Absent Mom Quotes

Not that I'm bipolar, but that I'm two people, and not just two people, but two people at odds with each other. The mom and the kid, the homebody and the explorer, the strong and the weak, the logical and the emotional, the funny and the sad, the angry and the calm, the open and the closed, the loved and the hated, the hot and the cold, the alive and the dead, the beautiful and the ugly. It's exhausting. I. Am. Exhausting.

Some kids tell me their parents are never at home. How I wish. I never have a minute to myself, except in my room. Our back yard is no escape. Every time I sit by the pool, Mom is at the kitchen window doing this and that. Always watching.

I wondered: Did mom and Darren hurt us more by what they did or by what they didn't do? Which wounds us more-the hostile presence or the absent kindness?

few months back. It’s been a longer turnaround than usual—typically he’s kicked out once a week or so. And with good reason. Mom says he doesn’t help the family enough, he’s always late from work, he’s probably cheating, he’s not interested in his children, he’s an absent father, etc. The fact that he’s gotten by this long without being

Here was what I wanted to happen when I walked through the door after my first real date and my first ever kiss. I wanted my mom to say, “Dear God, Meg, you’re glowing. Sit and tell me about this boy. He let you borrow his jacket? That’s so adorable.” Instead, I came off the high of that day by writing a letter to my dead brother and doing yoga between my twin beds, trying to forget my absent mother.

The few times we do spend together stick out since they don't happen that often. Like when Dad was able to come to my eighth birthday party at the public swimming pool - the first birthday party of mine he'd been to in a few years due to his work schedule. He gave me a birthday card, which he had never done before. He spelled my name wrong on the envelope.

I’m sorry he was a loser, Nina. But you’re a big girl now; you can handle this.” And with that she hung up. Nina sighed and wondered if she would ever be a mom herself and, if she were, would she be any better at it than her own mother was. As a child, Nina had been sad her mother wasn’t there, because everyone else seemed to think it was sad. Then, as a teenager, she’d been angry with her absent mother and blamed her for her own anxiety and shyness. Now, as an adult, she’d come to the conclusion that her mother being away all the time had probably been a blessing. Her nanny, Louise, had been a wonderful mother, and her mother had been a wonderful photographer. Biology is not destiny, and love is not proportionate to shared DNA.

Mom would take me to church and say, Can you feel it, baby girl? Isn't it glorious? I tried to feel it. I did, I swear. I reached for it, squeezed my eyes shut as tight as I could and begged for it. I pretended I was stretching my hands out into the darkness behind my eyelids, fingers splayed wide, trying to find even the barest touch of something out there in the abyss. To feel the warmth Mom always assured me was waiting once I accepted God into my heart. There was nothing. Always nothing. Maybe that's how it's supposed to be. Maybe you're not supposed to feel that touch-maybe it's always been a metaphor. God is an absent parent who demands loyalty despite never coming around, and I just have to keep throwing my prayers into nothing and trust He gets them. Or maybe I am just too broken to feel Him in the first place.

Mom and apple pie are potent symbols, venerated in our national psyche but neglected in national policy, as reflected, for example, in our meager family leave policies in comparison with other developed countries. If we were really serious about mothering, we would provide more financial and in-home help as well as education for mothers. As it currently stands, mothers are held up on a pedestal with little support beneath them.

There I was, in black and white. My entire being of weirdness, easily explained with bullet points listed under both “Signs of Adult AD(H)D” and “Signs of Adult Giftedness.” Double trouble. Twice fucked, as I like to say. Getting diagnosed was definitely a mixed blessing for me. On one hand there was a nicely packaged reason for all of the things I felt were wrong with me. On the other hand, it was comparable to a mental-health death sentence. I used to say to my mom, “It shouldn’t be this hard…it isn’t this hard for other people…this isn’t normal.” I used to think I could just fix myself away with my little self-improvement plans. I still do, actually—a different one every week, but getting that diagnosis meant I could do all of the self-improvement plans available in the universe, and I would still come out as messed up as I went in. No improvements for me. Sorry, Charlie. Shit out of luck, my friend. I’ve always felt misunderstood. Though I was never at a loss for friends, I was always told I was weird, which I was totally OK with. Weird

What is it that a child learns who is subjected to abuse? The answer is simple; lots of stuff, very little of which is helpful for later adaptive functioning. They learn that the world is dangerous, unpredictable, harsh, rejecting, and unresponsive. The punitive voices, to which they are exposed, get internalized as their own. They quickly learn that bad and painful things happen because they are “bad.” Therefore, if they were better, such things perhaps would not occur. They learn to blame themselves for the pain in their lives. A little kid will never have the following conversation in their head: “It’s a shame that Mom and Dad are bi-products of dysfunctional family conditions in their own childhoods. Their behavior towards me is a byproduct of their unconscious reactivity to unfortuitous conditioning events that took place in their own lives, and that I serve to reactivate painful conflicts and emotions stemming from their own early development!” I am quite certain that this conversation or its equivalent has never taken place in a child’s head. On the contrary, children blame themselves for the negative circumstances that occur in their lives. They learn to feel that “If I was bigger, stronger, smarter, prettier, or whatever, then such things would not occur.” The child learns that their lack of acceptance by their parents must be a function of their own unworthiness and thus strive to become something “better” in order to gain the love and security that is otherwise absent.

I wondered: Did mom and Darren hurt us more by what they did or by what they didn't do? Which wounds us more-the hostile presence or the absent kindness?

I got up from the table and stepped to the cabinet above Mom's mixer, absently brushing off a layer of dust as I reached up. I found the jar I needed, musing that it was probably years old and tasteless---but still worth a try. "What are you doing?" "Hang on a sec." I clenched the jar in my fist and shook the spice into my hand, pinching a bit across his lasagna. "What's that?" "Trust me, it's just what it needs---a touch of earth and sweet to temper the tomato's bite. With fresh tomatoes you need less as summer approaches and they develop their own sugars. Taste it." He took a bite. "It's fantastic. What'd you add?" "Cinnamon." He didn't recognize it? "Amazing. I'll have to tell Mary." "Tell her a touch of milk tempers the acidity as well." "Interesting.

I crunch the assigned reading in my shaking hand, an article titled “Dan Quayle was right.” It argued that children raised by single moms were destined for failure. Joined by my fellow students, we argue that our lives are not limited by our absent fathers. The teacher laughs awkwardly and backs away from our arguments. “For God’s sake, don’t take it personally.” The cardinal sin of women and oppressed people everywhere: taking their lives personally. - S.A. Williams

How did you two meet?” she asks. She tilts her head to the side. Something tells me that she already knows the story, but her husband has set aside his Blackberry and is listening now. Emily looks up at me and blinks her pretty brown eyes. “I went into his tattoo shop to get a tattoo.” She grins. “And he put the moves on me.” She nudges me in the side. “Can I tell them what happened next?” I can feel her laughter against my side. “She punched me in the face, Mrs. Madison.” I reach up and absently stroke across my nose. “He tried to put the moves on me, and I was angry.” She shrugs, but she’s still laughing. “I’ll never forget the look on his face.” “One minute I think I’m going to get to spend some time with a pretty girl,” I say. Emily squeezes my hand when I say “spend some time” because we both know I tried to lay her, just like I used to do with every woman I met. “And the next, she breaks my nose.” Emily laughs. She tugs my sleeve until I look down at her. “You never tried that move on anyone else, did you? After that?” “You cured me of that particular move,” I say. I laugh because it’s funny now. It wasn’t nearly as funny then. It fucking hurt. “Was it love at first sight?” her mom asks. I look down into Emily’s eyes. I was intrigued by her the moment I saw that tattoo she wanted. There was so much in that drawing that made me want to get to know her. But she wouldn’t let me. “It was almost instantaneous for me,” I admit. Trip jabs a finger toward his throat like he wants to make himself throw up, but I think I’m the only one who sees it. “It took me a little longer,” she says.

Jimmy drags the report across the table and spends a minute reading it from beginning to end. “Same old story,” he says. “Dysfunctional or absent parents, no discipline, no supervision, lousy friends and worse acquaintances, drugs, and now death.” He pushes the folder away in disgust. “Remind me again why we’re killing ourselves to help people who couldn’t tell a good decision from a bad one if it slapped them in the face?” “Because life is a vast wilderness where it’s easy to get lost,” I suggest with a humble smile. “Yeah,” he snorts, “but it’s only a vast wilderness if you ignore the giant signs that say STAY ON PATH.” He flicks a wrist at me. “Aren’t you the one who always says we get what we deserve in life, good or bad?” “No, that’s my mom.” “Same difference,” Jimmy says,

Time passed differently for Mom. She lived inside her own schedule, forgetting the existence of anyone not standing directly in front of her. But when you did cross her field of vision she latched on hard, flipping from absent to overbearing in a second. There was no third mode. Eva had long since learned to avoid speaking to her mother on the phone. Both she and Anja had generally learned to use her father as the go-between, but Anja still gave in, in moments of weakness, reaching out to make sure her mother was still alive.

In response to her son, Sam Lamott, who said, " My Mom will start at 'A' on a question and just end at 'Z' so if we can get a time cop for like five minutes, do a timer, then we'll get out of here a lot earlier." Anne Lamott replied, "Well he's also worried that I don't make sense. I think in terms of tangents, and that's what I love, and those are the singers and the writers that I love, and the poets. I love to start with one thing, start with some leaves in the garden, and kind of trip out, and go, really far, into where we go, and we are...that's how I think. I was a spaced-out child... I was this way at six. I was spaced-out, and I was absent-minded, and maybe was long-winded, and I had all these tangents going. But that's what story tellers do, Sam. You have four or five balls in the air, and or three or four of those plates, you have some plates in the air, and that's what a good novelist is doing, keeping the plates in the air.

Momentarily, I could forget the sorrow of my absent daughter by being the daughter who was present.

Once you uncover your storyline, I encourage you to take these two steps: First, walk through the original drama, but give it a new ending. Change the story, and you change your energetic system—and your neurology. Second, rewrite the characters. In your life play, replace the needy mom with a giving, kind one. Instead of an alcoholic, absent dad, give yourself a super-supportive one. Your workplace dramas will shift as your internal script does. Having rewritten your story, you can formulate an intention for attracting and maintaining supportive work relationships. After all, success really does depend on being open to serving others and receiving help in return. Design an intention with your long-term heart’s desires, not just the next step, in mind.

Dear Goodreads diary, Thanks for receiving me all this time with hands wide open… Thanks for being patient to listen to all my gibberish. Still, I gotta go now. I’ll be absent for some time… But I want to tell you one last story… 2 years ago, a little boy came to me and asked for my help. He was desperate and tired of his life. He asked for my friendship and I was reluctant to accept his offer. I’ve always denied his emails or text messages. I know that boys are BASTARDS, though he looked like a little bird, lost and without wings…The way he talks in missing and dreams, oh GOD I wanna forget about all… it disgusts me each time to remember that he didn’t respect that I’m a conservative girl and tried his ways on me even though I’ve always asked him to stop it…. I mean, I’m 5 years older than him…. His father got sick. They reaaaaaaaally needed help. Though I’ve always known he was a “bastard” like everybody else, I couldn’t possibly leave his mom’s calls unanswered when she always asked for my help. I’ve been through all they’ve been through. I couldn’t give up on them while I knew how much it means to stand for someone who’s been tested for his father. I’m an orphan. How could I possibly walk away? + Our dear Prophet (PBUH) would never treat a misdeed with a misdeed…I’m a girl who loves GOD…I wouldn’t be as mean as him… Still, each time he was acting like bastards act. That meanness I can read in his text messages. That DISRESPECT…. I knew he used every possible memory for his ulterior motives. I kept silent for two years…I knew he was making a show… I mean even if he wasn’t making it because he saw something in me (that everybody saw, not only him), he would be making a show for his friends … Still, I’m not the one who would leave a friend in the middle of the dark…at one point in time, I called him brother…. hhh…. Thought maybe if he knows that I’m his older sister, he’ll think that the way he talked or the things he asked are things you only ask from a girlfriend and not me… he persisted…. I tested him once and he like a fool fell into the trap… I knew I should walk away even if I’d hear that his father would die… I spent whole night throwing in my disbelief…. How could people be so tricky…I’m 5 years older…. Eventually, he made his show… Thank GOD, a colleague… a mouthy colleague… started talking about everyone at school including me and him…that was heaven’s door wide open for me. Though 14 years ago, my friends started talking about me and another boy, I wouldn’t leave him for the world because I knew he was a decent boy… This time, I dived in… One month later, he came into my class not caring what my colleagues would talk…That made me sure that he wants to carry his show over… You know diary, what kills a person the most is not death. Hurt can kill…deception can kill…not apologizing can kill… Bad memories can kill…and I didn’t want to leave him with bad memories…I sent my last text message, told him to fulfill all his dreams and said goodbye…. Still I’ve never felt relieved… I texted him again, faced him with the facts, he thought he fooled me again….I said sorry and goodbye… forever…I waited for some time and then I quit my job so they don’t understand a thing about my motives… I spent two amazing months home; that I would always remember because they’ve changed me a lot…They brought me back to life again…But when I came back, all the bad memories came back again… Dear diary, I know you’ve got tired of my complaints, but I have nobody else to talk to the way I talk to you… I need to forget all the bad memories he left me with… I know I CAN, but I need some time away from you…Even though he’s like a “tafcha” in my life now… still, I have to forgive him… I’m not someone who would spend her time hating people…People like me talk in books and ideas in their social networks… Wait for me diary…I’ll be back…

Wilf’s mom nodded absently as she opened another container. “That’s fine, hon. Oh, and you can tell your dad, too. He’s supposed to call Tuesday.” “Yeah, great,” Wilf said, heading off down the hallway. He closed the door behind him and immediately turned on the old laptop his dad had given him when he came through town the last time. Wilf’s dad had always traveled for his job, so he’d never been around that much even when he was living with them. It wasn’t all that different now that he and Wilf’s mom had split up. Still, it would’ve been nice to hang out with him sometimes instead of just talking on the phone every other week. Wilf smiled to himself. His dad would’ve gotten a kick out of that fancy car. Wilf just wished he didn’t have to wait until Tuesday to tell him about it. Wilf flipped his new debit card in the air while he waited for the laptop to boot up. There was a whole city

You would.” She was, after all, an excellent mom. Busy, for sure. Scatterbrained. But that never mattered. After Dad, what I needed wasn’t someone who’d come to my meets, memorize dives’ names, pack me nutritious lunches. Vandy’s mom is a little absent, huh? I once overheard, bored parents gossiping in the stands. But that was dumb. Barb was there when I needed her, always, without me having to ask, ever. She put me first in any meaningful way. Reminded me that adults could be trusted, that they didn’t have to be scary and unpredictable—they could protect and nurture and allow freedom.

If I'd done something as egregious as being absent on my mom's last day, for something as trivial as a swimming competition, then swimming "had to" be the most important thing in my life, right? It was the only way I could forgive myself. I "had to" win, and suddenly, I "couldn't". In the span of a few weeks, I gained seconds on every single race. There was no physical reason for me to be so slow. ... And I did step back. The Olympics happened, and I didn't watch them. I traveled. Spent time with friends. Above all, I let myself mourn my mom, and acknowledged how fucked up it was that for some twist of fate I hadn't been able to say goodbye. And when I felt ready, I went back to the pool. But only after I'd proven to myself that I didn't "need" to swim to be whole. I didn't go back because it was expected, or because I wanted to make someone proud. I did it because I didn't have to win anymore. I "wanted" to.

The hallway of the house in Salogó was no mess of my mom’s paints but a tangle of sequins, gowns with butterfly sleeves, also called terno or mestiza, everything always had multiple names, and pumps with bullet heels. With the intensity of an artist, my mom became Tio Nemorino’s election manager, as if her transference of skill, from painting to politics, possessed value in equal measure. My favorite image of this time is a glossy picture of my mother about to lead the dance in a gown of black tulle, I liked the femme-fatale profile, her look of a vampira in the ballroom—I liked her shocking look amid the pastel dancers. In the picture, she’s in some barrio hall, in her well-sprayed bouffant, her terno in that uncommon black, and high heels, her foot in the air about to take her first step, the entrada, and she is looking at no one in particular, at an absent demonio, who knows if in her mind it was at him, the bastard, my father, though the picture tells me she had no worry but the dance, she glanced in a side-view pose like an actress, Ingrid Bergman, Ingrid Bergman, and then we’d ride home in the mud through Salogó’s farmlands until the next election event. How many times have I been at a party with my mother, overwhelmed by our family’s public face—this need for voters to love you. I used to wake up at night after those election dances and crawl over to her bed, put my ear to her chest, and hear her tired breathing, to reassure myself she was still who she was, and not the vampira of TEIPCO.