• About

l steinauer

l steinauer

Tag Archives: motherhood

From Across the Parking Lot

29 Thursday Jan 2015

Posted by lsteinauer in Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

cancer, motherhood

A little over a year ago, I was trying to buy a house. Not just a house, but a really cute house. One with a curved staircase and skylights and a lush yard of green. It was the first house that my husband and I really liked in a market where nice houses were scarce. So we put an offer on it. But someone else had put a better offer on it and suddenly we found ourselves in a bidding war, pitted against an invisible opponent, fighting for the key.

One hour before I expected to hear back from my real estate agent, I was volunteering at my kids’ school library and noticed another parent who was in the room helping her child. “Do you want to become a library volunteer?” I asked her after the class had left.

“Sure,” she said.

“Just fill this out and we’ll train you.” I handed her a form and a pen.

After writing down her name and phone number, she paused. “I don’t know what to put down for my address,” she said. “Right now we’re staying with friends, but we’re trying to buy a house. My mom is sick and we’re looking for a new house so she can live with us. I’m going to find out about the house today.”

“Where is it?” I asked.

She told me the address of the same house I was hoping to buy. “There’s one other bidder left,” she added.

“Yeah,” I said, feeling like a turd. “Me.”

For a few moments the only sound in the library was the computer beeping every time I scanned a book. “Whatever is in God’s plan,” she said, breaking the silence. “I just leave it to him.”

“Yes,” I said, relieved that she was still talking to me. “Whatever happens, we just go with it, right?” I finally looked at her and we smiled at one another, a silent agreement.

On my way home I called my real estate agent and immediately began sobbing into the phone. “I met the other buyer and her mom is sick. I don’t think I want the house anymore… Her sick mom is moving in with her. I think we should withdraw our offer. Should we withdraw our offer?”

My agent knew my history. He knew that my mother had died of cancer ten years before and I still wasn’t “over it.” So he said all the calming things agents must say to their crazy clients who call while sobbing. He said something to the effect of, “Don’t do anything rash; everything will turn out ok.”

A half hour later, my agent called me back.

We didn’t get the house. I was both disappointed and relieved.

After that, I’d sometimes see the other mom at school. I would smile at her, but she rarely made eye contact with me. I wanted to tell her that it was okay and that I didn’t harbor any bad feelings towards her. But we didn’t exactly know each other, so I just kept smiling, and sometimes I would wave at her from across the parking lot, hoping that she would understand.

Several months later, I learned that she had cancer.

But she fought it and later appeared at school again, her hair shorn short, revealing the beauty of her face that I’d never noticed before. And I was all the more glad that she got that house and not me, because at least she had a home where she could recover and heal in peace. Maybe that’s why, I thought, remembering what she had told me in the library about God’s plan.

This should be the end of my story. And I wish it were.

But life is not always fair. Everything doesn’t always turn out okay. And sometimes cancer reminds us of this.

Her cancer returned with its teeth bared. I heard about it through the school grapevine, so I can’t exactly ask her how bad it is, or if I can help.

She doesn’t talk about her cancer with strangers, and that is all I am.
A stranger.
A stranger who once tried to buy the same house she did.
A stranger who lost my mom to cancer and now shares the pain of her struggle from across the parking lot.
A stranger who wants to hug her children when I see them afterschool and tell them that no matter what happens, they will be okay. Eventually.
A stranger who loves, prays, and fears for her, even though I don’t know her, because in a way we are sisters.
Cancer does that. It breaks families. But it also makes them.

A mother’s whisper

20 Thursday Dec 2012

Posted by lsteinauer in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

gun control, motherhood, Newtown, parenting

A mother’s whisper

In 2009 two women, Donna McNamee and Abigail Sicolo, lifted a 1,400kg car off of a little boy who was trapped underneath. Afterwards the women were shocked that they’d managed such a feat. But this is an old story, a story reenacted countless time through the centuries. Upon seeing a child’s life in jeopardy, mothers tap their inner Hercules and, in Donna and Abigail’s case, start throwing cars around.

With two young children of my own, I will long remember the Newtown Elementary school shooting. And as I sit in my living room, whispering to myself that this must never happen again, I know I’m not alone. I can hear the same whisper from every state, every town, every living room. And the whisper grows louder.

A woman pulls up to her child’s elementary school, feels her chest tighten, and for a moment does not want to open the car door releasing her child into the world and its looming uncertainty. Across the country, the mother feeding her baby puts down the spoon to wipe her eyes after having watched tiny coffins on TV with the sound turned off.

It’s not just mothers who feel this. It’s fathers, grandparents, aunts, uncles, caretakers, and more. The feeling lingers with us all, sitting between our ribs, simmering.

Another week will pass, and then three. Those of us who didn’t know the victims of this crime will continue on with our lives. Gun sales will spike, and the NRA will come up with some carefully devised tactic for self-preservation.

In the silence following last week’s shootings we could feel the howl of mothers and fathers who had lost their babies. This howl resonates in each of us, transforming us, reminding us of our communal responsibility to protect every child from becoming a victim of violence. And to our children we say, “We won’t let this happen again. We promise you.”

There are over 85 million mothers in America, a group typically too occupied with taking care of everyone else to make their own noise. We are the quiet lioness scanning the horizon for strangers while our children dance like butterflies in the tall grass.

For now, we pace and wait, knowing the call will come for meaningful change in gun control. And when it does, we will answer with a deafening roar.

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 490 other subscribers

Recent Posts

  • From Across the Parking Lot
  • Sifting Through The Ashes of Berkeley Family Camp
  • Reaching Through the Looking Glass
  • The Birds, the Bees, and why I lied about Santa
  • The Zen of Querying with an Aquarium

Archives

  • January 2015
  • August 2013
  • April 2013
  • March 2013
  • February 2013
  • January 2013
  • December 2012

Categories

  • Uncategorized

Meta

  • Register
  • Log in
  • Entries feed
  • Comments feed
  • WordPress.com

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 490 other subscribers

Blog at WordPress.com.

Privacy & Cookies: This site uses cookies. By continuing to use this website, you agree to their use.
To find out more, including how to control cookies, see here: Cookie Policy
  • Follow Following
    • l steinauer
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • l steinauer
    • Customize
    • Follow Following
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar