My Poor Mother

Raising an Indigo Child is always an adventure. They are strong willed, way too smart, opposed to authority, and incredibly psychic. When asked why she didn’t want more children, she would reply, “One is enough,” and she meant it. She still enjoyed it, and told me that when I decided to incarnate, she jumped at the chance to be my Mom. She was a mystic in her own right, and I am grateful to have had her guidance.

She used to occasionally attend a meditation circle, and I was allowed to accompany her, provided I would draw and color quietly while they were in session. Worked for me – the energy was fabulous, everyone was quiet, and I never had trouble entertaining myself. After a few of these sessions, I had to ask why the teacher dressed so poorly.
Me: “Why does Dee always wear purple and green? Doesn’t she know they clash?”
Mom: “She wasn’t wearing any green, only purple.”
Me: “No, she always wears that green shall.”
Mom: “That wasn’t clothes. I think you’re seeing her aura.”
Me: “Oh. It still clashes. Someone should tell her.”
I was about 5.

One of my Mom’s friends had one of those creepy, old houses with the staircase that takes you right to the center of the upper floor. To the right was my destination, to my left, in the very end room were a pair of glowing red eyes. Not cool. When we went home I told my Mom about the eyes. She said, “It doesn’t surprise me. Kasey uses her Ouija board in there, and I’m sure she’s not careful with it. Just don’t go in there.” Done. I was 6-ish.

When I was 4 I received my spiritual mission, which is a whole story by itself, but I thought it happened to everyone. Several years later, I started to realize not everyone was given this kind of direction. I hadn’t shared the experience because I didn’t know it was unusual. I was 4. You learn to walk, you learn to read, you get your mission from God, you start Kindergarten. Made sense to me. When I shared it with my Mom, and asked her if other people were given their mission, she just got all pale and shook her head. Huh. Who knew? I was probably 8 or 9.

After we moved into our new house, I invited a couple friends for a sleepover. Typical tweens, there was giggling, and screaming, and ghost stories. But the thing was, we could hear the ghost walking in the attic. We named him Harry. In the morning we told my Mom about Harry, and his footsteps. She got all faint and had to sit down. Apparently the old man who had lived there, and recently died there, was named Harold. He was around the whole time we lived there, pacing in the attic, and rattling the closet doorknob. I slept with a knife and a bible for a couple years.

When I was 16 my Mom and I were on a long road trip. It was night, she was driving, and I was asleep in the backseat. Out of a sound sleep, I sit up and shout, “Watch out for the rabbit!” It sounded like this:
Me: “Watch out for the rab–”
*thump* *thump*
Mom: “Damn it! Too late, go back to sleep.”
I went right back to sleep. This was just our normal by then.

Ah, the joys of raising an Indigo. This is only a small sample of the trauma my Mom endured during my childhood. I feel incredibly blessed and eternally grateful to have had such an amazing friend and guide as my Mom. May your soul rest peacefully and your light shine eternally, Mom. Maddie Robertson 1946-2010

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