Bryden-Brown - Stories ive only told my mom

edited by SarahBryden-Brown

First published as anebook by Momoir on Smashwords

Copyright SarahBryden-Brown 2011

Smashwords EditionLicense Notes

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Cover design by ErinLoechner www.designformankind.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dear Mom,

It was Tuesdayand I think I was seven. I know it was Tuesday because I waswearing my day-of-the-week underwear and we both know how dutifullyI relied on my unmentionables to celebrate the passage of days.

I dont knowthat I was seven for sure. They didnt make undergarments for thatsort of thing.

I told you Iwanted to be a receptionist when I grew up. I had seen a classifiedlisting for a receptionist in the newspaper that afternoon while wesnacked on Little Debbies Zebra Cakes (my favorite) and WalnutsBrownies (yours). Im not sure where my sisters were -- probablyplaying basketball at the neighbors house like normal children. Iliked to read newspapers and eat treats littered with high fructosecorn syrup, watching you grade your students English essays andcircle typos with a red Papermate.

You peered overyour Sally Jesse Raphael style glasses and smiled. A receptionistfor whom? you asked.

It hadntoccurred to me that this mattered. I would be typing, talking onthe phone and greeting people daily. I would be The Gatekeeper OfThe Office. The Hostess Of The Lobby. The Fixer Of The Fax Machine.Every day. And I would get paid for it! $17,000 dollars. Everyyear. What else mattered?

Who you workfor always matters, you answered as you corrected a 4th gradersmisspelling of the word tomahawk.

Do you remembersaying that, Mom?

It changed mylife.

I did,eventually, as you know, become a receptionist for a high profilemusic executive in Los Angeles. I was paid much more than $17,000 ayear and was, indeed, The Gatekeeper Of The Office. But after fourmonths of collating concert paperwork and babysitting SharonOsbournes countless canines, I remembered your words.

Who you workfor always matters.

I quit thatday, Mom. Somewhere between paper cuts and expense reports, I knewI wanted to live my life with integrity and do work that mattered,for someone who mattered.

Someone likemyself.

Since that day,Ive had many odd jobs as I attempted to supplement an income thatcould support the life I wanted to live --- inspiring creativeartists, designers and writers to pursue their dreams.

As you inspiredme to pursue mine.

And along theway, I never accepted a job from someone that I didnt believe in,and in doing so, created a professional life of integrity. Yourwords of wisdom on that Tuesday have shaped the way I presentmyself as a business owner, entrepreneur and writer.

I am now,proudly, The Gatekeeper Of Encouragement. The Hostess Of My Life.The Fixer Of Un-Inspired Souls.

Thank you,Mom.

p.s. Want toknow a secret? I made exactly $17,000 working for myself that firstyear. Dollar for dollar.

p.p.s. I lovedevery Tuesday of it.

I grew up in avery wholesome family. We didnt eat sugar cereal or watch too muchTV. We went to church. And sometimes on weekends we took hikes orbike rides together as a family.

On one of thesebike rides, when I was in fourth grade (it had to be fourth grade,because fourth grade was when I was best friends with SherryHamlisch, who is instrumental to this story) I began feeling alittle saddle sorethe way one sometimes does after riding aten-speed with an unpadded seat for a long time.

My father andbrother were up ahead, so I took the opportunity, while ridingalongside my mother, to share my plight with her. Not because I wasin so much pain that I wanted to turn back and go home. And noteven, really, because I was looking for sympathy.

No, what Ireally wanted was a chance to try out an exciting new word Idrecently learned. A word that I assumed my mother, being a woman,knew (although Id never heard her say it) and that seemed like itmight be a kind of secret password to adulthood.

She would hearme say it, be pleasantly surprised, and begin to think of me notjust as a little girl, but as a girl on her way to becoming ateenager and, eventually, a woman. Our relationship would shiftinto a new, more grown-up phase and she would start to let me in onthe secrets of womanhood: Makeup and periods. Bras anddeodorant.

And so, I saidit:

Mom, my pussyhurts.

Her reaction tothis wasnt exactly what Id hoped for.

Janey! shecried, nearly swerving into a parked car. She didnt sound angry,exactly; but certainly shocked and maybe slightly bemused. Wheredid you learn that word?

I cantremember what I said in response. I almost certainly did not tellthe truth, which was that Id read it in Sherry Hamlischs bigbrothers Hustler magazines, which wed found underneath hismattress when I was at her house several days earlier.

I probably saidsomething more like, I heard someone at school say it. And I toldherthis, I rememberthat I thought it just meant, you know,vagina. (Didnt it just mean vagina?)

It did, mymother told me. But it wasnt a very nice word for it. It wasntthe kind of word little girls were supposed to use for it.

Which left meright back where Id started: A little girl. And now, anembarrassed one. (Whose pussy still, incidentally, hurt.)

We never talkedabout it again. And nearly thirty years later Ive still neverasked my mother about the incident. Does she remember it? Did shetell my father what Id said (ugh) later that day, and did theyhave a chuckle about it? Their sweet little girl, using thatpornographic word.

My mother and Idid, inevitably, have talks about bras and periods and all therest over the next few years, but I always found them awkward. Iwas old enough by then to realize that pubertyand talking aboutitwas messier and more clumsy than simply being led by the handinto the exotic, perfume-scented world of womanhood, as Idimagined it would be that day on my bike.

My mother didher best. God knows she did much better than I imagine her prudish,old-fashioned mother did with her. Mostly, the awkwardness was myown. But I do wonder if, had things gone differently that day on mybike, I might have been less hesitant to talk about things body-and sex-related down the road.

My daughtersare only four years old, and they ask questions about their bodies(and other peoples) without a trace of inhibition. Its a lovelything. And I am doing my best to respond to all of their questionsand requests (Mom, can I feel what your boobs feel like?) withkindness and honesty. I am making sure they dont feel ashamed oftheir bodies, or ashamed of talking about them.

And I hope thatif, when theyre ten, they surprise me with a choice phrase likethe one I uttered to my mother, I will have the presence of mind tosuggest we pull off to the side of the road and have a good chatabout itwoman to someday-woman.

Wow, thats areally grown-up word, Ill say. Hey, want to hear about somethingI said to my mom when I was your age?

Actually, Ivenever told my mom anything, at least not since I was seven yearsold. My mom died of breast cancer when I was in first grade. Myteacher almost held me back that year. He said I never paidattention in class and was always staring out the window.Thankfully my step-mom intervened and I was promoted to the secondgrade on the assumption that I would make up whatever crucial firstgrade material I had missed along the way.