“Is it possible for a home to be a person and not a place?” -- Stephanie Perkins
I didn’t win.
I entered a contest. A writing contest. Haven’t done that in, well, I can’t remember the last time I did that, so it’s been that long. It was run by the folks at LiteraryMama, a pretty awesome online literary magazine that focuses on moms who are writers…especially those that write about mothering. They held a virtual book tour and contest for Kate Hopper, author of Use Your Words: A Writing Guide for Mothers, where a gathering of bloggers each challenged their readers to compose a short response to a writing prompt from her book. Those bloggers then sent their best entry to Kate to select an overall winner.
I didn’t win.
I was selected as the best entry by Aidan Donnelley Rowley over at ADR, and my little nugget of words in response to this prompt: “tell me something about your mother. Who is she/was she? Do you talk to her often? Does she, or did she, play a big role in your life, or in the life of your kids if you have them? What is one thing she did growing up that you do or plan to do with your own kids? Any particularly powerful memories that involve your mom?” went onto the finals, so to speak.
I didn’t win.
But I got an honorable mention. Thing is, it wasn’t about winning. Ever. It was about writing. Yeah, I know, bringing it back around to a Life Nugget is pretty easy here. It’s never about the end, the win, the final score…it is about what you do during the game, how you play, how you work, how you live. It winning good? Sometimes, yes. But it is never about winning.
So, here it is. My honorable mention morsel of writing, my tad-unfinished response to a prompt. It’s a glimpse into the parts no one sees, the moments in motherhood that happen without witness.
The House
I see her. Reading, putting her hair in curlers, the TV tossing images toward her. They roll along the carpet, bounce off a stack of books and hide beneath the edge of her nightgown (it dangles from the couch). She knows I am here. She smiles, placing her bookmark, a bobby pin, on the page where she would return later.
“Make a house for me?” I ask.
And she does. A shift of her body and a bend of her knees. Into an L-shape. A little space created. A kindofsortof square. I fold my foureightthhirteentwentytwothirty-year-old body into it. My back against the cushion, my head resting on her upper thigh, and her calves protect me.
From the world.
And she did. Always. No matter what night, what couch, what structure. We had many. Nights, couches, structures. Those structures, yes, we called a house. But they were not my house, really. My only house was there, in the kindofsortof square.
The house my mother made for me.
My daughter sees me. Working, typing on the computer, the TV shooting images at me. They sail over my head, ricochet from the wall and plop into a growing pile on the ottoman (where my feet usually rest). I know she is there. I smile, my fingers hitting Control-S to save where I will return later.
“Make a house for me?” she asks.
And I do. A shift of my body and a bend of my knees. Into an L-shape. A little space created. A kindofsortof square. She folds her threefournowfive-year-old body into it. Her back against the cushion, her head rests on my upper thigh, and my calves protect her.
From the world.
And I will. Always. No matter what night, what couch, what structure. We will have many, I hope. Nights, couches, structures. Those structures, yes, we call a house. But they are not her house, really. Her only house will be here, in the kindofsortof square.
The house I make for my daughter.
The house, she taught me how to build it, my mother did. Without praise, without hesitation, without witness, she built it. And now I do the same.