On Having it "Never Be Okay"

My mom, Eleanor, circa late 1990s.

I'm not really sad anymore on Mother's Day, which sure is a refreshing change from all those teary, Woe is me, let's have a glass of wine at 1 p.m. Mother's Days of years gone by. It's been fourteen years of not having a mom here and by this time, having my mother to fuss over and take out to brunch and buy peonies for just feels completely foreign and "other" to me. It just isn't my reality and hasn't been for a loooong time. 

I plug along. She is in my thoughts some days but I'm almost surprised to admit (and a little ashamed) that on many she is not. There was a time I don't think I could have ever imagined that I would honestly write that sentence. But there it is.

And then the other day I read this, by Cheryl Strayed:

"It will never be okay," a friend who lost her mom in her teens said to me a couple of years ago. "It will never be okay that our mothers are dead."

...Our moms had been dead for ages. We were both writers with kids of our own now. We had good relationships and fulfilling careers. And yet the unadorned truth of what she'd said--it will never be okay--entirely unzipped me.

It will never be okay, and yet, there we were, the two of us more than okay, both of us happier and luckier than anyone has a right to be. You could describe either one of us as "joy on wheels" though there isn't one good thing that has happened to either of us that we haven't experienced through the lens of our grief. I'm not talking about weeping and wailing every day (though sometimes we did that). I'm talking about what goes on inside, the words unspoken, the shaky quake at the body's core. There was no mother at our college graduations. There was no mother at our weddings. There was no mother when we sold our first books. There was no mother when our children were born. There was no mother, ever, at any turn for either one of us in our entire adult lives and there never will be.

And that's the truth. It will never be okay that Eleanor never got to meet Ellie. That she never got to eat scrambled eggs with Leo or push a ridiculously giant double stroller housing two (two!) wailing newborns down our treelined New Jersey street. 

 

And it will never be okay that my mom never go to meet Erin, but I will always be so glad that in a brave moment during one of our many afternoon phone calls (she in Oregon, me, away at graduate school in New York City) I decided to tell her about this new person that I'd only been dating for a handful of months. And because of that, for the rest of my life I’ll have a printed out email from my mom that says simply, "I'm glad you have Erin." Boy, was she right.

And the fact that it's not okay? Serves as a counterpoint to all the unbelievably wonderful and beautiful things in my life: Leo's hugs, and the way he throws his arms around my waist and holds onto me with his very soul, Ellie's witticisms and the way she will just look at me in the middle of dinner and say "Can we snuggle?" Harry's chocolate brown eyes and the way he leans in to give me a sloppy kiss and then declares, "That's a juicy one!" Lucy's blonde ringlets and watching her drink milk from a straw and eat peanut butter and strawberry jam with as much satisfaction as one would garner from drinking a glass of Pol Roger and eating Malpeque oysters. 

There is just so much beauty and joy and grace and hilarity in my life now, that the "not okayness," feels somehow easier and harder (if that makes any sense at all). Easier because I'm so busy with all these children! And my life is so full! And yet, she's missing all these children. And all this fullness. But. That is just the way it is.

 

There are so many things my mom and I never got to talk about. I was twenty seven when she died, and at that point, becoming a mother myself was the farthest thing in my mind. Who knows if I'm right, but to this day, I think one of her greatest worries for me was that I would never become a mother.

Of course now we all have a good laugh over that one. I hope my mom is laughing too.

Another Year Without Her

Mom and me in Paris, 1998. She was 48, I was 25.

Today is my mom's birthday. She would have turned 63. Another year gone, another birthday she never got to have.

I know. You've heard this all before. Believe me, sometimes I even bore myself. But there it is.

I'm not grieving anymore. Grief sounds raw and active. What I feel? Is just a giant, ugly, gaping hole. Yes, it's a hole I've learned to live with. But it's there. Because she's not here. Because she's missing all of this.




Mom and me in Amsterdam, 1999. This might be one of my most favorite pictures of all time. I think it looks like a movie still.

There are just an innumerable amount of should haves and could haves. And as much as I can shrug and mumble It is what it is (because, well, it is!)...well...

She should have been able to meet her grandchildren. She could have had so much fun. I miss her friendship. I miss her advice and counsel and perspective. I miss her sense of humor and her ability to provide levity to almost any situation. And selfishly? I could really use her help. I often see adult women and their children out with their moms at Target or the park or just walking down the damn street, Grandma holding the hand of a toddler, Mom balancing another child on her hip and probably a shopping bag or two...they might even be snapping at each other.

I can't even. I just can't imagine.

And I'm still really mad that she's gone, on another birthday. And I'm still really sad.

She's missing Leo's solar systems and bear hugs and Lego masterpieces.

She's missing Ellie's baking and tea parties and fairy drawings and her blooming sense of humor (that she undoubtedly inherited at least somewhat from Grandma Eleanor).

She's missing Harry's sloppy, open mouthed kisses and his unbridled love for seltzer (seriously, that guy hears me making a bottle with my Sodastream from across the house and he's by my side in seconds, with arms outstretched).

She's missing Lucy's paragraph long diatribes about how she's "NOT going night-night" and "Where is [her] princess book" and "[her] shirt! Is! Wet! Please! Take! It! Off!"

Thirteen years later and it still seems unimaginable to me that my mom could be gone.

And yet. It's just as unimaginable to me to consider her being here. To think of what it would be like for her to be in the same room with all of these people that she never got to meet.



Make no mistake. I am grateful every single day for the wonderful family I do have. For the loving, supportive partner and the four crazy, but delicious children. In quiet moments, I've been known to wonder, is this the Universe's way of making it up to me? For attempting to fill the Giant, Gaping Hole? (I know, as if the Universe has nothing better to do).

I think of her more when I need her more. For a few years, I seemed to deal with her absence more gracefully. Distracted by the overwhelming responsibility of adjusting to having two small children, I was almost perpetually distracted.


This was the face my mom used to make when she was about to explode into laughter. She was known to fall victim to a serious case of the giggles. She could be so silly sometimes and it was one of the many things I loved about her. 

But the kids are getting older and new questions are arising. Tougher questions than just How long do I wait before giving Tylenol if I've already given Advil? (Besides, we have Dr. Google for that now). And so I've been thinking about her more recently, as I seem to do when things feel particularly overwhelming. I long to pick up the phone and ask for her counsel. She was the logic to my tendency toward over-emotion. She was the "Lighten up!" to my doomsday.

In short, she was my first "Everything Is Going to Be Fine."




And who doesn't need one of those?

Since losing her, I've had to internalize that reassurance (and of course, draw on the support of Erin and friends). And most of the time, I do a pretty good job of it, I think. The older I get, the calmer I am. I have more perspective and a better ability to prioritize. What's really important? What's worth getting upset about and what's better to shrug off? Things have a way of working out, my father once wisely reminded me, when I was dealing with some crisis that I can't recall now. When I   really wished I could have picked up the phone and also talked to my mom.  It's a phrase I remind myself of often, because it's true.

Except for, you know, cancer.

***

A few days ago I was rushing to the bank before work and as I stood in line I read an email from someone very close to my mom. I had been musing about my mother's upcoming birthday and noted that she'd been on my mind more than usual lately.

Eleanor is missed more than I can really say, he wrote.  Not a day goes by that I don't think about her.

Yes. That.

For some reason, those two simple sentences resonated (and of course, cued the waterworks). They resonated, and also, I think I was overcome because it's so rare that I come in contact with someone who knew my mom. Oh sure, she's in my heart and all of that. But in my day to day life? It's almost as if she never existed at all.

As I reached the front of the line at the bank, I looked away from the email and stuffed my phone in my purse. My eyes glassy and brimming with tears, my face hot and flushed. Of course, I had no tissues.

"Is it allergies?" the teller asked, sympathetically. Yes, I lied and so began her treatise on the best allergy medications. And at that moment, I was very grateful for allergies and little white lies.


Mom and me, sleep away camp drop-off, 1983 

Happy birthday, Mom. Wishing for an afternoon shopping with you at Nordstrom, and plenty of prosecco and chocolate raspberry cake.

Here's to you, with so much love.

On Grandma Eleanor's "Joie De Vivre"

My mother taught me many things.

Among them:

1. Try to take a walk every day. The fresh air does your mind and body good.

2. Sometimes the best meals come out of what you happen to have on hand in the cupboard or refrigerator.

3. It's never too late (she remarried at 46 and went to Europe for the first time when she was 47).

4. Life can be short (sometimes, heartbreakingly so). It should be enjoyed, whenever possible.

The last lesson was inadvertent--she probably never realized she would teach me that one. But watching your forty-nine-year old mother take her last breaths has a way of putting things in perspective.

***

For a long time, I denied myself. Subscribed to nonsensical rules like If I don't eat breakfast, then I can eat dinner. During high school I managed to spend an entire summer vacation working in a cookie shop and never once ate a cookie (I was afraid once I started I would never stop). For years, I spent too much time standing sideways, not liking what I saw, squinting angrily at my reflection and adding up numbers in my head, of calories and scale digits. It was exhausting. Who knows why all those years I didn't think I deserved certain things: Breakfast. Chocolate chip cookies. Love.

My mid-twenties were a particularly disastrous time, as they are for so many. I suffered through a series of brief, painful romantic relationships (one so ridiculous it ended via email, on New Year's Eve, to boot--I cringe just thinking about that). My dear mother seemed to make it her pet project to see me through this time. She was particularly concerned about me on the weekends and would start calling me early Saturday morning to make a plan. Did I want to meet at the mall? She would take me to lunch and surely there was something I needed at Meier & Frank.

If we didn't meet during the day and I had no other plans, she'd insist on taking me to dinner. Though it was a little humiliating to be several years out of college and spending Saturday night with my mother, I told myself as long as I didn't run into any of my friends (unlikely at the finer restaurants she and my step father  frequented) it would be OK.

Some days I would hardly eat anything all day, knowing my dinner that evening, with my mom and stepdad would include things like fresh roma tomatoes and buffallo mozzarella; handmade mushroom gnocchi and red wine. Plenty of red wine. And of course, dessert.

One Saturday night dinner in particular stands out in my mind. It was Valentine's Day, and I must have been about twenty-five. Valentine's Day dinner with your mother, how pathetic could a person get, right? But with the help of two glasses of merlot, I was soon laughing about my predicament. "Every pot has a lid," my mother would remind me. "When the time is right, it will happen, Sweetie." And of course, she was right.

That meal--homemade ravioli, if I recall correctly--concluded with something so decadent, so incredibly wonderful and delicious, no one at the table could contain themselves. Chocolate fondue, served with fresh fruit and pound cake. I know. Eating it bordered on what I can only describe, as a religious experience. I'm not sure I've tasted a desert this delicious since and I'm pretty sure I closed my eyes while eating the fondue. It was that good.

It was a meal--a dessert--we would recall for years. Well, a few years, anyway. My mother died about two years after that incredible chocolate fondue. But I still remember that night and that food, and how good it made me feel. Safe. Warm. Happy. And oh so full of joy.

***

The day after my mother's death, my stepfather gave me a letter my mother had written to me. It was dated February, 2000, three months before she died. She wrote it before the big surgery that would determine if her colon cancer was treatable (it was very much not). She wrote the letter in case she never got to see me again.

That letter said many things, and it is something I will always, always cherish (I sometimes think I should put it in a deposit box or something to keep it safe--do they even have those anymore?). But one thing stands out in particular: She said that she delighted upon my "joie de vivre" (French, for "cheerful joyfulness of living), that she took great pleasure in watching me enjoy a good meal or glass of wine. I wouldn't be surprised if she was thinking about that infamous Valentine's Day fondue meal when she wrote the that.

This is funny to me, because I feel like I fought that kind of enjoyment for so long, not feeling myself worthy, or some such adolescent nonsense. But reading that letter, I was so glad my mother had seen it in me, however briefly. And I was certainly not going to waste any time in making sure that I embraced joy (and chocolate fondue) whenever possible.

***

Last month, Erin took Ellie out for a "British tea." It was there that she discovered clotted cream.

Need I say more?

This might be my most favorite picture of Ellie, in the history of pictures. To me, it perfectly depicts Grandma Eleanor's beloved joie de vivre. Cheerful joyfulness, indeed.

Erin showed this picture to a friend whose response was: "She looks like she's been waiting her whole sweet life for this!"

I sure hope Ellie (and the rest of the children) don't waste any time, and that they all enjoy the many sweet things life has to offer, whenever possible.

Their Grandma Eleanor would be so proud.

On Mother's Day 2012

I’ve been thinking about my mom more than usual lately. Impending Mother’s Day? The anniversary of her death? Perhaps. I think it’s more that I always miss her a little more when I’m thinking about Big Things. Going back to work has been a huge adjustment for me (ha-I say that it in the past tense as though I’m adjusted—I assure you, I’m not!). And even though I’ve been without it for going on twelve years, I’ve been craving her guidance and wisdom to talk me through this process. What I wouldn’t give to pick up the phone and ask What would YOU do, Mom? What do YOU think?

But twelve years is a long time. I’m no longer the young adult I was when she last saw me, just starting out in my career, eager to take on a new relationship and New York City and my first apartment in Brooklyn. More than a decade later I have a wonderful partner, many grey hairs, a thicker middle, four ebullient children and a house in the New Jersey suburbs.

I don’t think she would even recognize me.

I’m still me, of course. And in my heart, I’m still her little girl. And I still so badly want to pick up that phone and call her, it makes my eyes sting.

I see her face dancing around in the faces of my children. All of them except Harry have her steely blue eyes. But they all have her round face and soft, pink cheeks and when Ellie and Lucy smile, I so often see my mom grinning back at me that it can take my breath away. In tiny ways, she’s here. But of course, she is not.

What do you think Mom would say to me, right now, about all of this, if she were here? I asked my dad the other day. We chatted via phone about various “light” topics, including “work/life balance” (cough, cough—as if such a thing exists).

He was quiet for a long time. And then:

“I think she would say that nothing is perfect. That it’s never going to be perfect.”

For a minute, I felt like I couldn't breathe.

Because he was right. It is never going to be perfect. And it's exactly (what I think) she would have said. It was both eerie and wonderful hearing to hear those words come from my father, someone who had once known her so well. But we both squint to think of what she'd say, what she'd make of the lives we lead now. We can only speculate.

"It's never going to be perfect."

That was it. It was as if my mom was sitting across the table from me in a coffee shop, saying the words herself.

“Live your life, live your life, live your life,” said the very wise Maurice Sendak, who we also lost this week. So simple. And such the perfect bookend to another beautiful, true and yes, rather melancholy quote that I posted earlier this week: "I cry a lot because I miss people. They die and I can't stop them. They leave me and I love them more."

We hold onto the sweet memories of those who have left us and hope they are proud of the things we do without them, of the decisions we make without their counsel. I’d like to think I knew my mother so well that I instinctually know what she would advise me to do. But like I said, I’m so far from the person I was when she last knew me, that sometimes I wonder. And that terrifies me. The few pictures I have of her, dotted throughout the house, together in Amsterdam in 1999, of her and my stepfather on vacation in Japan in 1997, they feel like images from from a previous life. They are.

But of that much romanticized motherly advice? Who am I kidding? Did I always do what she told me to do? Was her way always best? Of course not. It’s so easy to canonize someone who is no longer here to make mistakes or give advice you don’t agree with (because if they are here you at least have the choice to disagree). Instead, I just have this gaping question mark.

What would Mom say?

So I do what Mr. Sendak says to do. I live my life. My wonderful little life that I hope (and think) she would be proud of.

But I still miss her.

Happy Mother’s Day.

61

I'm remembering my mom today, just a little bit more than usual.

My mom and me in Paris, 1999. We Could. Not. Stop. Eating. Crepes. At the end of our trip we would buy a crepe every chance we had even if we weren't hungry, just because we could. Nutella, or swiss cheese and ham or just plain old "beurre sucre" (butter and sugar). This picture makes me smile every time I look at it. It's like a mugshot. The Crazy Crepe Eaters.
(Photo by Rick Regan)

Today she would have turned 61. Last year I had a lot more time and brain space to write a meaningful post (ah the days of uninterrupted blog writing). Every word of it still rings true today. Except of course for the now four grandchildren she never got to meet.

Gah.

Miss you and love you, Mom. Happy, happy birthday.

11

Eleven years ago today.

Every year, she gets farther and farther away. Sometimes it even feels like another lifetime.

I hate that.

I miss you every day Mom. I love you.

"Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
Love never ends," 1 Corinthians 13

Ten

Ten years ago today I was in the attic of my mom and stepfather’s house, sorting through boxes and trying to decide what to bring back to New York City with me.

It was early afternoon, a bleak, gray Memorial day, drizzly and unseasonably cool. Crouched down amidst the boxes and old furniture, I had a thought: I should go downstairs. My mother could die at any minute.

So I went downstairs. And less than an hour later, she was gone.

The week I was home with my mother I filled her room with flowers. It was that May I discovered peonies. I mean, before that I knew they existed, they just seemed extra beautiful and special that year. And my mom delighted so much in those wildflower bouquets I bought her, at least in the beginning of the week, before things got really bad.

To this day, I can’t look at a peony and not think of my mom. It’s not a bad thing. It’s comforting, really. Peonies are extraordinarily difficult to grow (for me anyway) and they have a very short season. It makes me appreciate them that much more. They’re not around for long, you have to hoard them while they’re here.

Peonies for me (no, not from my garden!), May, 2009

There’s not much else to say really. I thought ten years gone would be more dramatic or momentous somehow—years ago I remember thinking In four or three or two years she will have been gone for ten years…then what?

Every year that passes it feels twofold: more and more surreal that my mom is gone and more and more surreal that she was ever even here.

I came across this passage about death from a book excerpt in the New Yorker a few years ago. I thought it was spot on.

“What to make of it? Why can't everybody just get used to it? People are born and they just can't go on and on, and if they can't go on and on, then they must go, but it is so hard, so hard for the people left behind; it's so hard to see them go, as if it had never happened before, and so hard it could not happen to anyone else, no one but you can survive this kind of loss, seeing someone go, seeing them leave you behind; you don't want to go with them, you only don't want them to go.”
--From My Brother, by Jamaica Kincaid

On Mother's Day

As I wrote last year, now that I’m a mother myself, every Mother’s Day gets a little easier and a little sweeter. There’s still a pang for the mother and grandmother who should be here, for the mother who never got to be a grandmother. But there are also two little sandy haired people who draw me hand made cards and bring me strong, much needed coffee in bed (with some help) and wrap their warm, chubby little hands in mine any time they please.

This is my ninth Mother's Day without my mom. Just like last year, the thought of having my mom actually here on Mother’s Day feels, like it was another lifetime. Obviously I’m not happy about, but, what’s that awfully simplistic yet painfully accurate little aphorism? Oh yes:

“It is what it is.”

It’s just that it’s not even an option, as it felt like it was in those first few years after she was gone. There was so much looking back, so much grief. There were so many “what-ifs” and “it’s too bad.” Now, it just is.

Many days, I pass the picture of her on the mantle and almost can’t look at her. All the things that she missed, that she is missing, it almost takes my breath away. She’s like a bright light that hurts my eyes, makes them water. But I can’t put that picture away.

It’s still strange to me, that I’m a mom. Someone, two little someones, actually, depend one me. Me! I'm a person who is craved when things are going wrong or something hurts and yes, even when things are just fine. Two little sandy haired people see me and think (or at least I hope anyway) comfort and security, the giver of sloppy neck kisses and long hugs and bedtime songs and books, the bearer of strawberry ice pops in the backyard, the one with the lap that will always welcome them, no matter how big they get.

I want my mom back, sure. But not with the same urgency that I used to. Still, I would like one more Mother’s Day. No, I won’t lie. I want fifty more. Or no, I just want her here, always. But most of all, I want to see her with Leo and Ellie. I’m not angry anymore the way I once was, that she’s not here for me and now, for them. It’s that “formal feeling,” that Emily Dickinson writes about. It’s so very true.

So Happy Mother’s Day Mom. Wish you were here. Sad that you’re not. But so very grateful that I was so loved, for so many years by you, a sweet, thoughtful, creative, enthusiastic, energetic, and unconditionally loving mom. You taught me what love was and is. Without even realizing it, you taught me to be a mother. You can’t ask for more than that.

Oh wait, yes you can. You can be a mother yourself, to two beautiful children. You can have the privilege to know what it’s like to love and be loved unconditionally. To finally know peace (yes, even when those aforementioned, beloved children are arguing ferociously over a Fisher Price stethoscope).

Whether you are a mother yourself or you have a mother and no matter where that mother is, Happy, Happy Mother’s Day.

An Irony Not Lost, With a Void

Many years ago, my mother was a special education teacher. And some of her “favorite” students? They had Down syndrome.

Over twenty years later, I still remember little David. He was tiny (well he was only four), with straight, warm chocolate colored brown hair, cut in a bowl shape (give him a break, it was the mid-eighties). You walked into the classroom and David threw his miniature arms around you. Inappropriate? Of course. Sweet and irresistible? That too.

A few times a year my mom would let me skip class and come to her school. I adored these sweet, affectionate little children (it was a “multiply disabled” preschool class, some had Down syndrome, some had other general developmental delays). They could also be scary. They had tantrums and outbursts. Sometimes it was hard to understand what they were saying, and that was the kids who talked at all.

But I knew the day I met him why David was my mom’s favorite. He was a charmer. He took you by the hand and led you to what he wanted to do, whether it was books or dress-up or wooden blocks. He was also sneaky. Sure David, you can have another cookie! Oh, whoops, they aren't supposed to have anymore cookies? David didn't speak much, but he never failed to get his point across. And that smile? Killer. Hmm...remind you of anyone?

Of course, the irony is not lost on me, how much my mother could have helped me with Leo, if she was still here, as a special education teacher, and of course as a mother and grandmother (my mother actually went on to teach "regular" elementary ed, but I'm sure she would have had plenty to add when Leo showed up).

Also, I can’t help thinking about my fourteen year old self, sitting in that huddle of preschoolers during story time. I had no idea what my future held, that my fortune held a child not so unlike one of them. Life is funny, isn’t it?

In those dark, early days after Leo’s birth, when I stared for hours at this little unexpected stranger with the extra chromosome, sleeping sweetly in the infant swing, I had countless one-sided conversations with my mother. Why did this happen? What do I do? What will he be like? What is he capable of? What should I expect?

And also? There was shame. Shame that I had not given her the “perfect” grandson.

Obviously I can only speculate as to what her reaction would have been. I think she would have grieved with me, but that wouldn't have lasted. In many ways, my mother was a very no-nonsense person. Not one to linger in tragedy (as I melodramatically viewed Down syndrome back then), her style was more to get up, brush yourself off and figure out What To Do Next. It’s no accident that one of the adages of hers that I repeat in times of trouble is “Every problem has a solution.” (Which is not to say that Leo is a problem, but when he was first born? Down syndrome was a big problem for me.)

Of course I know now that my apologies to her would have been more than unnecessary. There were so many years that she never thought she’d even have a grandchild, Leo was a gift, with or without Down syndrome.

At the worst, I think she would have worried. She would have worried for Leo’s health and worried about the added challenges that we would have with Leo (and that Leo would have). But if anyone were capable of loving a grandchild too much, it would have been my mother, who was unequivocally born to be a generous, doting grandmother.

I look at Leo today and I see the little David that Leo’s grandmother adored. And I also see glimmers of Leo’s grandmother, dancing around in his round little face, on his light brown hair, (grandma’s exact shade) and in his steely blue eyes and his cleft chin, the chin that is just like grandma’s.

She is never far from us, even though I know of course, that she is.

What She Said

I’m reading The Possibility of Everything by Hope Edelman. It’s a memoir I would have never picked up but there it was, sitting on the "free books" table at work.

And so I began reading it last night, bored and exhausted on the cold, black, commute home.

The book Edelman became famous for is Motherless Daughters, which I started reading while my mother was dying. I sobbed through most of the book, a large portion of which includes women in their own words, talking about losing their mothers, many at very young ages.

I came away from the book mostly feeling like an ass for having such insurmountable, life-changing grief that I lost my mother at the comparatively geriatric age of newly turned 26, when there were so many sad souls out there who lost moms as preteens or teens or worse, just infants or toddlers.

But in Edelman's current book, I came across a passage that hit me to my core and summed up so eloquently what I feel, when I do allow myself to go there, to the grief (which isn’t often and really, who has the time?).

It’s at a point in the story where Edelman is consulting child development books on how to best handle her thee-year-old daughter’s imaginary friend. Edelman’s mother died when she was in high school, so she has no mom to turn to for parenting advice. Hmm. Sounds familiar.

Edelman writes, “I like to think that my mother, as a grandmother, would have been eager to share stories about her own early foibles to save me from making the same mistakes thirty years later, but really, who knows…

Probably my mother, whom I remember as gentle with her opinions, would have stepped back and allowed me to forge my own parenting path. Probably. Maybe? The truth is, I don’t know, and sometimes this not knowing makes me so sad I can forget how to swallow.”

Yes. Oh, yes.

A Glimpse From the Merry-Go-Round

I missed my mom this Thanksgiving, no big shocker there.

At some point during the day my thoughts turned to her as they do on every holiday or important occasion. But I also had a strange (and by strange here I mean good) thing happen over the long weekend.

I was on the merry-go-round on Sunday with Ellie at our local zoo. Ellie was riding the polar bear (her choice) and bobbing up and down and looking appropriately wide-eyed and a little terrified. A lovely harpsichord rendition of “Jingle Bells” played continuously in the background. Erin’s mom, visiting from New Orleans, was watching the four of us (Erin had Leo) and waved to us from the sidelines with all the excitement and enthusiasm a grandmother should display.

The merry-go-round was going pretty fast and the music felt, as so much holiday music does for me, a little melancholy, a little bittersweet. I got a little teary (OK, not that unusual for me).

I don’t know if I was just caught up in the emotion of the moment or what, but every time we whizzed past Erin’s mom, waving and smiling, I swear I saw my mom too. I saw her hunched over in her khaki L.L. Bean trench coat, her frizzy shoulder length brown hair, her fair, freckled skin, wearing her comfortable, expensive European walking shoes and waving to us all. It felt like she was there.

When I talk about missing my mom and wishing she was here to see the kids, people often say “Oh she sees them” or “She knows. She's with you.” And it kind of annoys me, because, really, how does anyone know? I mean, I know people mean well. And I’d certainly like to believe they’re right. Because aside from the memories, the belief that she is still here, in some small way, it’s all I have.

Sunday on that merry-go-round, It really did feel true.

59

Happy Birthday Mom.


It looks a little like a mugshot, but trust me, we were having a blast here, doing one of the things we did best in Paris, which was eat crepes. A lot of crepes. August, 1999.

Wishing you Paris in the fall, Manchego, baguette and Shiraz at 5 o’clock sharp; a stack of new library books, a shopping spree for perennials at Portland Nursery, a weekend trip (bright and early!) to Meier & Frank (even though they’re always having a sale), a matinee on a rainy Saturday, chicken korma at Swagat, or maybe gnocchi at Il Piato, followed by chocolate fondue at Bread & Ink? A strong cup of French Roast at our favorite post shopping haunt, a street full of Sunday morning estate sales, a walk on Mt. Tabor (all the way to the top!)…

And many, many kisses from your grandchildren.

Wish you were here.

A Night Without Leo That Was All About Leo

You know you’re a grown-up when you’re introduced as Mrs. (your last name here) to a principal.

I’m the mom of a kindergartner, a five-year-old, an actual kid, and yet, I still can’t quite wrap my brain around the fact that I’m a grown-up. Someone’s mom.

But enough about me. Last night was Leo’s night to shine, even though he wasn’t even there. It was the open house of his new school. There are five kids in the class (he attends “specials”—music, art, P.E., library) and eats lunch/goes to recess with the general ed kindergarten.

Two other parents came, so not a terrible showing. I always think of my mom during school open houses. A veteran, resigned, sometimes cranky but also deeply committed elementary school teacher, she groused annually about the inevitably horrific attendance at open house night, to say nothing of the parent that once showed up drunk. (True story.)

As far as I could tell there were no drunk parents last night.

For starters, I love Leo’s teacher. What’s not to love about a woman who signs her notes home to the parents “Educationally yours?” She is energetic and enthusiastic and patient and creative and not to get all Disney movie but when she talks about the kids, she seriously gets a twinkle in her eye.

As she spoke about the daily schedule I let my eyes wander around the classroom. It’s cluttered but organized. Kitschy autumn wreaths and scarecrows straight from Michael’s adorned one bulletin board; a table in the corner featured “everything about apples.” They’re doing a unit on apples, so there was apple sauce, dried apple snacks and of course, apples.

And everything in the room is labeled. A woman who enjoys a label maker as much as I do is a woman I can stand behind. We were able to sit at Leo’s little desk and look through his folders and notebooks. The older he gets, the easier it is to comprehend him having a life apart from us (at school for now, in many years, who knows where?). In second grade, Leo will start learning Spanish, as well as begin learning the recorder, in preparation for an instrument of his choice.

Leo is the youngest in the class by far, and being the “new kid” there was plenty of talk about him. He was pronounced “popular” by both the teacher and the aide (what can I say? Music to a parent’s ear) and every teacher/therapist/school official I was introduced to immediately exclaimed “Oh! Your Leo’s mom! (in a good way) when they learned who I was. He does have a certain presence, a way of making himself known by all.

Erin and I surreptitiously skipped out on the PTA meeting that followed the classroom presentations (I haven’t decided if I want to get involved this year but I’ll certainly write the checks for whatever they need).

We used the babysitter as an excuse to extend the evening into cheap, bad Chinese food, eaten under disturbingly bright fluorescent lights. It was the first time Erin and I had eaten a meal out (such as it was), without the kids, in months. We tried our best not to talk about either of the kids too much, but of course, Leo kept coming up. I think we were both on a little high.

Our boy is doing well. He’s happy. He works hard and people like him. Tomorrow that could all change. But last night, over Szechuan tofu and shrimp lo mein, that was all I needed to know.

Wish You Were Here

It happened often in the first few years after my mom died. I’d read a book or see a movie and just yearn to share it with her. I guess it’s no surprise that we shared a lot of common interests, a few of which happened to be food, cooking and reading. Bonus points if it was a book about food (really, does it get any better?).

One of the last books we enjoyed together was Tender at the Bone, by Ruth Reichl, former New York Times restaurant critic and Gourmet magazine editor. I can’t look at my tattered copy without thinking of my mom.

My mom didn’t get a chance to read the sequel (to be honest, she didn’t miss much, it wasn’t so hot). More things she missed that I know she would have loved: It broke my heart that she never got to see the movie version of Bridget Jones's Diary (boy did we have some laugh-fests over that book) or read White Oleander (also made into a movie that was eh-just OK not nowhere near as great as the book). Of course, aside from books and movies, there are so many things that I would have loved to have shared with her. Speaking of food, I still can’t wrap my brain around the fact that she never got to dine at Erin’s restaurant, to feast her eyes upon a plateau de fruit de mar.

It doesn’t happen much anymore that I see something I want to share with her. Sure, there are pangs here and there, little wistful thoughts of Oh Mom would have loved this. But you know, “After a great pain, a formal feeling comes,” and all that. It’s like my brain has shut that part of my life down.

But then this book and this book came along, and they’ve turned it into this movie:

It opens in a few weeks and is being heavily promoted here in New York City.

I can’t speak for the movie, I haven’t seen it yet. But I loved the books. Julie & Julia: Yes, I laughed, I cried. It has the perfect combination of sarcasm and self-deprecating humor and heart, all of which I love. Oh and also it’s about food, so really, it can’t go wrong. And another bonus (!), it also concerns one of my and my mom’s heroes, Julia Child. How can you not love a woman who says things like: “The only time to eat diet food is while you're waiting for the steak to cook.”

The other book the movie is based on was equally wonderful in different ways. It’s the last book Julia Child contributed to before her death in 2004, and it tells the story of her early years in France with her husband Paul. Really, it’s about how Julia came to be the icon she is today, but it’s told in her adorable, endearing no-nonsense and often, yes, self-deprecating voice.

I know my mom loved Child's joie de vivre (French for "joy of life"), the way she seemed to go through life playing by her own rules, without concern for how others might view her (certainly not worried about feeding her guests food that may have briefly touched the floor--what they don't know won't hurt them, right?) .

I also think my mom admired Child’s admitted “late bloomer” status. My mom visited Europe for the first time in her mid-40s. Child showed that it’s never too late to be the person you want to be. My mom had just discovered the joys of wine drinking and real (like, from France!) French food. She was just getting started.

And did I mention the movie adaptation stars Meryl Streep, another one of my all time favorites (my mom also happened to love her) so again, I’m not too concerned. And I marvel at this perfect storm of Mom-would-have-loved-this-and-gosh-darn-it-I-wish-she-was-here-to-share-it-with-me. I’d sneak out of work early on opening day to see it with her.

Instead I’ll just comfort myself with the hope that she’ll be somewhere, not far from me, on the movie’s opening weekend with a large popcorn and a diet Coke, enjoying it right along with me, (heck, maybe even Julia Child will be there too!). You never know.

I hope it’s true.