One of the many superpowers given to mothers is the ability to decipher meanings of certain sounds from our children. With the slightest peep we know whether to feed them, defend them, or yell in their general direction, “OMG, stop whining already!”
Unfortunately, today I heard the type of cry that makes a mother’s heart stop dead in her chest. A bone chilling scream echoed from the bedroom and when I charged through the doorway the first thing to catch my eye was blood pouring from my little boy’s side. Thankfully, the wound was not severe enough for stitches, but as I assured him earlier, “It’s gonna leave a really cool scar!”
On my right knee I carry a scar from a bicycle accident in the fourth grade. The skin was ripped open in three different sections and tiny bits of gravel and sand were jammed underneath the surface of my flesh. The doctor gave me a cream – I don’t remember what it was, but I hope the FDA has outlawed it – that, I swear, melted the scabs off every time they tried to form. It was like bathing in battery acid. I also spent the next week at summer camp on crutches. Twenty years later, when I look at the purplish discoloration just below my kneecap I don’t remember falling of the bike – I remember the battery acid and my bruised armpits from the crutches.
Isn’t that often the case with scars? The healing process is usually more memorable than the initial injury. It certainly takes longer and is generally more painful.
I consider the many scars I have that are unseen. The deep gashes left in my heart, my soul and spirit from choices I’ve made in my life. Bad decisions are easy. They are usually quick and even, initially, painless. It’s the recovery from them that is so bitterly agonizing. You never forget the moment when you recognize the villain as the face in the mirror. When you realize that you have failed, you have wounded those that you love, and that your own pain is caused by your own hand.
My scars show themselves in my relationships, in my hesitations about my future, and certainly in my parenting. However, I am learning to remind myself that they are just scars. The pain is gone. The wound is healed. All has been forgiven. They scars are not eternal penance for my sins, but simply a reminder to never turn back.
I’ve also learned that the right decision is almost always the more difficult one to make. It’s usually not the one that you think you want. On the bright side though, the right decision doesn’t lead to daily doses of battery acid on wounds – and that, my friends, is worth avoiding at all cost.
My life is silent in a chaotic sort of way these days. The past ten months have been an excruciating mix of painful and pleasant experiences that have left me in a cloud, incoherently gliding through life. I’ve let my actions determine my decisions rather than moving myself toward a chosen goal. I guess I can’t beat myself up too much for my passiveness, I mean it’s been a pretty effed up year and there’s been a lot to keep me preoccupied.
If you’ve been reading my blogs for any amount of time you’re probably ready for yet another meaningless life event blown up into some grand over thought analogy right? Well, you are in luck! This one begins with a tale from The Adventures of Dale Hollow Lake, a book that I will someday win the Pulitzer for… or maybe not.I love being on the lake, but I’m not an avid water sports woman by any stretch of the imagination. My adventures usually involve a chick-lit novel, a floatation device (worn like a diaper) and a cold Corona with lime. I might get a little crazy from time to time depending upon the heat of the sun and wind up mildly tipsy and radically sunburned, but that’s usually where the excitement ends.
