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.

The Mother's Day Mother Lode

The questions started early last week.


From Ellie: "When is Mother's Day? When is it again? How many days?"

Translation: I love you and you will get lots of presents (I think?)


Saturday morning, Ellie greeted me with the following: "Today's going to be a real party for mothers! Hip hip, hooray!"

Do not ask me where she gets this.

At some point on Saturday I was dealing with a behavior issue of some kind and I grumbled about it (note to self: she listens to everything I say, you'd think I would remember this by now) and Ellie chimed in, incredulously, shaking her head: "Yeah! And tomorrow is Mother's Day!"

Early in the week, Ellie began hinting that she had something for me. For Erin.

I'll leave it up to you to decide who is who. Ellie gave us our cards the Thursday before the Big Day. Being five-and-a-half, she has very little patience (shock!) but in this instance it was endearing.

Leo pounced on me the second I walked in the door on Friday afternoon, to give me one of these. Like Ellie, he absolutely refused to wait until Sunday.

Again, this is impatience I can handle. What can I say? I'm flattered. Could it be that we mothers are...maybe...possibly, sometimes...doing something right?


This weekend Erin also introduced Leo to a new phrase, which I have to say I'm a fan of:
"Mommy knows best." He said it throughout the weekend.



As if that wasn't enough, Ellie made me yet another card on The Big Day. She had high hopes for the day.

And of course, Harry and Lucy could not be left out of the party.

Yes, signed by the babies themselves. Erin may or may not have helped. A little.

Throughout the day on Sunday, Ellie kept checking in with me: Are you having a good Mother's Day, Mommy? Are you?

Oh YES, I answered.

I meant it.

I have to say, Ellie's prediction?

Definitely came true. As I wrote last year, for me, Mother's Day can be complicated: simultaneously joyous (how could it not be? Four (!) wonderful little people). But it can also be tinged with some grief.


Not pictured: the best Co-Mom this Mommy could ask for: Erin (who was busy taking the photo).

But I can honestly say, this year, which included coffee served in bed by all four at 6:45 a.m. (yes, it was just as relaxing as it sounds), breakfast at the neighborhood diner at 7:30, Ellie's soccer game under a cornflower blue sky, a neighborhood walk with a serendipitous run-in with the Ice Cream Man (Ellie's been plotting this for weeks), backyard play (the water table thrills all, again) was the happiest Mother's Day I've had in a very long time. I'd venture to say, ever.

You know what else I love about Mother's Day? Wherever I went, if I had a kid with me? Someone wished me a "Happy Mother's Day." From the cashier at CVS to the random stranger standing outside Starbucks with a cigarette and a coffee. It was just sweet.

I hope yours was happy too.

Mother's Day 2013

"Making the decision to have a child is momentous...


Mama Erin, June 2011


My mom and me, Amsterdam, August, 1999


Grandma Jerry, March 2012


Grandma Linnea, May 2012


March 2013

...It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body." -Elizabeth Stone

Happy Mother's Day, to all the mothers in your life.

Mother's Day 2012: Part Two

A while ago I read a wonderful description of twins. It described them as a "funny sort of abundance."

Jane Roper (who also has a new book out that looks interesting) writes:

"With twins, you've got not just one smiling face to get all googly-eyed at, but two. Two pairs of feet to nibble on. Two tiny butts to lower into the tub. Two different-feeling but equally satisfying bundles of baby to hold in your arms. How lucky you are! How overjoyed by this excess of beautiful, bouncing baby-ness! But at the same time, you're a little overwhelmed. Maybe even slightly stressed out. The way you might be at a big brunch buffet, a great museum, or a really good used bookstore. Where do you start? How do you choose? How do you make sure you don't miss anything?"

Talk about abundance. I guess two + twins is what? A hilarious sort of abundance? Ridiculous? All I know is, we've had four for almost a year and I still look at them almost single every day and can't quite believe they're all here. And that they need me to make them dinner every single night.

I am very, very grateful. And have much to celebrate.

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.

Mother's Day: Tiger Beat Edition and Some Other Thoughts on the Day

We were graced with the usual, adorable Mother's Day Gifts from the children this year.

I especially loved this card, from Leo.

"Thank you for reading." Ah, my boy.
I'm so grateful he didn't say something like "Thank you for letting me watch "Toy Story." That would have been a leetle embarrassing.

But this one? This one really got me. I mean, seriously? Who is this hunk? Clearly we're biased but, what a handsome dude! And where is my little first grader? He looks at least, what? Twelve, here. My first thought when I saw this photo was Tiger Beat Centerfold. (Does Tiger Beat even exist? This is when I show my age.) Oh look! It does! Relief.

***
I know that Mother's Day is fraught for many people. For so many years, it was for me. There were years and years that I pined and spent the holiday sad and nostalgic and just aching for my mom, so sad she couldn't be here. And so it's strange that now, I have none of that. Sure, this year was spent with me a bit cranky and hugely pregnant, but there wasn't a stitch of sadness in me for the fact that my mom wasn't here for me to celebrate. I didn't think I'd ever be able to say that. I admit, I feel a little guilty almost, for not being sad. But I do know that Mother's Day will always be a day that I think about all the others out there who are having a hard time. For those whose moms are no longer here, for those who can't celebrate with their moms, for whatever the reason, for those who ache to be moms. It's just a complicated day, just as complicated as most mother-child relationships are, I suppose.

Mom and me, circa 1976.