Pieces of My Mother by Melissa Cistaro Page B

in order. I am not one of them. There are mothers who go to the market with a shopping list and an envelope full of carefully snipped coupons. They make cupcakes with fluffy peaks of whipped frosting and deliver them to the classroom. And they manage to keep their kitchen table free of clutter and get their kids to swimming lessons on time. At least this is how I imagine them when I am questioning my skills as a parent—which is frequently. There are also mothers I absolutely adore and admire for their down-to-earth kindness. And mothers who have saved me from losing my mind by offering to take my kids for the afternoon or evening. While I always considered myself a strong contender in my imaginary International Room Cleaning Competition growing up, as an adult I worry I might be disqualified from entry into the Good Mother pageant.
    Rather than clipping coupons or making cupcakes for my daughter’s class, what keeps me sane is writing for hours in my lined notebooks or giving myself time to escape into a great book. But while these are the touchstones that keep me grounded, they also lure me away from my responsibilities as an organized and present parent.
    Why can’t I be a dreamer and a good mother? Because I am afraid of what could come of wanting things. Isn’t that what happened to my mother? She dreamed of who she could be out in the world, forging a brave path, and off she went.
    Standing alone in her office bedroom, I stare at the file cabinet. It doesn’t feel safe to pull out her letters while others are still awake in the house. What if someone catches me? What if there is something too private and frightening in the letters?
    As the night temperature dips and turns the room chilly, I rummage through the upstairs closet for something warm to wear. I find an old wool sweater of Mom’s and jackets and hats that I haven’t seen her wear in years. I hold up one of my mom’s quintessential hippie shirts covered with blue and green paisleys. It has a cigarette hole, and one of the frayed string ties is missing. I haven’t seen this shirt since I was eight years old. The summer I finally got to fly to Washington to see where my mom lived.

THEN
all things red
    I get to visit my mom in a place called Chimacum. She always lives in towns with interesting names like Sequim and Quilcene, or places with “Port” as part of their name. I am flying by myself this time because my dad already sent my brothers to Chimacum while I was at camp.
    The pilot’s voice crackles from the tiny holes in the ceiling, announcing that we have made a safe landing in Seattle. I slip on my flip-flops, click off my seat belt, and smooth out the pattern of yellow daisies on my sundress. I give my loose tooth a twist all the way around but I don’t want it to fall out just yet. I’m not sure if the tooth fairy comes to Chimacum.
    The stewardess in red and blue asks me again who is picking me up.
    â€œMy mom might be late,” I tell her.
    The stewardess looks down at the watch on her wrist. Then I see my mom running down the carpeted walkway and waving both hands in the air. “Little Liddy Bumpkins!” she yells out.
    She wears bell-bottom jeans, a strappy black tank top, and red sandals. Brass bells hang down from the bottom of her purse and jingle against her hip. Her wavy hair is longer and darker now. She hugs me big, then steps back to look at me.
    â€œYou sure got tan,” she says.
    She touches the strands of blond hair around my face and asks me if I bleached it. That makes me kind of embarrassed, because I don’t know any eight-year-olds who bleach their hair. I look up at her face and suddenly feel like I’ve got Mexican jumping beans inside me. I want her to like everything about me. I want her to like the daisy dress I picked out.
    â€œHow was riding camp?” she asks as we hurry past the crowds.
    â€œOh, it was the best. I mostly rode a gray horse named