False Contentment

A mother’s heart is not her own, it belongs to her children. My children have my heart, and they have my personal effects as well. On an atypical day when I’m not working, and as such not in need of my polyester prison wear, I first glance at my closet, unsurprised at the vast cavernous void it presents, then I move on to explore the contents of both my daughters closets and floors. There, I might find clothes, makeup, or any other miscellaneous items that I often don’t remember having purchased. My daughters and I are connected to each other through these stolen items. 

The count down to C-day (college send off), is at three weeks for my oldest, and 5 weeks for my middle child. In preparation, we have been caught up in a flurry of activity as we painstakingly hack away at endless to-do lists. 

Yesterday, I took Thing Two shopping for a single pair of jeans. As we checked out with our nine items, the savvy sales clerk asked us if we shared clothes. Simultaneously my daughter and I offered two different answers; her answer was- “yes”, mine an emphatic- “NO.” I looked at her, dumbfounded. She thinks we’ve been sharing? 

A typical shopping excursion in the past went this way: She would find an item or two she liked, which was what I offered to purchase, and she would exude a false sense of contentment with her items. Then, she’d use flattery and deception to acquire more. “This would look great on you mom, with your coloring.”(also her coloring). “It matches that green jacket you bought last time we shopped.” Hmm, I don’t remember having a green jacket. The reason I don’t is because that which she tricks me into purchasing disappears almost as soon as I hang it in my closet, tags still on. This is her idea of “sharing” clothes. My consolation is that this will come to an end soon enough, when both my girls go off to school. 

The clerk then offers a personal anecdote for us to chew on. She says: “My mom and I shared clothes until I moved 700 miles away.” (heavy dramatic sigh) “Sometimes, I really miss my mom’s clothes.”

“Her clothes? You miss your moms clothes! What about her? Do you miss your mom?”  I ask.

“Well yea, but sometimes I think about a shirt she has, and how perfect it would be for what ever I’m dressing for, and I miss that.” 

Ugh…first she put a knife in my gut, then she twisted. I have been in mourning for the loss of my Thing One and Thing Two since January when the reality started to hit me. My children have been the center of my existence for the past twenty years. My heart is about to be split in thirds— one part moving to the west coast, one part off to the east coast, and I’ll have  only one third of my heart, my son left at home. 

I too have been trying to pass off a false sense of content with my situation. I’ve kept the stress this has caused me bottled up, but it has manifested itself by my body attacking itself. Since January, when my girls decided on schools, I’ve suffered with hives and swollen eyes, due to newly developed contact dermatitis…for the first time in my life. At least this has given me something to think about besides my shredded heart…and it is a comfort to know that my clothes will me missed.
July 8, 2016, One Word Daily Daily Prompt: False~ <a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/false/”>False</a&gt;

15 thoughts on “False Contentment

  1. Lovely post! My girls are ages 6 and 12. When my oldest turned 10 I almost had a meltdown! It was the moment I realized I was at the half-way mark on raising her. I looked back at how fast those 10 years flew and had the hardest time thinking of how fast the next 10 will go by. Best wishes to you and yours!

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.