Pieces of My Mother by Melissa Cistaro Page A

missing our whole Christmas vacation?” Bella sews stitches of guilt like a master seamstress.
    â€œAre you having some get-togethers with your friends?” I ask, trying to distract her.
    â€œThey all have family plans.”
    I hear my husband in the background. “Don’t make Mommy feel bad, Bella.”
    I’m grateful that Anthony is with the kids while I’m here. He doesn’t spend nearly as much time with them as I do, and sometimes I feel resentful that he gets to be the dad who steps in just in time for the fun activities. As a single parent raising three children, my dad was always crazy-busy and running to catch up. He was the role model I had for a parent, and what I learned from him is that one parent can do it all. Thus, I tend not to ask for help when I could use it, which is not the best recipe for balance in our family.
    I’ve been vague with Bella about the things going on with my mom. Maybe if I allowed my emotional ups and downs to be seen, she would be easier on me.
    â€œI’m bringing you a present back from Washington,” I tell her. Which is a lie only in that I haven’t actually bought anything yet. But whenever I’m gone for more than a day, I always return with a gift to soften my absence. This trip to Olympia may prove to be the longest I have ever been away from my children.
    Several years ago, when I traveled to the desert for three days, Bella was furious by the time I returned. One of the reasons that my absence was especially upsetting was because Daddy couldn’t help with her hair. I was the one who combed out the knots each morning, fashioned ponytails, and snapped in the colorful barrettes. I knew from personal experience that fathers do not have a great deal of skill with long and tangled hair.
    When I returned and walked through the front door, Bella looked at me with a stern face and said, “I almost forgot you were part of this family.”
    Her extravagant comment left me speechless. Who was this spirited little girl of mine who wasn’t afraid to say or show what she felt? Dominic had never challenged me in quite the same ways, and I wondered if Bella was sensing my mothering insecurities or reading the tea leaves on the bottom of my cup.
    â€œIt sounds like you missed me a lot when I was gone,” I finally replied.
    She burst into tears. As I held her and felt her sobs, heavy against my chest, I was grateful to comfort my little girl who missed me. I also became aware of the physical contact I must have longed for from my mother as a child.
    I talk with my family a bit more and then finally hang up, still thinking about Bella’s frustrations over my occasional absences. On a deep level, I understand her strong reactions. As a mother, I make an effort to be a better parent. I buy self-help and parenting books and subscribe to Family Circle and Parenting magazines. I’m trying to find my way, but sometimes I feel the weight of all my shortcomings at once. I am not always a good mother, and there are days where I am humorless, judgmental, curt, and preoccupied. I try not to let myself get defeated by the daily grind of motherhood, but sometimes I feel locked in the nightmare of domesticity.
    When I interact with other mothers on the school yard, I feel transparent. I don’t want to talk about domestic details like sleep schedules, Swiffers, standardized testing, or where to buy discounted organic produce and Disneyland tickets. Really, that sort of discussion shouldn’t get to me, but it does. I know that it’s part of being a parent—sharing resources and all that. But sometimes I want to run when I see these well-organized mothers walking my way. I can’t take in any more information or mommy tips. I don’t want them to mention that I look tired. I don’t want them to ask if I can volunteer for the pancake breakfast, the PTA, or the sport-a-thon.
    I know mothers who have their priorities