Stay-at-Home Mom Career

While other girls were dreaming of their Senior Prom, finishing school, and going to college, I was dreaming of having a baby.

After I got married, of course. I’m from the old one-room school with outside toilets; light years before premarital sex became acceptable.

Actually, I wasn’t even thinking about how babies were made. I just wanted one.

Call it maternal instinct. Call it insanity. I just wanted a baby.

To hold in my arms.

To love.

To protect.

To fight to the death for.

Finally, on a blissful, Sunday morning, four weeks before my delivery date, my dream came true. My tiny baby boy was born.

It was a bittersweet moment. My husband wasn’t with me, holding my hand and telling me everything would be okay; that our baby would pull through in spite of the doctor’s doubt and our baby’s breathing problems. We separated two months before our son was born.

Four years as a single mom and no child support was tough. I worked. I scrimped. I barely made ends meet.

I cried a lot.

Worried a lot.

Slammed doors a lot.

But I never stopped loving and caring for my son.

He was the reason for me to keep going.

Then one evening, at the least of romantic places . . . a service station, I met my Knight in Bermuda shorts, wire-rim glasses, and yellow button down shirt.

It was not love at first sight.

Nor was it love at second sight.

But as time went on, I fell in love with the gentle giant and married him. How could any mother not love the man who loves her child as she loves him.

Although I continued working to supplement our income, my heart was ever longing to be a stay-at-home mom.

Several long years of misery in the working field, I convinced my husband that we wouldn’t starve to death if I quit my job to stay home where I belong.

As with anything, unless you’re super rich, there were sacrifices. We couldn’t afford designer clothes and trade cars every year. We didn’t go on cruises or travel the world. Sometimes a simple trip to the beach was out of our budget.

But the trade-off and the investment we made in our son was worth all the luxuries in the world.

This morning, nearly five decades later, I sat reminiscing about my life. Suddenly, I felt a twinge of regret that I hadn’t done this and hadn’t achieved that and asked myself, why?

Then I remembered.

I smiled.

My stay-at-home mom career was worth all the PhD’s in the world!

Daddy’s Little Girl

Shrouded in mystery he lives in a world of solitude

His crypt-like silence frightens her

Confuses her

Intimidates her

From the shadows she studies him

Ever wondering

Ever searching for a glimmer of love in his eyes

But like a corpse he never looks her way

He doesn’t even know that she’s there

She feels invisible

Worthless

Like a discarded rag doll

But forever lost in a solitary place

He doesn’t see her tears

He doesn’t hear her heart breaking in two

 Shivering against the freezing cold of isolation

She builds a fortress of anger around her heart

She no longer wants to sit on his lap

To feel his strong arms wrapped around her

To hear him call her daddy’s little girl

She wants to fight him

Hurt him

Make him pay

And she does only to hurt herself in the process

It will be years before she learns this though

Years of striking against the phantom of her own soul

Years of chasing the wind for answers that didn’t exist

She is old now and like an unfinished novel

The mystery shrouding her dad remains unsolved

But in her wisdom she embraces the harsh reality of life

Her heart is no longer enslaved to knowing the answers

Or wishing her dad had been the dad she wanted him to be

She learns to forgive

To love and accept him as he was

And in her own heart of solitude and mystery

she is and always will be daddy’s little girl

~Sandi

Market Street

Market Street

Market Street

 

Market Street

Wilmington, Delaware

Spending time with my grandmother was like Christmas. Although I enjoyed the peace and quiet of the outskirts of Newark, Delaware, I looked forward to the hustle and bustle of automobiles, buses, and smells of the city in Wilmington. That’s where I learned to roller-skate, jump rope, and play hopscotch with my city friends. That’s where I’d skip ten blocks to the Dairy Queen, or hop next door to the bakery. That’s where my grandmother would cook my favorite stuff, like apple dumplings, fluffy egg omelets, and fried tomatoes and gravy.

I always stood in awe of the old, two-story Victorian boarding house where my grandmother lived, with its huge parlor, quaint little kitchen, and lovely glassed in front porch. The few elderly people who lived there were always warm and friendly and a joy to talk to.

But my most favorite things were hopping the city bus with my grandmother, sitting on my favorite seat, and spending the day on Market Street. I never knew where to feast my eyes first; on the farmers in their overalls and straw hats, the candy and toy shops, or the cute little bunnies for sale.

I could hardly wait for my grandmother to finish squeezing tomatoes and melons, and asking for a pound of this and a pound of that so I could go to the Five-and Ten-Cent store. That’s where I always picked out a car or truck to take home to my brothers.

Without skipping a beat, we’d visit the candy shops and cookie shops, clothing stores and shoe stores. From one end of Market Street to the next we’d shop. By the end of the day I was hot and tired, my knee-highs were around my ankles, and my long, flowing red hair was damp and plastered to my head. But my ninety-pound, seventy-five-year-old grandmother showed no signs of wilting. Not a hair out-of-place; not a wrinkle in her dress; not a sweat drop on her face.

My adolescent mind concluded if you want to stay young and fit. . . shop on Market Street!

 

 

 

Yesteryear

 

Bluebird Garden

Yesteryear

 Has it really been that long ago

that I was but a child

Was it yesterday or the day before

I was running free and wild

I’m sure I heard my mother laugh

and daddy walking in the door

And didn’t I just catch a glimpse

of my brothers playing on the floor

I know I can’t be dreaming

It seems so very real

I felt mom’s touch I heard her sing

I saw her preparing a meal

There’s Barbara bringing in firewood

and stacking it on the hearth

And mom’s clearing off the table

and gathering dishes to be washed

Then suddenly the memories fade

like ashes in the wind

and leave behind a dusty trail

I can never walk again

But tucked away within my heart

Are memories I hold dear

Of another life another time

Another yesteryear

Sandi Staton