excerpts from RAW Moments in this issue

I Am Not My Photograph

By Marilyn Kentz

It was my next-to-the-last day of my week-long vacation and I went out to dinner with a bunch of my high school friends. That evening I had made sure I looked cute. I wore great clothes, had clean hair full of product, great make-up, fabulous jewelry. Then someone took our photograph on her phone. When it got passed around, all I could see was a fat woman with fat arms and fat everything. I did not like what I saw.

The next afternoon I was in Berkeley for one last good-bye to my 22-year-old and her boyfriend. It was the boyfriend's 24th birthday and she had made plans for the two of them to go out to a romantic dinner. Since I had extended my stay by one day, I insisted they keep their original plans. . . no need to politely drag Mommy along.

By 8:00 that evening, it still must have been 99 degrees in her cute little upstairs apartment. The San Francisco Bay Area population expects -- no, counts on -- the morning fog and the evening sea breeze to keep the fresh air perfect in the summer. With our diminishing ozone, I fear this blistering day was only a taste of things to come. And since they always rely on natural air conditioning, there was not so much as a little hand fan in sight. Everything was dripping. I made a mental note to pick them up a big oscillating one.

I waved them good-bye to their celebration and climbed into a cold shower with my underwear on.

Just A Mom

By Peanut Jackson

When I met my six-year-old son for the first time I was speechless. Here was this young boy, so cute and endearing, but so obviously trying to be a big boy. "Come on Robbie" he yelled. "Our new parents are here." With that he disappeared into a hallway. My husband, John, and I turned to each other. "I think that was Christopher" I whispered to him. John, being the stoic thing that men are, just nodded. A few moments later, another figure appeared in the doorway. This little boy was shorter and had the deepest dimples I had ever seen. When he turned, I could see that he had the honor of owning a Harry Potter-like scar on the back of his head. I remembered that he had been hit in the back of the head with a piece of farm equipment several months earlier. "’OUCH’. That had to hurt." I thought to myself. Christopher came back down the hallway and stood beside his brother and they just stared. Seeing that they were nervous, I dropped to my knees and held out my arms. "Hi" I choked out. "I am your Mom." After a moment's hesitation they both flew into my outstretched arms and hung on to my neck for dear life. It was the only time in my life I can remember being choked and not minding it one bit. The only thing that was a bit off was that both boys were completely silent. Much later I learned that they had been beaten for making noise. At that time, I just chalked it up to the emotion of the moment. Even my hard-core husband was moved and came to my side, also on his knees, saying softly, "I am your Dad." Christopher let go of my neck to go hang on his new dad's. Both of us stood, each with a boy in our arms.