14 Minutes a Day by Anna Martinez (brene brown rising strong .txt) đź“–
- Author: Anna Martinez
Book online «14 Minutes a Day by Anna Martinez (brene brown rising strong .txt) 📖». Author Anna Martinez
Once I asked my mom why she didn’t love me as much as she loved daddy. She responded by telling me that I was delusional and of course, she loves me. Maybe even more since she held me in her womb for nine months. She often told me stories of how she would read to me every night as she lay in bed. She told me how she’d sing to me every morning as she showered. She made sure she ate healthy because she was also feeding me. She got plenty of exercise so I would have a stress-free birth.
And…I would have had a stress-free birth had it not been for my grandparents. They had heard from another relative that my mom had gone into labor and was on her way to the hospital. My grandfather was furious she had not called them and he packed my weeping grandmother into his Chevy and raced to meet me.
My grandparents ran into the hospital, and dashed right past my mother as she was being wheeled to a delivery room. They literally made a u-turn and stopped the wheelchair in motion. My grandfather told the nurse that they will not go any further until his daughter apologized to her mother for not being in contact with them over the last nine months. Well, obviously, my mother refused, which made her mother bawl even louder.
“Where is my husband?” My mother shouted over the chaos.
“We are trying to reach him,” said a receptionist.
“Try haaaarder!” My mother yelled, just as a contraction hit.
A midwife stepped out of an elevator in search of the patient she’d been expecting and noticed the commotion going on in the lobby.
“What on earth is going on out here?” she asked. “We need to get this woman to a bed. Can’t you see this baby’s coming?”
The nurse regained control of the wheelchair and wheeled me and my mother towards the elevator. My grandparents stood stunned for a few seconds, then sprang into action. They ran to hold open the elevator doors, then stepped inside after my mother, her nurse and her midwife. Only 7 floors to go. The entire ride up, my grandfather begged my mother for an apology. My grandmother, through tears, reassured her daughter that if this baby’s father should not show up she would gladly take over as delivery coach. And through all this, my mother…well…she clutched her abdomen, howled in pain and wondered why she’d ever thought I’d have a stress-free, peaceful birth.
My father did arrive…just as the midwife was pulling at my head, trying to get me out. He ran into the delivery room, saw my grandmother cheering my mother on, as if this was a football game, and nudged her aside. He didn’t realize how hard he had nudged until she lost her footing and crash-landed on the floor. He quickly apologized, and reached to help her up, when he heard, “It’s a girl!” Taken by shock, my father withdrew his hand, leaving my grandmother again to hit the floor. He was taken by shock a second time when he noticed all the blood pooled under his wife and it was his turn to crash-land.
Now, I am sitting on the top step just outside my mother’s bedroom. She is crying and for 14 minutes I read the novel I brought home from the library today after gymnastics class.
“Making Daddy Proud”“Mami! Mami! I made it! I made the team!” I run through the hefty front door and into the kitchen, where I’m halted by the sight of my mom and her mother standing at the breakfast bar. They’re obviously having a crucial conversation. My grandmother has an arm around my mom, who has her face in her hands and is sobbing. Great! It’s one thing to listen to her behind a closed door, now I actually have to see it.
My mom wipes her eyes with her hands and says, voice shaking, “What, Mijita? What did you make?”
A little shaken, myself, I reply, slowly, “The gymnastics team. We have a competition coming up in four weeks and only a few were selected to go.”
“That’s great, mi amor.” My mom walks to me and it’s her turn to embrace her daughter.
I glance at my grandmother, wondering why she’s standing in my kitchen, when she hasn’t step foot in this house in nearly a year. She, too, embraces me, letting me know she is very proud. But, as I look up at her I can see that she has been crying, also. She tells us that she has errands to run and she’ll visit soon.
As soon as she is gone, I ask, “Mami, what was that all about?”
“Nothing,” she says, as she heads to the stairs. Suddenly, she stops and turns to me, “You’re father would be very proud of you.” And she headed upstairs, as I went out onto our front lawn to practice back-handsprings for 14 minutes.
“Will Mami Ever Be Proud?”I first enrolled in gymnastics when I was 10-years-old. I begged my mom to put me in a class, but she refused. I once heard a rumor that it was because she had always dreamed of being a gymnast herself, but her parents refused to shell out the cash. They’d told her that it was an expensive hobby and they weren’t going to throw good money away on a curiosity that would only last a few weeks. My mother promised that this would be different. That she really wanted to be a gymnast. Secretly, she just longed to belong to something. She wanted to be part of a team, any team. Gymnastics just happened to catch her interest. Evidently, she was never given the opportunity to prove to her parents that she has potential. That she could be something more than a beer-fetcher.
When my mother denied me to show her my potential, I went to somebody who had faith – my daddy. For over two years, my father took me to every practice, paid for extra private lessons and went to every competition. No matter how low I placed in Floor Exercises , he was always proud of me. My mother, on the other hand, was usually showing a house or meeting with clients during these times. Which, now as I think about it, is okay. I shared those moments with my daddy – alone. Nobody can share those memories with me. And, nobody can take them away.
For the second time this week, as I rush through the back door in search of my mother to give her good news, I stumble upon her and my grandmother having a heated conversation. I duck out before they notice my entrance and race up to my bedroom. A few minutes later I hear the front door crash open and I peer out my window to see my grandmother angrily get into her car and race down the street.
I pull out the letter my coach has given me and carefully open it. The letter is just to inform my parents when the City competition will take place. It also states that if we place in the top three, we will go on to State and maybe eventually Nationals.
I clutch the letter to my chest and take a deep breath. I’ve never made it this far in anything. The highest award I’ve received is 5th place in my middle school’s Spanish Spelling Bee. Not bad for someone who isn’t very fluent.
I hear my mom climb the stairs. I can feel her stop at my door, hesitant to knock. A beat later I hear the door to her own bedroom open and shut. I stick the buds to my i-pod into my ears and for 14 minutes I listen to my collection of favorite songs.
“Mami and Me, Together”“Mami, I need a new leotard…” I shout as I walk through our back door. I’m halted by the sight of my mother seated at the dining room table. She immediately asks me to join her. This takes me by surprise, since she rarely greets me when I walk through a door. She is unreadable, so I am at first apprehensive
She’s going to make me give up the competition, I think, instantly.
“Honey, there’s something I need to speak to you about,” she begins.
Here it goes…why can’t I ever be happy?
“I’m sure you’re curious about you grandmother visiting quite often this week.” It wasn’t a question. She could read me like she could always read my dad.
Before I could respond she broke my thoughts. “Your grandmother found out a few weeks ago that she has Stage I breast cancer…”
She went on about what that means, “The point is that they caught it early enough…”
But, all I heard was, “grandmother...breast cancer…”
“There will be a series of tests…”
My body tightened and my throat closed up. I couldn’t get any words out. I was paralyzed. My head was screaming No! No! No! This is all wrong! How does a 55-year-old get breast cancer? Is this her penance for being an indifferent parent to my mother? Is this punishment for my grandfather being stubborn and unloving to his family? My grandmother had always taken good care of herself. How does this happen? Is my mother next? Am I?
Finally, my body regained consciousness and I tried to run, but my mom is quick. Just as I pushed back from the table she was up and reaching for me. She grabbed
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