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.

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.

What I Wish I Knew: The Mom Edition

My mom seeing me off to sleep away camp, circa 1983. My dad sent me this picture a few weeks ago and it was like an early Hanukkah present. I saw it and immediately burst into (happy) tears. I'd never seen it before, yet after staring at it for a few moments was able to piece together exactly when and where it was taken. Isn't memory a funny thing?

In many ways, as the years go by, it gets easier not having my mom here.

Of course I miss her. But the proverbial It is What it Is springs to mind. And thankfully, the grief is no where near as raw as it once was. With every year that passes, she gets farther and farther away. For this I feel equal parts heart broken and pragmatic.

In the old days (read: before I had children), I often pined for the things we used to do together. Now that I'm nearly forty years old, I'm not embarrassed to admit that my mother left a huge, gaping hole in my social life when she died (or at least, the social life in my mind, since we lived 3,000 apart). Of course I missed her, her very essence, but I also longed for our afternoon walks at Laurelhurst park; Saturday matinees at the art house theater, followed by chocolate chip cookies and lattes at Grand Central Baking. She was more than my mom. She was a confidante. She was almost always the first person I went to for counsel and advice (back then the "hard stuff" now seems blissfully benign: research papers, and roommate conflicts were my biggest concerns back in 1999.)

As delightful as a Saturday matinee sounds right about now, I have found myself missing something else about my mom lately.

Her wisdom. And her experience as a mom.

Of course, it's easy to romanticize it all. If she were here and I went to her with a question or seeking advice about one of the babies or the kids, surely we'd be in full agreement and she'd say just the right thing! Because we all know that adult daughter/mother relationships are never complicated or fraught in any way.

HA.

I just have so many questions. There were so many things I never asked her, because at 27 years old? Having children seemed a lifetime away, if not improbable all together.

My longing for her ebbs and flows. I can go weeks-months even, without thinking of her much at all. I mean of course I think of her, but they are mere flashes of memory. Or I'll see a movie or book and think, She would love this. And then other times, at little mundane moments, pulling sweatpants up on a chunky thigh, wiping a baby's little heart shaped mouth, reading a book that I loved as a child (Corduroy--which Ellie recently announced she "doesn't like anymore"), downloading a photo sent by Leo's teacher of him proudly holding an "A" spelling test--these are the moments I get a little stabby feeling in my throat. She's gone. She missed out. On all of this. And she's never coming back. And it's so unfair that it's almost unbelievable. Strike that. It is unbelievable.

Lately I think she's been on the forefront of my mind because Ellie and I have been...having some disagreements.



In addition to Ellie's kindergarten portrait, the Thanksgiving projects started rolling in last week. And it's official. This year, Ellie is "Thankful for herself."

God bless her, really. If you knew Ellie, you would understand that this statement truly does summarize her, at age five. She is a little force, that one.

She also rolls her eyes at me. Often. She grows impatient with my inability to get her chocolate snack biscuits RIGHT NOW (and, unintentionally, feeds on all of my guilt over the babies and feeling like I can't ever pay enough attention to anyone, that invariably someone needs something they're not getting...sigh). She commands me to "Stop talking!" when I explain to her why we can't do something right at that moment. (An example: Why can't we go to the birthday party now? Hmm...well, because it doesn't start for another six hours?) I know! I'm such a stickler!

She asks mind-numbing questions like "Why do I have to get dressed for school?" And when I calmly and quietly begin to explain why she roars "I know! I know! Don't tell me to do it!"

Part of me wants to strangle Ellie. And part of me wants to slam the door on her, hide in the bathroom and call my mom and ask her: Was I like this (secretly I am pretty sure of the answer)? OK I know I was no peach as a teenager, that I remember, but five years old and already with the attitude?

Of course, Ellie can also be incredibly sweet and kind and loving. She draws hearts with the word "Mom" in the middle and stuffs them in my pockets. She can never get enough about snuggles and can't understand why she can't sleep in our bed every night like she did when we were without power for ten days after Hurricane Sandy. Sometimes I catch her gazing across the kitchen table at "her babies" with more affection and love than I would have ever thought possible (though she did confess to me the other night in the midst of a particularly vocal tandem crying jag "It's hard having babies...but I love them." Well there's one thing she and I are in full agreement of).

Happy and surprised to see Mommy at a recent school pick-up.

Why does any of this matter? Why do I care what my mom would say? Who knows if she would have anything to say that would help. Hell, maybe I just want commiseration. Oh Mom. You wouldn't believe what Ellie did this time. She would probably get some amount of satisfaction knowing that what goes around comes around-moms of snarky little girls unite!

After Leo was born, I was pleasantly surprised by how whole I felt, once again, for the first time since my mother died. Somehow, becoming a mother myself made me feel complete, awash in a glow of purpose and strength, feelings I hadn't had in years. And with every baby, more fulfillment, though always tinged with disbelief: She isn't here to see them, to share this, to share them, with me. But it seemed that looking into their little blue eyes (yes, three out of four kids have blue eyes, just like my mom and unlike me) grounded me. Gave me purpose and forced me, to be brutally honest, to think of someone other than myself.

I walk solidly, mostly confidently with this band of little people, this family I have that surprises me almost every single day. Becoming a mother of so many has made me more decisive, less wish-washy, less prone to grief and regret than I was as a twenty-something in mourning. But all of this will never keep me from wondering, what could have been.

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

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.

On IEPs, Memories and Effing Cancer

Please excuse jelly face.

Today was Leo’s IEP meeting. It went very well. He’s doing great, making progress in all subjects. He can read 110 words (!) and especially enjoys science and social studies. His handwriting is improving (though I've been proud of it for a long time) and he consistently scores 100 percent on his spelling tests almost every week (my boy!). He goes to the bathroom independently and his behavior (which has never been a problem at school, thankfully) is even better than it was last year.

The only real issue is he’s been more “fidgety” lately, sometimes having a hard time sitting still and staying in his chair. The funny thing is, he still pays attention and participates, he just has to move around (play with his fingers, wiggle in his seat or stand next to it) while doing so. His teacher said she thought the long winter and lack of outdoor recesses may be contributing to this. In any case, they put a rubber cushion on his chair which seems to be helping to keep him more stationary. Hopefully spring will come SOMEDAY and these poor children will get an outdoor recess before the last day of school!

His speech is coming along. He has longer, more complex sentences and is talking a ton. But still. He’s very hard to understand. I’d be lying if I said this didn’t concern me. I know that all kids (especially kids with DS) excel in certain areas and have bigger struggles in others and speech has always been Leo’s biggest hurdle (and he certainly has a long list of successes for which I am so grateful and proud). But we were at an event on Sunday with many of Leo’s old classmates from his former school (all kids with Down syndrome) and I was honestly shocked by how amazing some of the speech was, how distinct and clear and, well, “normal” sounding. I’m not sad and I’m not comparing, it is what it is. It was just so apparent.

I feel bad for Leo because he has SO much to say and he’s such a funny, smart guy. I want the whole world to be able to understand him and get to know him. I should add that he in no way seems to let any of this get him down. He certainly has a way of getting his point across. And you should hear Ellie and his looooong debates and discussions about all sorts of topics, from princesses to pirate ships.

On a lighter note: Leo’s teacher and therapists all remarked on what an empathic guy he is. His speech therapist noted his “strong moral compass.” He’s always the first to give a pat on the back or stroke on the cheek when someone isn’t feeling well. This week the school is doing a unit on bullying and manners which involved a theater group coming in to perform skits portraying people being "nice" and "mean." Apparently Leo was outraged at some of the behavior portrayed in the skits. He was scowling and glaring at the “mean” actors and shaking his head with disappointment and disapproval.

The meeting came to end and Leo’s classmates began to arrive (Leo skipped the bus this morning and came with me, working on the computer across the room while we had the meeting). The announcements began and Leo was absolutely tickled that I was there to recite the “Pledge of Allegiance” with his class (he even helped me put my hand to my heart, in case I’d forgotten). More announcements followed after the “Pledge,” including a reminder that there would be a moment of silence for the director of special education, who died yesterday.

I was stunned. I knew she’d been ill (cancer). I knew she’d had surgery and taken a medical leave, but she came back. I had no idea how sick she had been. She was a wonderful woman. Full of life and humor—a “big” personality. She helped me a lot last year when I was having some issues with Leo’s transportation. She was a real advocate for the kids too. During a time of huge budget cuts for our town's education services, she assured me everything would stay the same for Leo and the kids in his program. And every time I talked to her she would tell me how much she and everyone else loved Leo and how “the last time she saw him he gave her a big hug.”

She was 54.

I just read her “legacy” book from the Newark Star Ledger, which followed her obituary. This is my favorite entry so far:

“Betty I know you are up in heaven where the onion dip bowl is always filled and the Raiders are on the televison 24/7. You had such a gift for making life more festive. Peace be with you old friend.”-- Judy Dunn

Every time I hear of someone dying of cancer (especially someone relatively young), of course I think of my mom. And my mom certainly pops into my mind, a little flash, I think, just about every time I go to Leo’s school. It’s a combination of things, the first being that I sometimes still can’t believe I’m someone’s mom, that I’m like, responsible for someone. Then there’s the place: an elementary school, that was my mom’s domain, for over fifteen years. She wasn’t a born teacher but she came to like certain aspects of the profession, I think. And at the very least she loved her kids (well, most of them). And one day she was teaching and doing lesson plans and correcting journals and the next day she called in sick and she never went back to school. She never got to say goodbye to her kids. And it will always break my heart to think of that.

I remember sitting in my little apartment on the upper west side of New York City on a cold March day in 2000. My mom, in a rare, unguarded moment (she was very strong and stoic throughout her illness) was crying to me over the phone, thousands of miles away in Oregon.

“I’m just afraid I’m never going to get to go back ,” she said, between tears. “That I’ll never get to say goodbye to my class.”

I dismissed that talk as “silly”—that of course she would see them. What else could I say? I didn't want what she said to come true.

There is a book that was given to my step dad and me after she died, a three ring binder of sympathy letters and cards and drawings by what seemed like hundreds of elementary school children. There were also notes and letters from her fellow teachers. I could hardly look at it, at the time. But it’s something I know I’ll want to have, someday.

I think when I’m pregnant I push the thoughts of her away more. It’s too much. I just can’t go there. My mom, who never thought she would be a grandma, on the cusp of being a grandmother of four. I Just. Can’t. Think about it.

I just hope Ms. Maddalena had a chance to say goodbye.

On Her 60th

My next door neighbor’s mother is visiting her. My neighbor is about my age and has two young children also. Her mother lives in Argentina, so when she visits, she visits. I think she’s here for a month, total.

Last weekend the weather was mostly nice and we spent plenty of time outside. Leo and Ellie are good at playing independently in the back yard, with minimal interference from me for good little chunks of time. It’s those little spaces of freedom that allow me the luxury to daydream. And spy on my neighbors of course.

So there was my neighbor (I’ll call her “N.”) going shopping with her mother. They boarded the shiny black SUV parked in the driveway, giddy, giggling and chatting, a day of retail opportunity and mother-daughter bonding stretched out in front of them. Hours later they returned home with overflowing bags from the farmer’s market, fresh kale and apples and boxes of bulk items from Costco too. I imagined days and nights of side by side cooking, and more chatting.

There were bags from clothing stores too. A Children’s Place, Gap Kids. They’d gone to the mall. Of course they had. Grandma was visiting. They were kid-free too. N.’s husband had apparently opted to give her the gift of a break from the children, to enjoy her mother’s company, untethered.

Later in the afternoon they would gather outside for an evening meal. This time it was the whole family. N’s husband, the two small boys and of course, N’s mother. Wine glasses and bottles of red were carried on trays, outside to the deck. The grill was fired up and soon the air was filled with the intoxicating aroma of steak on a late summer night. And I don’t even particularly like steak.

For many years after my mother died, the favorite picture I had of the two of us together was an image so mundane that it’s almost laughable, really. My stepfather took it. I actually think it was a "test shot" for one of his new cameras. We are standing in the dining room of her old Craftsman bungalow in Portland. I am about 25, which made my mother 47. She would be dead in three years. We are peering at the entertainment section of the Sunday Oregonian, trying to decide which movie to see. The day is stretched out in front of us, nothing we had to do except of course, decide on a movie and oh yes, where to go after for coffee? It was something so simple and easy and taken for granted. Like grocery shopping or trip to the mall.

It’s a nothing photo, really. And when my mother was alive, I wouldn’t have given it a second glance. But with her gone? It stood framed on a prominent bookshelf for many years. During one of our many moves it was packed away and I haven’t been able to find it.

What I grew to love about that photo was how ordinary it was. It was just a day. A lazy Sunday spent with my mom, a day like so many. Who would think they would ever end? Or at least, that they wouldn’t last for a very long time?

What more is there to say? Watching N. with her mom, I contemplate a visit from my mom now and what that would be like. She would hardly recognize my life now. There is very little time for contemplation of anything, certainly not much room for movies or coffee spots or leisurely shopping trips. In spite of all that, I think she’d be both surprised and pleased with what fills up the spaces now.

And yes, of course it’s impossibly tempting to romanticize that visit she never got to take, to gloss over the missed shopping trips that would surely be free of conflict or disagreements or sour moods. But such is the “luxury” of grief and loss. In your mind, when you’re imagining how things could have been? You can have the story play out exactly as you want it.

I miss her more, this time of year. I always do. The season is changing. The milestones of another school year and all the excitement and emotion that brings, is upon us. It’s in the fall, too, that I’m reminded of her last visit to New York, eleven years ago this November. It was seven months before she died, four months before anyone even knew she was sick. We spent a whirlwind long weekend together and unknowingly packed every minute in as if it would be our last “trip” together which of course I now marvel at and am so grateful for. She took me shopping at Macy’s where she bought me my first “grownup” winter coat, we ate Indian food twice, closed down several museums, sampled pickles on the Lower East Side and walked until our feet throbbed. I was in my honeymoon phase with New York. I was living my dream and couldn’t wait to share it with her. And all of that feels like it was a hundred years ago, another lifetime, truly.

Another holiday season approaches (pumpkins and ghost are cropping up in the windows and yards of my suburban neighborhood), which is always sweet and at the same time, bittersweet. And of course, her birthday. This week she would be sixty. She didn’t even get to turn fifty. So many mundane weekends we didn’t get to spend together, going to the movies, meeting for coffee after, to discuss. All those idealized mother-daughter shopping trips never taken. I can just imagine her buying clothes for her grandchildren. Her grandchildren.

Yes, it is what it is. It should get easier with every passing year and in a way, it does. But it still doesn’t feel any more fair. It never will. Life can be so sweet, life is so precious, but nobody ever said it was fair.

My mom, Eleanor, Japan, 1995 (photo by Rick Regan)

And so today, more than other days, I’m daydreaming of the mundane and what a gift it is. And I’m thinking of a life merely only half lived, and of two little lives my mom never had the pleasure of meeting.

Pumpkin picking, fall, 2009

Happy Birthday, Mom.

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.