It was early in lockdown, and I was cleaning the kitchen. The fight that caused the previous round of no-contact made me cautious, so I always made sure any conversation my kids had with my family were on speaker phone and I was within earshot. At the time, my kid was seven years old, and he was chatting happily, asking my mother a remember when? kind of question. Except the thing he was asking about was touchy, because it involved my mother threatening (in a joking way) to call the police if my baby didn’t do something she wanted him to do. I don’t remember what it was anymore…it wasn’t a bad thing. And she really WAS trying to joke (and manipulate him into compliance which is not funny, I know—I’m just representing the situation as it was). He was just being three, and we know that three year olds often have their own idea of what they’re gonna do and they do THAT instead of what they’re told to do.

At the time, he took it as a serious threat though, and he was scared, and I had to go get him and reassure him that the police were not, in fact, coming for him. He was confused, because why would grandma say that to him?

At the time, my mother was confused as to what the big deal was, because in her mind—she was not being serious. She couldn’t even see why a baby would be confused over what had happened and in the moment—instead of starting an argument and trying to make her see reason, I just separated them until they both calmed down.

To her, my kid was being too sensitive and dramatic–just like his mama. 

So this was the remember when? conversation my kid was having with his grandmother early in the pandemic while I was cleaning the kitchen and half-listening. Basically, it was remember when you told me you were calling the police on me? And what did he say that for? She started yelling at my baby, telling him that it never happened; that those were lies that came from his mother (that’s me, y’all!), and that I was just trying to turn him against her because of “how I feel about her”.

I heard the yelling, heard what she was saying, and stepped in immediately. I tried to be calm, but she was screaming. I tried to interject without screaming back but she would not stop. I wanted to explain. I wanted her to just stop, for a moment, and see the harm she was causing because—to nobody’s surprise—this was not the first time she had threatened to call the police on family. It was her go-to line.

She did not stop. I was in pandemic mode and no longer able to manage all that extra energy. I had nothing left to soothe her, to stand up for myself, to stand up for my child, to placate her in any way to get back to peace, and so I said, very calmly while she was screaming—I’m going to hang up now, mommy. I don’t want to hang up on you but maybe we can talk when you calm down.”

And I did.

And that was it for the rest of the pandemic years.

Through those years, there were so many moments I wished I had a mother who I could pick up the phone and talk to. A mother who could help me figure out which way to turn while the world was literally burning around me. A mother who would just listen without telling me that I was the problem, that I was imagining things, that there was something wrong with me, that there had ALWAYS been something wrong with me.

That I was unfixable.

I wished I had a mother who loved me enough to let me be who I am, and not who she wanted me to be. 

And so, I started writing letters to my mother telling her all the things. I wrote the letters–but I did not send them–and inside were all my little random thoughts: I’d tell her about the fights with my husband, and the weird happenings on the streets, and how scary the wildfires were and how I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to keep going because it was all too much.

And I would write back, as if I were the mother that my whole soul needed. I said the things I needed to hear. I said the things I wanted to hear. I even shared some wisdom with myself that could maybe help me grow.

And I would sign all of those letters back to myself, Love, Mama.

I’m sharing some of those letters here with you, now.

I hope that someone who needs to talk to a mother as much as I did back then…as much as I DO right now…will find some solace in these letters and in the knowing that if we just survive, we will find all that we need inside of ourselves to thrive.

And if you ever need a mother’s advice but you can’t—for whatever reason—call your own? I hope you reach out and let me share some words of support. Because I got nothing but an endless supply of love over here. 

Love, Mama