sashamitzie-blog

[sashamitzie-blog]

Yesterday was my birth mom’s birthday.

I love my birthday. It’s my favorite day of the year- July 1. It’s summer, halfway through the year, and it’s just the best day. This past year I hosted my own birthday party, with a little canopy, tables of food, lawn games, and pictures of me hanging from all ages. I invited 100 people (only like ten showed) and even though it started raining at the end, I took a nine pm swim with the friend who stayed late. Birthdays are a big deal for me.

Which is why September 2 is so hard. My birth mom and I had a great relationship until I was 5 when I lived with her, and then no contact for 12 years. When I was 17, I started googling her, and at one point one of us reached out online to the other and we rekindled a relationship. I was getting to know my mother again, which is what I always wanted. 

She came up around her birthday when I was 19 for a long weekend. When that went well, she asked to come back the week I was supposed to give birth (late October). I loved the idea and we made a plan. 

The most awkward part was telling my Mom that my birth mom was staying with me that week, but after she thought about it for a day, she decided to come meet her. I was terrified when my birth mom ran down the stairs at the end to talk to her alone, but supposedly she just thanked my mom for doing such a good job raising me. 

Just me. Nothing about my brother.

Since then, we talked periodically online for a few years, but at some point she deleted her Facebook account and all contact was lost. I haven’t spoken to or heard from her again in five years; I tried to send her holiday cards for the first few, but because she moved so often I lost track of her address.

I bought myself a chocolate cake yesterday for lunch. Not to celebrate her, but to comfort me. To remind me I am worthy of good things and people who care.

[sashamitzie-blog]

The time my brother was(n’t) kidnapped

When I was about 9, my parents put our house up for sale so we could move to the US. I had only been with them for two years, so I was fairly comfortable/ at home with them but still very paranoid about losing my brother. 

One day we were sent outside to play (this was normal in the 90s). We lived at the last house on a dead end road in a very small town. I was mad about something that day, so I was playing by myself near the house with my barbies. However, my brother was four years younger, and even though I was mad I kept looking over to make sure he wasn’t hurt or anything (he was playing in the yard closer to the road). 

At one point, I looked up and saw a white panel van at the end of the driveway. I checked on my brother; he was quite close to the road at this point, so I kept looking over to make sure nothing happened. I wasn’t entirely sure why the van was there at the time, since it was a dead end road, but just kind of let it happen. 

I got distracted for maybe three minutes, and when i looked back up, the van was driving away and my brother was nowhere to be found. I ran around the house calling his name, but he didn’t answer.

I was entirely positive he had just been kidnapped. 

I storm into the house frantically yelling for him, and he’s still not answering. I felt so guilty; I should have kept my eyes on him while the sketchy van was parked out front! What was I thinking! 

As I neared hysteria, my mom came out of her study and I tried to explain through tears in a panic that my brother had just been taken, we had to call the police, get in the car, chase after him! It took a minute for my mom to understand what I was saying.

I swear she laughed. She tried to explain to me that my brother was inside; he came in to use the bathroom. I said there was no way; I was playing by the door and didn’t hear him come through or open or close the door. She walked me to the bathroom so I could hear him answer when we spoke through the door.

I still have a hard time believing it.