A Letter to my Foremothers

I am not sure if I am weird or not. I will probably find out after I post this. Blame it on my mother’s zeal for geneology, blame it on my Italian roots, blame it on a sensitivity for those beyond the veil. What do I care, blame it on mental illness. All I know is that I feel very connected to my foremothers at random times . Perhaps there is one in particular that I am especially close to. Perhaps I am the favorite decendant of every one of them. Perhaps I watch too much Medium.

I have been thinking of them lately, and to my beautiful, glorious, inspirational foremothers I dedicate this letter:

Dear Grands (all types);

I very much appreciate feeling as though you are with me. I literally feel my spirit quiver with joy and it brings tears to my eyes. There have been many times while holding my newborn babies and rocking sick children in the middle of the night that I have felt that I wasn’t alone and that random thoughts of women who have “gone before” enter my mind. I wonder about you, your struggles and your strength. I wonder if you are proud of me, if you approve of me. I wonder in what ways I am like you and in what ways you influence me every day. I have questions, however, about the timing of some of these feelings.

Take for instance a sure bet activity that will bring such feelings to my heart. Kneading bread. Now, I don’t mean “Mixing up some bread in my bread maker” or “Turning on the Kitchenaid.” No Ma’am. I mean kneading that dough on the counter top by HAND. I feel your loving presence when my brow is sweaty and my breasts are shakin. Why is this? I ALWAYS think of you when I do this. Every single time. Maybe one of you ran a bakery in Italy. Who knows.

Another sure fire time to feel these deceased ancestors of mine is when I am sitting on the bathroom counter with my feet in the sink (so as to get REALLY close to the mirror.) I attempt to poise my head in just the right angle so I can see the whisker on my chin and still see the mirror. This is not easy. I tend to swear. A lot. (Try this at home, all you readers of my blog….like you haven’t already tried it 2 seconds ago.) I hate those black whiskers. And let me remind you that I am ONLY 30 years old. I can almost hear laughter through the veil and if I am not mistaken, that laughter has and ITALIAN accent. How can I tell? I just can.

Similarly, I often feel them with me as I shave my toes. (SHAVE YOUR TOES??) Why yes, in an effort not to be mistaken for a man while standing barefoot in one of those dressing rooms that show your feet, I choose to shave my toes. I do not have blondish peach fuzz. No, I have long black hair growing on all of my toes. Even the baby one. I have stopped wondering if this is a normal thing. Again with that Italian laughter.

The point is that I am glad you are humored by me. I am sure it is from one of you that I received my stellar sense of humor. I am glad you stop by to visit. I look forward to it. I am glad that I belong to you and that you care enough to check in on me.

I love you too.