I woke up this morning before anyone else. I looked at the digital clock on my side table and it said 5:45. I laid there for a few minutes more contemplating on getting an extra two hours of sleep, or indulging in something for myself.
I did the latter.
Let me preface this by saying we have a huge soaking tub. It's so big that I'm able to fit myself, my husband, and Libby and Lucy in it at the same time. Usually that's what happens, two, three or four of us get in the tub and quickly soap up together to get the day going. But today was different. Today I started out being selfish and running a bubble bath for myself.
I lit candles (Midnight Path from Bath and Bodyworks-my favorite scent ever), put on some Train, and brought out my thick terrycloth robe with the duck appliques. I filled the bath with bath salts and of course bubbles...all in my favorite scent. I set out my favorite body butter for after the bath, much like the icing on the cake. I slipped in, let my head fall back on the bath pillow and closed my eyes. By the time I opened them it was 7:10 and the water was tepid, at best. When I got out I scooped a big scoop of body butter out of the tub and stood in the mirror rubbing it all over myself. I don't know why I stood in the mirror. I guess the egotistical part of me likes to see me naked. The real part of me likes to see my naked baby bump, which I paid much attention too during this rare ritual. After I was lotioned up, I combed my hair and put it up in a messy bun since I knew I wouldn't be moving much from the bed today. I wrapped myself in my fluffy duck robe and sat back on the bed. At this point David turned to me and said "Hey stranger, I thought you might have left me for another man." Without missing a beat I said, "I did...Pat Monahan. He had my heart at Meet Virginia." :)
There's something about slathering myself with lotion and wrapping myself in a soft robe that brings me back to my childhood. My mother often bathed my sisters and me all at the same time and once we got out she slathered us in Curel and wrapped us in big fluffy terrycloth robes. Pink for me, Blue for Ashley, and Green for Amy (all of our favorite colors). I have no idea why she used Curel, but it was the only lotion ever allowed in our house. Whenever I use it now, the familiar almost non-existent scent brings back fond memories of bath time and my mother's hands.
She had somewhat rough hands, with always trimmed bare nails. When my sisters and I were younger she stayed home with us so there was a lot of dish doing and child bathing. As soon as my younger sister entered the first grade she went back to teaching (which used to be her profession until becoming pregnant with my older sister in 1984.) She was the happiest she'd been in a long time.
In actuality, her stay-at-home-mom days were few and far between. She had bipolar and once my younger sister was born she was in and of hospitals until I was in the 6th grade. She tried to commit suicide 8 times, often running away in her car before hand to (in her words) "lessen the pain for her girls". I was a selfish little kid and was mad at my mother for being what I thought was "crazy". I was mad she couldn't come video tape me during parent's day at dance class. I was mad that she almost missed my 10th birthday, but she got out of the hospital that night. I was mad that me and my sisters were different, our mom wasn't there all the time and since our dad worked, we had to ban together.
Don't get me wrong. My mother was amazing. My sisters and I always had amazing birthday parties with mounds of presents. We had great Christmases with wonderful food and fresh baked cookies. We were, in fact, what looked like a normal suburban family. We were very good at keeping our problems behind closed doors.
I was 5 when I first remember my mom trying to commit suicide. She took my dads gun and locked herself in her bathroom. I didn't know it at the time, but I sat on her bed waiting for her to come out to put my hair in curlers. I had no idea she was sitting in the bathroom with a gun, ready to end her life. When my dad, my grandma (who lived 30 minutes away) and our local priest came into the room I knew something was up. So I went into the room that I shared with my older sister and put myself to sleep. I remember putting one sole curler in my bangs. When I took it out that next morning it didn't curl my hair, it just left a big crease in the middle. I decided a big blue bow would look good so I pinned my bangs back and waited for my mom to take me and my older sister to school. That's when my dad told us what happened. His words still ring in the back of my head to this day. "Amy, Amanda, your mother tried to kill herself with my gun last night. She's in the hospital, and we don't know when she'll be back."
I'm sorry, but what kind of parent tells their five and seven year olds that their mother, the person they relied on the most, tried to kill herself? I'm still angry at my dad for using those words and seeming so nonchalant about the entire situation. And I was even more pissed that my Grandma (my dad's mom, my mom's mom lived in Arizona at the time) came over that morning and coddled me and my sister and said "It's okay, grandma's here, I'll be your mother when your mom is gone." Shut the fuck up, lady. You're not my mother. You're old, wrinkly, and smell like someone poured and entire bottle of Estee Lauder Beautiful all over you. You may make some mean pierogi's but you sure as hell aren't my mother and I'd take her hamburger helper over your pierogi's and kolacky's any day.
Like I said above, the last time my mom went in the hospital was when I was in the 6th grade. Every time she tried to kill herself was different. Twice she slit her wrists (where I believe I got my behavior from). Once she was in a manic state and tried to rob and bank when it was closed then ran into the middle of a busy highway trying to get hit by a car. Once she tried to run her car off the road, only to realize that the guard rail was too strong for her chevy cavalier. The other four times she either tried to overdose on pills or tried to suffocate herself. Each time she went in the hospital, it was the same schpiel from my father "Your mother tried to kill herself (this morning, yesterday night, this afternoon, etc...) She's in the hospital and we don't know when she'll be back." Que Grandma coming over and weeks of uncertainty and bitter children picking fights just for fun.
As soon as my mom was released from the hospital the last time I knew she wouldn't be going back. There was this glow to her that was almost angelic (later I found out it was because she had just received electro-shock treatment) but I tried to believe she had a revelation of some sort and God was bringing her back to us, to mother us and love us. To cuddle with us and read us bed time stories. To bathe us and slather us in Curel and wrap us in fluffy terrycloth robes.
My mother ended up receiving electro-shock treatments for the next year. Once every six weeks. I truly believe those saved her life. She still takes anti depressants, but has never tried to kill herself again. She's never been hospitalized and she's able to lead a normal, very productive life in her community.
I make it a point to slather myself in Curel whenever I go visit her. She still has a pink fluffy robe for me, too.
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