I would go on and on, letting her know about the journal entries I wrote, the jump roping contest I competed in at recess, the a id gotten on my reading quiz. Id always forget to tell her about the big word I stumbled over when reading out loud, or the math problem I pretended to know how to solve but got wrong. Mom never went to college and wasnt that well-read, but she wanted her only child. Actually, she wanted me to be the best at everything, so i tried as hard as I could to be the a student, the prized daughter, the perfect little girl. Wrapped up in a package of perfection, i tried to avoid anything that would reveal the ugly truth about being perfect: you cant. I tried to control lifes blemishes and blunders, which became more prevalent in my life the sicker Mom got. When you are 8 and your moms diagnosed with breast cancer, its easy to play pretend. You try to tell yourself that shell make it, that you can wave your fairy princess magic wand and make her all better.
Free my mother Essay
For whatever reason, though, i cant remember the majority of them anymore. All I remember are the cookies. My favorite were the gingerbread men that Mom would buy from Market Basket. They were the sinfully soft kind, loaded with unhealthy frosting and a head made of solid sugar; the kind of snack that lures adults into indulging in calories and fat they dont need but secretly want. To me, they tasted like home. Id savor the sugar, then jump on the couch and give mom a hug. Id rest my head on her shoulder and shed train ask me to tell her all about my day. Whatd you learn today? Even when I was really little, i always loved to eat (and play resume with) the meals and snacks Mom gave. Cheerios were clearly my favorite breakfast food.
Wounds are never permanently erased. We are fragile beings, and some days we break all over again. Im still learning to be gentle with myself and to see the beauty in baby steps. So, heres my baby step toward writing about food and my mom. I plan to continue writing about this topic, so Id really value your feedback on this post. Im curious to find out what parts of the essay resonate with you, what you want to learn more about and what you think works or doesnt work. More importantly, though, i hope report you can connect to the essay and gain something from reading. mom always used to surprise me with a snack when I came home from school. I remember looking forward to the treats, which were different every day.
There are ways to write about these kinds of struggles without making it seem as though youre the begging for sympathy. And I think the way you do that is to let recovery be the engine of your story — the narrative device that drives your piece forward and motivates you to want to continue moving forward, too. Healing, after all, involves movement — and a good pair of walking shoes. Its about taking a few steps forward, a couple steps back, one step forward, and so on and so forth. One of my favorite writers, geneen Roth, has a hopeful take on healing, which she explains. When food Is love : Life is what happens as you live with the wounds. Life is not a matter of getting the wounds out of the way so that you can finally live.
How brave should you be? Mom and me in front of our house in Massachusetts after a snowstorm. Ive decided to be brave. For the first time, im publishing an essay about my struggles with eating. Ive thought long and hard about whether I should share something so personal, but ive realized that I dont want to keep hiding this part of my life. Eating disorders are so often about hiding feelings, food and the desire to eat. Part of recovery is admitting that you are struggling and, in doing so, acknowledging that for as much as you try to be perfect, you cant.
My, mom, essay example for Free
My mom can make anything, and its guaranteed to smell good. Theres no way i can write about everything that makes my mom great, but on this day, i want to say: Happy mothers day, mom. Wish I could be there to hug you and smell your newest perfume. Last month, i mentioned that I had begun a poynter course on personal essay writing. My goal in the course was to write an essay about how the death of geology my mother has affected my relationship with food — today and in the immediate aftermath of her death. This isnt an easy subject for me to write about.
For years ive struggled with figuring out how much of my past I should share with others. Ive shared part of it through the essays ive written about my mom, who died of breast cancer when I was. In recent years its gotten easier for me to write about her death and to not put her on a pedestal, as people often do when writing about loved ones who have died. But writing more specifically about how my moms death affected me emotionally and physically is harder, in large part because it makes me feel vulnerable. I ask myself: When you write about difficult experiences youve faced, how much should you share? How do you express yourself in a way that others who havent had the same experiences can relate to?
In a good way. When a chiropractor friend from California gave her some sourdough starter, my mom made sourdough for years. Its still one of my favorite smells. At some point, the sourdough starter stopped starting, but she kept on making bread. Cinnamon raisin, multigrain, white, wheat, oatmeal. When my parents moved to a new city after my sister and I flew out of the nest, my mom got absorbed into a new culture: Lebanese.
My mom is not Lebanese. But she is a fantastic cook. The ladies of the maronite catholic community in her new town took her in and made her a kibbe lady. In between her 15 jobs of piano teaching and playing organ, my mom makes kibbe (a ground meat dish) and kaak (Lebanese cookies made with a date filling). If my husband ever has thoughts about leaving me, he remembers the kaak my mom sends him, and he reconsiders. Its like a sweet insurance policy.
What to talk about in a speech about my mom?
When you hug my mom, you can smell fresh literature bread and her flower garden and all of her yummy meals. My mom cooked more than all the other moms. Whether she was being a stay-at-home mom or commuting almost an hour to and from her full-time job, she would roll in and start cooking. I would stand by the stove and watch her, talking the whole time. Do you know that not once did she ask me to give her some space? I stood by the side of the stove, telling her about my day while she whipped up chicken and green beans and rice or spaghetti or coq au vin or gumbo. One of my childhood friends liked to come over and play with me on Sundays because she knew my mom would ask her to stay for dinner. We always ate in the dining room and used the china my parents got as wedding gifts. Even for the 80s, it was pretty weird.
Thats the kind of mom I have: I have a smell-good kind of mom. My mom always smells really good; Im pretty sure she smells better than all the other moms out there. Enter my moms bathroom, and she has tons of little bottles with varying amounts of perfume. Commercial ones, vintage ones, alternative ones that no one is ever able to find my mom has them. Although she is not a big fan of the computer as a whole, perfume blogging was a revelation to her. Now she can find out where good-smelling people in Europe buy writing perfume. She cant go there, but man, she knows. Its not only perfume that makes her smell good.
what she did? She baked seven tiny loaf-sized cakes and made up some homemade icing while we were at school. When we all got to my house, the whole place smelled like vanilla and cake and Christmastime. We got to decorate cakes and put on sprinkles and eat and laugh.
When I was in kindergarten, i decided that hosting a christmas party would be a cool idea. I liked Christmas, and I liked parties. So i wrote out six invitations to some neighborhood and classroom girlfriends. I even remember calling out to one of them as I got off the bus, dont forget about my party! I had planned the shindig for right after school on some random day, like wednesday. On tuesday evening, my mom got an angry call from one of the little girls moms. She was upset because my mom was throwing a soiree during work hours, and the mom couldnt get her daughter to the party. My mom was mystified. Im holding the invitation right here: Anne is having a christmas party on Wednesday after school.
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She doesnt just smell great. My mom quilts, too. This hummingbird quilt that she made for me has 16 different hummingbirds and 16 different types of flowers appliqued. Perfumes my mom owns: 1 million. Meals my mom has cooked for me in my lifetime: 412,053. Hours we have spent on the phone since i went to college: a lot. Ive resume always liked to plan parties. Unfortunately, my early attempts left out some key elements. Like telling my mom.