Where Is Your Mother?

It inevitably begins. The continent selection appears not to matter. The crowd is also not important; albeit family, friends or strangers. The intention is fantastic. The investment is strong. And nurturing. And playful as you are danced away to see new faces, learn new smells, snuggle new shoulders. Sometimes it’s on a hip, or turned outward. There’s always much attention. Petting your attempt at hair. Giggling over your adorable cheeks. Jabbering on about your little dress, hair bow or tiny striped pants. You are immediately invited into the group, added to the mix, surrounded by the community.

And then as the distractions settle, the noise calms, and the conversation naturally returns to others, you look about. Studying this new layer of life. Maybe the window catches your interest. Maybe the sunlight dancing on a chair. But just as inevitable as the visit, you begin to feel a little less comfortable.

You make a little probing peep, which usually results in the universal subconscious bounce. The second peep results in the bobble. The sway. The adjusting of your positioning. The conscious acknowledgement of your cause. Most times it comes with a verbal affirmation. Language choice is irrelevant. Tone breathes compassion.

Time adds to your frustration. You are certain now that this is becoming more overwhelming. You announce your desire to return to normalcy. And your supporter knows they are not said normalcy. As the floodgates slowly open, the moment always hits. They instantly stop the conversation mid-sentence and scan the crowd. It is written plainly across their face as we connect eyes, “Where is your mother?“

The walk is never far. The smells and feelings almost instantly return to your normal. Your funny pacifier-muffled grunts find solace in the safety of your spot on my shoulder. I hear you. I understand and I want to understand. Crossing cultures of any kind is best in small steps. Even if the culture is just another loving shoulder. Another pair of soft arms. Another smile of invitation.

We all get better at it. Time often adds to maturity. Security is slowly found in expanding circles. Freedom is just at your fingertips. Soon you will begin experimenting. And studying your sisters. Mimicking their dances with culture. Their frolicking delights. And their reserved closeness alike. Their reading of invitation. And their creation of normalcy. And oh yes you too, like they, will make an occasional judgement blunder. And find a desire for increased proximity to your safety spot, wherever it has evolved to be. Maybe you’ll return on your own. I’ll find your hand holding my skirt. You will search for my eyes. Sharing a story together to reconnect as you recenter a bit.

The walk is never far. I hear you. I see you. I understand and I want to understand. Crossing cultures of any kind is best when we return to small steps sometimes.

Young birds spread their wings better with open air and a challenge before them. You will rise. You will gain the courage. Maybe just the excitement at first that pushes you to do the unthinkable. To open your wings wide and dare make the first solo flight. And we cannot wait to see you soar. Oh sure, that won’t happen first. First it will look all awkward and feel a bit dangerous. Just like when we first took flight. But we know you will gain muscle memory, coordination and speed. Oh sure you’ll still make mistakes. Miscalculations may send you temporarily sputtering. Maybe you’ll even find yourself crashing down to bleeding knees and a tear-stained face. Those around you will then look up from the crowd. It written plainly across their faces as you connect eyes, “Where is your mother?”

The walk is never far. I will sit with you in your solace. Even when your mistake brings their eyes to look for me. Whether you have just embarrassed yourself or also embarrassed me. You can bring forth your deep hurts. I’ll strive to be a place of safety. Daughter, I hear you. I see you. I understand and I want to understand. Crossing cultures of any kind is tricky. And restoration is best when we return to small steps sometimes.



The walk is never too far, ladies.
I have been reading you from a distance this whole time.
And while I may have nothing more to offer, nothing more to say. Here is my shoulder, my love.
Let’s find solace together.

Yes, the walk is really quite short, precious girls.

See? I am already coming.

*As I told you in the letter I wrote you, ladies, I am not your all-in-all, nor am I trying to be. But I am grateful for the honor to get to be a part of the solution, should you choose to give me the privilege of helping.