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O-D-O-O dot com. This is Lee Habib and this is our American Stories. And all show long, we are celebrating Mother's Day. Stories from the past, stories from our listeners. Stories that are beautiful, some that are a little sad.
And you're going to hear it all. And from multiple points of view, multiple generations and from men and women, because my goodness, the impact of a mother on sons and daughters is profound. By the way, we want to hear your stories, your Mother's Day stories, your mother's story. Send them to our American Stories dot com.
That's our American Stories dot com. Up next, we have Winter Prosopio, an author from Texas, bringing us a story from a moment of motherhood. Winter has been writing her whole life.
She writes essays about life, motherhood, and is currently a humor columnist for her local daily. Here is her story entitled, Curls. It takes a full 20 minutes to comb through her curls. I sedate the riot of hair with handfuls of slick conditioner and sit just outside the tub on her yellow footstool.
Combing through the long black strands that spring back into ringlets after every pull. I never imagined I'd have patience for this before I had children. When I think back to my life before my daughters arrived, I can't remember doing anything quite so methodical as mothering. Nothing has ever been as demanding of skills I didn't possess.
I've never faced so many moments when I was at the end of my rope, where I was driven to shouting to shouting at another human being, at my own child, only to apologize later, much too late, much too little. The comb catches in the thick nest of twists and turns and I pull her hair slightly. She rarely protests when this happens. Genetics must tie the curly hair gene with the tough scalp one.
This genetic combination did not include the gene that extends graciousness with curious strangers however. Her naturally curly hair draws compliments everywhere she goes. Strangers come up to her with hands extended trying to touch the spirals framing her tiny face and black eyes.
Only a few get away with it. Most times she warns them off with a staunch no touch, her arms crisscrossing her head in a protective shield. Still strangers reach for the curls in restaurants, on sidewalks, in doctor's offices. I'm lucky I can touch them every day.
We sit in the quiet bathroom. She's focused on her floating toys, I on untangling, smoothing. I've become such a different person since I had children. I've become quieter, more careful, more aware of small moments. I'm acutely aware of the chasm between my friends who don't have children and my friends who do.
I've leaped the canyon, never sensing the moment my feet were in the air. Only a few closest friends jumping with us as honorary aunts and uncles. Now I understand why I never saw people once they had their children, why they stopped calling, how they disappeared into thin air. I recognize the way the strange wild space grew between us with every step their children took, toward solids, toward school, toward adolescence, toward leaving, toward never really being gone.
Across the vast chasm I see my childless friends moving on quickly as I sit here, still sit here, time turning in on itself so I can see both ends of it, beginnings and endings, all wrapping around my fingers. I risk a higher starting point on her head thinking I've worked out most of the knots, but it's no good. I'm back to the thick tangle, prying the teeth of the comb with it. She turns, looking for something.
The cloth has slipped back in the tub. I hand it to her wordlessly. She takes it without a glance and returns to her cups that need filling. My father, a veteran of many wives, always said he would never marry a woman who hadn't had children. They are too selfish, he said, and I wondered as a single woman in those days how selfish I was.
When he married a woman with three young daughters, my stepsisters, I wondered if he would be able to share her with them. I lean back for a moment, feeling the dull burn in my back, and clean the comb out. The fine black hair, slick with the conditioner but still twisting, coats my fingers as I brush them off onto a paper towel.
Stretched out, a single curl is long enough to reach her waist, yet it will bounce back to her shoulder when it's dry. I've never had her hair cut, nervous that the metal will somehow break the bonds of this miracle flowing from her crown. Before they were born, I never really noticed children before. Now when I meet them, as I'm out on my own, in an office when someone brings her son, in a store when four-year-olds abounds into my path, I stop purposely. I kneel before them, look into their eyes, and say hello. They smile, usually, recognizing some universal quality I've gained.
Or maybe I just look silly, crouching like a frog. All the tangles are out, and I take great pleasure in running the comb through her hair again and again, separating strands into perfect spirals. She looks up at me.
She looks up at me. All done? No.
Never. Yes, baby. All done. And a terrific job on the production by Faith Buchanan, and a special thanks to Winter Presapio for her work and for her storytelling. And my goodness, it's more than just work, raising a child. It's a passion.
It's an avocation. And in the end, there's no greater and higher expression of love. I've become such a different person, she said, since I had a child. I'm quieter, more patient. And then she talked about that chasm between people who have kids and people who don't. I never noticed children before, she said.
Now I stop purposely when I see them. And she described how she kneeled and how the kids either recognize that she recognized them or that she just looked silly. Winter Presapio, her story about her daughter's curls. Our Mother's Day special continues here on Our American Stories. Folks, if you love the great American stories we tell and love America like we do, we're asking you to become a part of the Our American Stories family. If you agree that America is a good and great country, please make a donation. A monthly gift of $17.76 is fast becoming a favorite option for supporters. Go to OurAmericanStories.com now and go to the donate button and help us keep the great American stories coming. That's OurAmericanStories.com. You don't want vacation to end, but with Amex Platinum, it doesn't have to just yet. You can sit back and relax at the airport with Centurion Lounge access. And because you earn five times membership rewards points on prepaid hotels and more, book through AmexTravel.com, your trip to the beach and back can take you somewhere different next time.
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