Mommy disappears sometimes. No one talks about it. At least not to me. The first time it happened, we were moving to the new house. I was almost five, and Dad said I was big enough to help him take boxes. My sisters came after school, but no Mom. Aunt came and helped us get settled. I worried that Mom was lost but then one afternoon, there she was, sitting in the chair by the window, her long red hair glowing like a halo, and her pale, turkey egg arms, lovingly grasping a small bundle. A baby. She went away to get a baby.
The next time, it happened when I burst through the door, after school, to tell her about my day, only to find some strange lady pushing a vacuum in our living room.
Be a good girl, people said. Be brave.
I didn’t want to be either of those things. I just wanted my mom.
Each time it happened, it seemed to be for longer and longer and eventually I learned about cancer and back surgery and I’d have to be better and more brave. And then came the day that she disappeared in plain sight, locked inside her room, in the dark, not to be disturbed.
I don’t know that I’ve ever been able to process how I felt at those times, but I know that yesterday, when my husband was whisked away in an ambulance to be swallowed up by Covid restrictions, I experienced the repercussions.
While I’m at home, waiting for news on my hubby – seems to be a post-surgical infection – I am stress eating and trying to calm the child in me who is fearful of abandonment. Repercussions of on-again, off-again parenting.
These days long term repercussions are on the minds of many regarding lockdowns, virtual learning, vaccines, attempted coups, etc. While it is not necessary to use the prompt word in your post, the theme should be present.
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