Rock-A-Bye

And The River Wider Than a Mile

When I was little, whenever there was a time where I couldn’t sleep, my mom used to sing a song. It was called Moon River. For whatever reason, in its magical way, it always worked. She’d run her fingers through my hair, and sing so lightly and quietly there was hardly a tone in her voice.

Growing up, I found that she was always there. She was at everything I did, helped me whenever I needed, she drove me to and from school when I was in elementary, or any other place she needed me to go.

There’s so much that we’ve done together, and so much that we talk about. She knows me better than anyone does, or ever will.

I’ve come to realize that there is a point where something, or someone, is in your life so much that in a way its almost like you forget its even there, or how important it is.

Like the air that you breathe. Or the phone in your pocket.

Or the moon.

***

My mother works in a creative field. She’s a writer mostly, although she’s been doing a lot more now with public speaking and podcasting.

After she was widowed she took out multiple different jobs and side hustles so that she could make ends meet for my sisters and I. She has so many contractual and freelance jobs that I honestly could not tell you how many she has.

You would never know how much she has going on, since she always keeps a calm complexion. I’ll take one look at her planner, see there’s more ink than paper, and think to myself, “Could not be me”.

Somehow she’ll still have time to be social with her friends, check in with me and my sisters, and watch an episode of a television show in the evenings. I don’t know how she does it.

I consider myself one of the most privileged people I know. She makes my family’s life so easy, and so great, that I forget I have to write statements of financial need. Or that there are things out there we can’t have right now.

But who needs them anyway?

***

We are nation obsessed with fathers. I’ll look at our elections, our CEOs, or our intellectuals, and I see so many fathers.

Why?

Every man gives his last name to his children. Every woman’s last name is her dad’s.

Why?

I liked to think of myself as some sort of exception to this, at least in some way. I thought that I got it. My whole family is women so I grew up in a living space dominated by them, and yet I’ve still spent so much time thinking about the death of my dad.

There are stacks of his shoes in boxes in my closet. They don’t fit me, there’s no reason to have them. I played his old guitar for a while, before we decided it should go to my sister. I wore his backpack to school, the one that said “Come in, We’re Open” on the back, which so many knew me for. The book T-shirts I wear, like the red one that says “Mike Mulligan and the Steam Shovel,” or the green one with Charles Darwin’s “Origin of Species,” are his. The ring I used to wear was his second wedding ring to my mom (my parents both lost their originals).

Since I’ve spent so much time obsessed with how my life would have been different with my dad, I don’t always outwardly appreciate it as it is right now, with my mom.

So many of the decisions I’ve made have been praised by friends, family, or those who’ve observed. So many of these decisions I’ve made, were done with my mom’s advice. People call me wise sometimes, and it means a lot to me, but so much of that comes from her.

You’ll praise my writing, sure, and I appreciate the praise. I’m also sure you wouldn’t have to guess who does the proof reading. It’s the same person who’s the first to read this, and the one who tells me what I can do better.

Because behind every man, who gets his picture hung on a wall, his name on a plaque, and a chapter in a textbook, is a mother who was instrumental in getting him there.

***

I wouldn’t be who I was without my mom. She’s the one who taught me how to think the way I do, to write the way I do, to be the way I am.

She espouses the most brilliant things, and gives me whole new views on things I thought I understood so well. I owe my optimism to her.

She taught me to look at the nuance in everything, and to seek to understand where everyone and everything is coming from. She taught me that the one thing all people want is to be seen, and feel like they are valid. I don’t know how she found all of this out, but somewhere along the line she did.

I really wish that everyone could hear all the things she has to say.

***

I sat in the quiet under the sky. It was dark, and the only things I could see were the stars and the moon. Before this moment, there was never a time where I stopped and looked at the moon. I realized I’d never really thought about how beautiful the moon is.

The perfect circle, that’s exactly the same size as the sun (at least it looks to us that way), and it's perfectly consistent. Every 28 days, in every phase, it's always there. It shines on us, but its brightness is overlooked by our streetlights and cars.

We need it for the tides, for our ocean waves. The moon keeps us alive.

My sisters and I sometimes poked fun at our mom because she always loved the moon. Whenever it was full in the sky, or if there was a supermoon (especially if there was a supermoon), she’d freak out. She’d send pictures, running across the house telling everyone there to go outside and look at it.

Until relatively recently, there was never a time where I really stopped, and looked at the moon.

Maybe its because we’re all so focused on the sun. Or maybe its because of the fact that the moon doesn’t always stay the same, living in different places of the sky in different shapes and sizes.

The moon feels very human to me.

***

It’s taken me so long to write this piece. I wanted to start with a memory. A strong, clear, and true memory that could help illustrate my relationship with my mom. After weeks I’ve given up. I can’t think of a strong clear memory, because there’s so much there I couldn’t single anything out.

Thank you mom, for everything.

And thank you to every mom,

who teaches, who gives, who loves.

Who makes us who we are.

I appreciate you.