.