Before the pandemic, I lived in New York City. On one of my mom's visits, we were sitting side by side on the subway heading downtown. I think we were talking about what to do about dinner that night. Suddenly she turns and asks me, “so, how many men have you slept with?” I'm used to questions like these coming out of the blue. Luckily, she says it in Greek. I began to argue with her, also in Greek, in a half-empty subway car, in the middle of the afternoon… about sex. Particularly how it wasn't really any of her business. “You came out of me,” which is her argument whenever I ask for privacy. Which I'm certain is a Greek thing. “Just tell me that there have been men!” She shouted. Was she asking if I was a lesbian, or if I was a virgin? “It's just sex, it's like a sausage going in and out, it's no big deal.” She was calling me a prude. “Okay, please stop talking, I have had sex,” I might have shouted in English, my mother then sighing in relief and going quiet. I would be remiss if I didn't say this is how most of our conversations go; me exasperated and mortified, she going silent or moving on to some sort of small talk. Our relationship has always been a tug and pull, mainly between my mother's traditional Greek ideas and values, and my yearning to be just like any other American Girl. My mother only come to the country in her early twenties, newly married, and not knowing one word of the language. Even so, she adapted to some American thinking and raised her three daughters with notions of getting an education, being independent, and never having to rely financially to anyone; especially a man. But some of the greek traditional ideas leaked through now and again. And then the entire world stopped. I was in New York when the pandemic came to the United States. We quickly became the epicenter of the crisis, sirens wailing at all hours, make-shift hospitals being pitched up in Central Park, and millions of people all around us completely devastated. It became too much for me. I started having panic attacks, not sleeping, and worrying about how I was going to survive. New York is expensive at the best of times, so I decided that it was best to move back home to save money. So I'm back in my childhood bedroom living with my mom and our cat Violet. I'm 30. I quickly had to set some ground rules. See, mom doesn't really know what a closed door means. She comes into my room without knocking. This would not work if I was in the office in the middle of a zoom meeting or filming a self-tape or writing. So I had to explain if the door is closed, you cannot come in. No, you cannot come pee while I'm showering. Have I mentioned my mom is bad with boundaries? She thinks I'm messy because I leave plates in the sink and she has accused me of loving Violet more than her. We've had a lot of difficult talks. Some even about sex. I told her about a guy I invited to stay over after we stayed out really late; how he offered to sleep on the floor and that nothing had to happen. “So he slept on the floor, did you give him enough blankets?' “No Mom, he slept in my bed because I wanted to have sex.” My mom shuttered. “I thought you wanted me to tell you about this stuff?” “Yes, but not all at once, Niki.” She's learned about online dating which she calls appointments for sex. Which I encourage because it's hysterical. On our family trip to Greece the summer I was 13, my aunt, my older cousin Eleni and I were sitting in a cafe. A really obnoxious sports car drove by, I think it was lime green, and my cousin said how much she liked it. Without a second thought, my aunt told my cousin, “if you marry a rich man maybe he'll have a car like that and you can ride in it.” I was shocked, so I asked my aunt, “why couldn't Eleni get a car like that for herself?” She looked at me with pity, “that's harder for girls to do.” My mother would never have said that to me. If I wanted a fancy lime green Ferrari she would say, “you'll have to work very hard.” I realized how different the two women were. My aunts do not know how to drive a car, they don't own their own property, do not have a bank account separate from their husbands, and don't work. Leaving in her early twenties made all the difference, not just in how she carried herself and lived her life, but how my mother raised her daughters. I'm brave because she was. I'm moving back to London in September and my mom is not very happy about it. She's just always going to worry about me when I'm somewhere alone with only me looking out for me. That's just the way it's always going to be, because I'm her kid. We keep having our hard talks, she keeps walking into my office without knocking. But we make sure we have an outing every Sunday, and she makes me laugh because she's the funniest person I know. And we talk. I haven't told her how many men I've slept with but I put the dishes in the dishwasher now. She's still learning about boundaries. And that's okay.
It is a dark night like someone has poured black ink all over it. I am looking outside of the kitchen window adjusting my chin against the window's iron rod after finishing up my everyday household chaos. It has become a routine for me to stare outside of the window every night since she has decided to leave me alone in this earth. I have kind of figured out that in an entire day, emptiness and silence of this moment is what truly belongs to me. The electricity poll in the edge of the street makes a shadow when the deem light from our neighbor's garden reaches. I, just like every day, try or pretend to draw a human-like image around the shadow: an image of a holy spirit from the stories I have heard, an image of a soul wearing human body, an image of HER. I know it sounds silly, but I cannot stop grieving and I have been stuck in all the ‘could have' and ‘would have. I could have asked her how she was feeling when she was here or just silently stay beside her to let her know that she still has not lost everything. I should not have lost her to realize what I should have done. So why wouldn't I look for her? Why would she choose to leave me? Why she never thought necessary to let her daughter know what was killing her deep inside? Is she really in a better place now? Didn't she know that a part of me will die with her? I vividly remember someone said that ghosts, spirit and souls are only in our imagination, they are seen because they are inside of our head; It has been approximately 400 days that she has decided to leave me and I have been imagining and drawing picture of HER every night but the ghost inside of my head never jumped out of my imagination and showed up Infront of me. When a pigeon comes to my terrace seeking for food, I presumed that it is her in the form of a pigeon. But if it is so, when I tried to get close, why it would fly far away like it is going to disappear in the sky and never going to return? Maybe they are right, who leaves this earth never returns. But I have always wished for your return, at least once. I have a lot to ask…. I have a lot to say…. And again, I realize what is the point of asking and saying? what is the point of saying everything I could never say when she was here with me? What is the point of making her feel guilty for leaving me like this? If she tells me why she chose to leave, can I bring her back or can I make it right? Then, what is the point of digging into her suffocation that will do nothing but kill me a little more. And just like every night, when I am done looking for her, I say to myself ‘leave it' while closing the window. And when I am getting out of kitchen, I turn back again to check: Maybe I will see her tonight?
On June 26, 2019 at 6PM I gave birth to a handsome little human named Joseph. Nobody can ever prepare you for the mental state that Motherhood can place you in. When I first laid eyes on that little boy he was and still is the purest form of love that I have ever had the chance to be in the presence of. When I found out that I was going into labor I was in disbelief. See JoJo (as I like to call him) is my rainbow baby. I miscarried an angel last year April 28, 2018. After losing that little angel I told myself that I didn't want to be pregnant again until I had reached this point of financial stability but I guess God had other plans in mind. Some days I look at him and I am so completely and utterly afraid of failing him because in my head, I was supposed to be much more prepared for him than what I am but the truth is you're never really “prepared” for motherhood. I look at him some days and I remember the innocence that I used to hold and how life kind of snatched that away from me and I dread the thought that it'll do the same to him. When I look at JoJo, I see someone that is carefree and taken care of, not a worry in the world and I wonder about the man that he will grow up to be. I wonder will I be able to truly teach him how to be a man when I am a single mother and I have no male influences to be around him. JoJo is only 3 months old at this moment and I am afraid, I am happy but I am afraid. There is so much going on in this world and it hurts that I won't always be able to protect him like my mother wasn't always able to protect me. I watch him as he constantly smiles and I pray that that smile never fades away, I pray that he always remains happy although I am very aware that some days he'll find it hard to smile but I can't help but to hold on to the hope that his good days will forever outweigh the not-so good days. I imagine the motivating things that I will tell him when he gets to the point that he can respond to me. Nobody can prepare you for the sleepless nights that you may encounter, not because he's up crying but because you're up crying because your worried about what kind of future can you help create for him when you don't have much. I look at other mothers that have husbands and I think of how lucky they are to have someone to reassure them that everything is going to be alright, someone that can pick up the slack when you're having an off day. I find it funny how even though we are truly never alone in our feelings and emotions that somehow, we still feel as though we are even though there are many women out in the world at this very moment dealing with the same thoughts and feelings. We have taught ourselves to bottle those feelings up because we must remain strong, we must wear this mask, a mask that says, “Everything is okay!” when it's not, a mask that says, “I have adequate finances to take care of everyone!” when you really don't, a mask that says, “I'm completely energized!” when you're tired and emotionally drained. Someone once approached me and said that I smile a lot and seeing my smile made them happy and brought joy to them because I radiated and I thought to myself, “Well I guess I wear this mask pretty well.” The most insane part about Motherhood is that even though sometimes you don't feel like you're enough, to that little kid, you are their everything and that alone gives you purpose. My heart melts every time I see my little human. In fact, these worries only exist because I love him so much and I want him to have more than what I had growing up and the thought of not being able to provide him with better is a very scary thought to me. I want to tell mothers that it is okay to have these thoughts, they are so natural to have and nothing to be ashamed of. We must take each day one at a time and know that we've got this, that we are Superwomen to them and if our kids can think that highly of us then we should be able to think that highly of ourselves as well. So, have your mom thoughts but remember to pick yourself up at the end of it and genuinely know in your heart that you're doing a great job.
I am on the other side of 35 now and the mother of three awesome children. My son is an amazing person. He is a non-conformist and at times very caring and at other times, he's your stereotypical teenager. He is an artist at heart and I love him fiercely. He is strangely thoughtful and has been this way. At 6 or 7 years old, he surprised me with the questions, “what is love?” and “where does love come from?” Once, right in the middle of his homework assignment he said “Mommy, it must have been hard for you”. Not knowing what he was talking about I said “what are you talking about?” He said “Your mother dying when you were young”. He was wrong. While I am sure my childhood was different than the average person's since you weren't around, I never really dealt with your absence at that age; I began to process it when I was an adult. As a child your death was never something the family spoke about. We just went on living. We moved in with daddy and kept the play button of life on. I went to school, did what was required of me and moved on…until the teenage years. Daddy was a different kind of parent than you were: he favored the strict dad approach and I was very limited in the places I could go. As a result I did a little sneaking around and did some things I probably shouldn't have. But there is nothing I can do about that now. I didn't think I was worse than the average teenager at the time but I certainly wasn't the best. I only had a couple of close friends at the time and I don't know if that was a good or bad thing since she wasn't really the most sympathetic or sensitive person. But she's who I had, and I am grateful for her. Daddy got married to a woman I admire and love very much. She is one of the kindest people I know. She was definitely the motherly type but different than you, which is probably a good thing you know? If she seemed like she was a replacement for you maybe we wouldn't have gotten along. She was a worrier, always worried about other folks having what they need and often neglecting herself. I can't recall one bad experience with her. You were a different kind of mother; I like to think I somewhat take after both of you, you know? You were a creative, a poet who loved music and danced with me and sis all the time. I remember spending nights by granny listening to ‘Lady in Red' on my Walkman, smelling freshly baked bread in her oven. Those were much simpler times. It's been a bit more complicated in my adult life. I miss you most now because I am struggling with being a grown-up. Somehow, I feel like I don't understand what it means to be a woman because you were not here to teach me the rules. I don't know how to balance being a mom and a wife. Heck, I don't even think I am doing the being a mom thing right, and now that I have a teenage step-daughter and my 4 year old, I feel like I may not be preparing them for life as a woman. Sometimes I think that not knowing was an advantage for me but at other times I feel like life would've been easier if I would just follow the rules and conform. Would I want to teach my kids to conform to societal rules? Probably not, but I do think life would be easier if I could find that sweet spot between conforming and doing my own thing…I believe that is where life becomes easier to navigate. Either way, I suck at the balancing act of working full time, (full time and half actually) and being a mother. Not just a mother but a loving mommy that has the energy to play with the kids and clean and cook wholesome foods and not feel like I'm losing my mind doing that and forsaking my own desires to be who I truly am (which is not always kid friendly). I do not believe I am defined by this thing called being a mother and feel profoundly selfish for even having the thought of being something besides that. Realistically, I know you were more than a mother, but I suppose that is all I saw, and you seemed happy that way. Why do I struggle with that? I am most bothered by not being able to ask you for advice. It sucks that I can't sit with you as an adult and have a conversation with you, something I enjoy doing with daddy and my step-mother. It disturbs me that you will never hold any of your grandchildren and they will never know what you smell like (I still remember after all of these years). They will never know the awesome person you are, and they will never truly understand why I am so bummed out every mother's day and every August 28th (yes, I still remember your birthday). I'm not ready to leave my kids, but I am sure looking forward to seeing you again. I just want to talk to you. Take care of yourself. I hope you read this letter. With love, Your daughter.
I don't know if my pearl will approve of this but I shall tell you guys. I may have found someone who I might want to spent spend my life with. This took two month to blossom and I don't know his name. But this I know he is potentially Buddhist, is in to Tantra and tantric love, he love autumn and early winter when the snow is pretty and he lives a peaceful life. He is intelligent and a gentleman. Unlike the other nerds who show off their junk to girls or post obsence stuff on your Facebook. Yes there are dorks like that. But I think I have found the big one. We flirt and talk about spirituality and what we want to do teachother. He is concerned when I am not online. The last asshole I stumbled up on was in high school and that little shit cheated on me repeatedly. But this current guy is older and wise. I hope to we one day at least spent one night together.
Working Parents Being a working parent isn't as easy as you'd think. There is so much that comes along with being a working parent. There's even more than enough that comes with being a single working parent. As parents we understand that our children have to be fed, clothed, and sheltered, but let's face it, if we were on our own, living in our cars would suffice. Becoming an adult itself already requires simply trying to survive. Now we have to add these small, attention seeking, extremely energetic wall bouncing children into our daily routines. Don't get me wrong, being a parent is an amazing feature that life has to offer. But, being a working parent can be bitter sweet. We're given 9 hours each day to simply breathe without any hassle, but if you're like me then the customers you're dealing with daily surpass the feeling of wanting to crawl into a hole over your child's “terrible” stages. Sadly, being a working parent causes you to miss out on so many new things your child is learning. Like how to snatch snacks from other children at daycare, and of course the simple fact of growth. Depending on our work schedules, we aren't able to wake up and blast music while making pancakes and annoying our neighbors every morning as we wish we could. We aren't able to sleep in and wake up to our children kicking us in the face while laughing because they've learned how to cause harm toward us. For some of us we aren't even able to read the Dr Seuss book that we honestly couldn't care less about, but our children love hearing about green eggs and ham while being tucked in because they feel safe in hearing our voices. We are forced to finish a full day routine in 24 hours and sometimes we barely have space to take a deep breath and count to ten. Our routines become so repetitive that we don't even care about the dishes that have been sitting in the sink since the night before, but at least we have that few seconds to enjoy a daily laugh in disbelief of how much our children resemble us. We are working parents who are providing for the children of the future. Lets face it, some day our kids can be the president of the United States or possibly work at McDonald's for the rest of their lives, but in the end we've learned to balance being a parent and having a career and someday our children will have the same bitter yet sweet struggle of having children while successfully managing to have a career.