My son recently wrote his college essay. Of course I think it’s good because I’m his mom ( maybe it really is good ) but because he mentioned me as a “speech therapist”, it had me thinking of other things.. mostly being a speech therapist and a mom…
* note- this post may offend some
So, I think of myself as a Mom first and probably as a Speech Pathologist second. It has surprised me when parents have not understood that I am also a parent. The truth of the matter is , when my kids have been sick, I need to be home. One problem… there’s no sub. I have struggled over this and in turn, have gone to work many days when I shouldn’t have.
After over 20+ years, I have finally given myself permission to stay home. I am forgiving myself for all the years I went into work sick or when my kids were sick. I am learning that I, and my kids, are worthy of a sick day.
My hope, is that all my parents, can recognize me not only as a therapist, but also as a parent , so when life gets in the way for me, there’s a bit more understanding.
From one mom to another…..
Footnote: Here’s the essay that got things going…
I will be writing until the day that I die. Not because of my love for writing. But because writing will be the death of me. Because when I write, I bleed. Every time my pen hits paper, all the letters and consonants and vowels spill from my veins. I write with my blood. I dot my i’s with cells. I cross my t’s with bones. When I write, I dissect my brain. I pinpoint hidden thoughts, and clenching them with my fists, fingers hooked around the curves of the letters, I beat them against a typewriter. For me. writing is often communicating feelings, passions, emotions, ideas, theories that would otherwise go unsaid, or misinterpreted, or be filled with “likes” and “ums.” It makes communicating easier. It makes expression simpler. There have been thoughts I couldn’t understand until I wrote them. In my mind these thoughts are scattered. However, when I put them into cohesive sentences I solve the puzzle. I am less confused. My thoughts are clear.
I have notes riddled with random ideas, poems, and jokes that I’ve written. Some of them were created to eventually flaunt to friends or family. Some are there because I thought they might one day be useful in a school assignment . But usually they are there because I need to write them down. They are there because if I don’t write them down, I’ll go mad. Because sometimes, I see or feel something that I must record. Because sometimes you’re in the hospital room of your grandmother, gladly telling jokes, minutes after she’s been explained how her cancer has metastasized, and you recognize the beauty in the moment, and her bravery in the face of death, and you are obliged to take out your phone and record it in your notes because her words were meant to be repeated years after she’s gone.
When I encounter tragedy, death, heartbreak, I’ll need to write about it. I’ll want to. But more importantly need to. Because if I don’t, the english language will clog my arteries. I’ll be filled with nouns and verbs from head to toe, until eventually, I explode like a pinata stuffed with dictionaries.
I don’t know if it’s because of my grandfather’s obsession with reading, or the fact that my mother’s a speech therapist, but somehow I am biologically composed to crave writing. My body is wired to be infatuated with others’ writing, and believe in my own. But I write with my blood. So when something’s going to kill me, I better have a pen in my hand to say goodbye.