I was nine months old when my mother sent my father to the United States for an extra income. He was gone for a year. Even though we lived in Communist Poland, she dreamt about French laced dresses and a designer German nursery for me. She wanted to set aside money for my education at the Sorbonne or Oxford. She had great plans for our future and envisioned a better life.
I was Fifi's age, when she bundled me up in the midst of Poland's harsh winter and pushed me through the city and waited in line, with her ration tickets, for meat and bread. She waited in long lines right after lunch in order to secure our dinner for the same evening. She did this every other day for the years we lived in Poland.
My father returned on a Sunday and my sister was conceived on a Monday. My mother kept the money my father sent and single handling changed our future. She wanted to be in America. Many people were fleeing to England, South Africa, Germany, Argentina around us but my mother felt strongly about America.
With pregnancy hormones raging she announced that once her second child was born we would be escaping the only country she has ever know. Her language. Her family. Her culture. Her everything would be left behind for our future ahead.
When my sister was born the plans were made. We would stay in Austria and wait for our visas. One summer night, my mother dressed my infant sister and me up in layers upon layers of clothes and shoved us in the back of their Fiat. Luggage would be too suspicious at the border, for the borders were frozen and people only allowed to leave for a day.
I can't imagine what my mom must have been thinking as we drove away from her beloved Poland that night. I can't imagine that she slept that night, as she held her two girls in her arms in the back seat of the Fiat. I can't imagine how she felt leaving behind an apartment full of material possessions, a family full of people she loved, and a culture that she was born into and familiar with.
Mama. Kochana Mamusia. You are the most amazing woman. An incredible mother. A wonderfully compassionate friend.
I love you.
Even when you sent me to the first grade in Chicago with toilet paper instead of the "tissue paper" the class list advised.
Even when you sent me to junior high with a goose liver sandwich that smelled up the entire cafeteria.
Even though you called my high school on Senior Ditch day during each class period to check my attendance because you couldn't understand that American kids actually ditched school.
Your tears and sweat created a legacy. I wish to be half the mother that you are and would be so proud of the job that I have done. Mamusia... Happy Birthday! I love you so much Mama.
I was Fifi's age, when she bundled me up in the midst of Poland's harsh winter and pushed me through the city and waited in line, with her ration tickets, for meat and bread. She waited in long lines right after lunch in order to secure our dinner for the same evening. She did this every other day for the years we lived in Poland.
My father returned on a Sunday and my sister was conceived on a Monday. My mother kept the money my father sent and single handling changed our future. She wanted to be in America. Many people were fleeing to England, South Africa, Germany, Argentina around us but my mother felt strongly about America.
With pregnancy hormones raging she announced that once her second child was born we would be escaping the only country she has ever know. Her language. Her family. Her culture. Her everything would be left behind for our future ahead.
When my sister was born the plans were made. We would stay in Austria and wait for our visas. One summer night, my mother dressed my infant sister and me up in layers upon layers of clothes and shoved us in the back of their Fiat. Luggage would be too suspicious at the border, for the borders were frozen and people only allowed to leave for a day.
I can't imagine what my mom must have been thinking as we drove away from her beloved Poland that night. I can't imagine that she slept that night, as she held her two girls in her arms in the back seat of the Fiat. I can't imagine how she felt leaving behind an apartment full of material possessions, a family full of people she loved, and a culture that she was born into and familiar with.
Mama. Kochana Mamusia. You are the most amazing woman. An incredible mother. A wonderfully compassionate friend.
I love you.
Even when you sent me to the first grade in Chicago with toilet paper instead of the "tissue paper" the class list advised.
Even when you sent me to junior high with a goose liver sandwich that smelled up the entire cafeteria.
Even though you called my high school on Senior Ditch day during each class period to check my attendance because you couldn't understand that American kids actually ditched school.
Your tears and sweat created a legacy. I wish to be half the mother that you are and would be so proud of the job that I have done. Mamusia... Happy Birthday! I love you so much Mama.
While Jay took his time reading the directions and examining the box for clues of how to construct, Lola was already half way done with decorating the baby Jesus.
And so dear friends. I am thankful to have three children and to celebrate their differences. I love that Jay, like myself, loves rules and feels comforted by directions. I love Lola, also like myself, loves to follow what her girl heart tells her. I am so blessed with a third child, whom is developing a personality as we speak (and sleeping 11 hours at night), and we can’t wait to learn more about her with each day
