That sudden POP in your mind when it all makes sense. An "Aha" moment. In one brief second, you switch from confusion to clarity. Your eyes open up and you can see the "big picture".

This happened to me when I realized my parents were human beings. Don't laugh. I honestly never considered them as human. My parents were one dimensional icons of my youth. They weren't suppose to cry or be afraid or have self doubt. I saw them through a distorted lens - like, I think, most adolescents do.

As a child, my world was very limited. I didn't think very far beyond my immediate surrondings or circumstances. That's why things hit me so hard when I was young. Because I couldn't see past them.

I remember the only time I ever saw my mom cry. It was just after she told me she had cancer. I have very few clear memories of my youth - but this one is as crystal as they get.

It was raining that day. We were at my grandmother's house in Alabama. I knew something was wrong because everyone was so quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that means noone knows what to say.

My mom took me into the living room, sat me down, and said - very matter of factly - she had pancreatic cancer. And the doctors didn't believe she would live very much longer.

I was crushed. All of the air suddenly vanished from the room and I couldn't breathe. I ran outside on the porch and turned up the music really loud on the radio.

I didn't want to hear my thoughts.

I started crying. I don't think I've ever cried that hard since that day.

I wanted to scream but I didn't have the energy. It was as if every ounce of motivation I had was focused on not withering away.

I don't know how long I was there standing in the rain ... but I felt a hand on my shoulder. My mom turned me around to face her.

At first I though it was raindrops .. but, when I looked at her, I saw that they were tears. She was crying.

I remember thinking "My mom is crying. I can't believe my mother is crying." The poor woman just found out she was going to die - and I couldn't understand why she was crying.

I thought my parents needed to be perfect. They had to be understanding and courageous and moral and wise. It was in the job description. Being a parent meant that you had to know all the answers to all the questions all the time. You couldn't mess up or make wrong decisions. And you could never, ever be afraid.

I guess I thought that making babies magically made you incapable of failing.

If that were true, the Jerry Springer show would be far less entertaining.

So, I'm in the shower last night sudding up and pondering life. I do my best thinking when I'm bathing.

I'm thinking about an email I received from Stacey, an old friend of mine. She was my best friend from the time of my birth till I was fifteen years old. Her mother and my mother were best friends. So it was an expected friendship - conveniently made to order.

Unfortunately, our friendship ended on the day of my mother's funeral. During the wake, my drunk uncle called Stacey's mom "fat". Because of this, she wouldn't allow Stacey - or the rest of her family - to attend my mother's funeral. I even called her to beg for them to come. Her mother hung up on me.

I was livid. Even though I didn't blame Stacey, I told her that, as long as her mother was in her life, I could have nothing to do with her family. As far as I was concerned, they were dead.

As the years went by, her mom tried to make it up to me. When Stacey's older sister got married, they sent me an inviation. Which I returned. There were numerous Christmas cards and Birthday cards - all of which, once I saw the returned address, were sent back unopened.

Finally, they stopped. And, for years, I received nothing.

Until one day, out of the blue, Stacey - after doing an internet search to find me - called to invite me to her wedding. Ten years had gone by without a word - yet she didn't feel right getting married without me.

I was touched and told her I would come.

Then the day of the wedding came and I froze. The anger I had for her mother was still there. I couldn't bear the thought of seeing her. I hated her all over again.

So I didn't go. Which makes me a big loser.

Fast forward to about a couple months ago. I'm looking through my baby book and I come across pictures of my mom at around my age. Suddenly, I don't see her as a "mom" but as a 27 year old woman.

Full of the same doubts and insecurities and fallacies that I am.

She was a human being just like me. Being a parent didn't make her a god ... it just made her a mother.

Also, I came across a Strawberry Shortcake birthday card Stacey had written to me for my fifth birthday. It said "I berry much like you". She had signed her name in that shaky, big, lopsided way that five year olds write.

It made me think about Pam, her mom. Yeah, she screwed up. She didn't come to my mom's funeral. But maybe it wasn't because my uncle called her "fat" -even though that's what she said. Maybe it's because her best friend had just died and it simply hurt too much. Maybe she was scared to see her like that. Maybe she thought, if she did, she couldn't go on.

Maybe Stacey's mom was a human being and, as we humans have a tendency to do, just royally fucked up.

Hey, it happens.

Anyway, I wrote an email to Stacey apologizing for my stupidity for not showing up at her wedding. I also told her that I wasn't angry at her mom anymore. That I had grown up and realized that we all make mistakes. And that, since I'm not perfect, I shouldn't expect her to be either.

My email was about three years too late. I didn't think she would respond.

But she did. Very sweetly, I might add. She said that she wasn't angry at me. That she understood. And her mom understood too. They knew that I needed time. They didn't think it would take a decade ... but they would have waited regardless.

I wish that I could always see past the blinders I put up that prevent me from seeing things as a whole instead of only the itty, bitty parts that pertain to me. Maybe that's why we grow older ... so our blinders will become smaller. Until, eventually, we can see the world as it was meant to be seen:

Completely.

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