History Repeats

I know this is my second post in a week that involves my momma, but, y'all the more I live, the more I see her actions in me. If I tried to tell you that I wasn't turing into her, I'd be lying to you. Ok. I'm not completely turning into her. I'm my own person.

But, as I see myself preparing for my teaching day, I see my memories of her, from 22 years ago, as we were preparing to go to school. My brother and I would be getting into the vehicle with our backpacks, and waiting for Mom, because she had inevitable forgotten something in the house.

I get it now. I shoo my children out the door so that I can lock up behind them. I remember my mom doing that, and then gracefully maneuvering through our yard and into the truck, with a full and open mug of coffee, and a dog weaving around her feet.

I find myself doing the same thing. Our dogs are neatly put away, though. I live in the city as opposed to the backwoods where I grew up. Not a drop of my hot drink spills onto my pretty work clothes. It's usually not coffee--but it is something equally able to stain my clothes. Usually it's a ceremonial grade cacao, because I need all the help I can get to balance my emotions and fuel my body as I'm trying to lovingly interact with my family and students.

Not only do I see the past her and the present me weaving our way to our vehicles with our hot cups of sanity--I mean coffee--but there's also an apple tucked under our chins, a sandwich carefully stowed between two fingers, and the other fingers clutching our bag that we need for the day. The other hand managing coffee and the keys to the house and car. In all of this balanced chaos (that must be a thing, right?) I'm remembering to keep my yoga breath with me. I can't forget to be calm as I'm hustling to make a better life for me and my family.

The finishing overlaying memory of my past-mom and present-me was arriving at school, parking the truck, and glancing down at my coffee cup. I had skillfully driven to school, dropped off my children, and parked without a drop going where it wasn't suppose to go. Now, I rememer my mom staring at her cup of coffee 22 years ago, and I remember the expression I saw on her face. It was probably the same expression I was wearing as I stared at the remaining contents.

I knew the amount of stuff that I needed to carry from the parking lot to the school. I knew the number of doors that I would need to open and the numerous students I would need to navigate through. Was it worth taking that faithful mug with me throughout the day, or should it stay nestled in my car? I remember my mom cracking her door open, holding the mug in her hand, and leaning as close to the ground as possible before carefully pouring out the last bits of sanity onto the ground and settling the mug back into the cupholder.

I could see it all happening as I did the exact same thing. It amuses me to see how history repeats itself, even in the smallest of ways.