I am a daughter. I am a wife. I am a mother. But through it all, I have been and always will be, a woman.

Archive for the ‘Mom’ Category

It’s Been 1 Year….

…1 week and 4 days.  376 days since I lost my mother.  And it still feels like I lost part of myself.  But I did.  I lost my mother.  One of my two best friends (the other is my husband).

My sister lost her mother.

My boys and my nephew lost their grandmother.

My husband and my brother-in-law lost their mother-in-law.

My aunts and uncles lost their sister.

My cousins lost their aunt.

I’m not the only one that lost.  I’m not the only one hurting still.

But it feels that way.

Grief is lonely.

Everyone grieves differently, so everyone grieves alone.  My sister and I both lost our mother, but we grieve differently.  She doesn’t understand exactly how I feel, just like I don’t understand exactly how she feels.

But I know we ALL still hurt.  There is a hole in me.  There is a hole in them.  None of us are complete anymore.  Memories are great, but they can’t hug my sister and me.  Pictures are wonderful, but they can’t send birthday cards to her grandchildren.

I wish we could see her one more time.  I wish I could hug her one more time.  I wish I could say “I love you” one more time.

But I’m glad she’s not hurting anymore.  I’m glad she isn’t struggling for breath anymore.

I’m happy for her, but I still cry for us.

I love you, Mama.  I miss you.  I always will.

I Miss My Mom

This is hard to write.  I’ve put it off, and put if off, . . . but now maybe I can write this.

I lost my mother 11 weeks ago tonight.  It seems like forever since I talked to her.  But it still hurts like it was yesterday that I lost her.

My sister and I have been going through her estate, dividing up this, giving that away, trying to sell the other.  Typical things.  We’ve cried over memories, and we’ve laughed over memories.  We have remembered things we had forgotten.

Through it all, I still expect to hear her tell me to, “Get out of that!  You know you aren’t supposed to be in that,” because you never knew where she had hidden Christmas gifts……..and she had usually forgotten what and where things were hidden, too.

I still reach for the phone to update her on why my routine doctor’s appointment results were.  Or to tell her a funny story about her grandchildren.

Thanksgiving is going to be bad.  Her family always got together Thanksgiving instead of Christmas.  There are just too many of us to get together for both.  It would be exhausting, so they picked Thanksgiving.  I don’t think I can go to my Aunt’s house this year and look at the chair my mother always sat in when she was there.  I can’t bear any well-meaning “How are your holding up?” questions that day.  I just can’t.  So I’ll go to my in-laws and pretend everything is okay.  But Thanksgiving is going to be bad.

Christmas is going to be worse.  You see, that was her favorite holiday.  She had an entire walk-in closet full of Christmas decorations.  Tree ornaments, mantle decorations, floor statues of snowmen and Santa and Mrs. Claus, wreaths, etc.  We even found 3 Christmas trees of varying sizes.  Not to mention the other Christmas decorations we have unearthed in other closets.  Her favorite holiday.  And she won’t be here.  My children won’t get to call Nana and tell her what Santa brought them.  We won’t get to visit her and eat spaghetti (because we were sick of all the turkey we’d been eating since November).  I won’t get to hear her child-like glee when she purchased and received yet another Christmas decoration.  She was a child at Christmas as much as my children are.  She loved it.  I just want to get through it this year.  For myself.  For my family.  For my children.  I will smile and laugh and pretend, because that is what I need to do.  I may not feel the Christmas Spirit this year, but I can’t take it away from everyone else.

Just as I recover from Christmas will be her birthday.  She would have been 66.  So young.  Too young.  I can’t think about all of the things she’ll miss.  It’ll break me right now.

She was my best friend.  We went through a really rough patch when I was in my teens and early 20s.  But we made up.  We overcame.  She was actually my Friend.  My Best Friend.  For several years, she was my only friend.

And I miss her.

Every day.

Growing Up Is HARD……..on Mom

Yesterday, my two sons had milestones…..and so did I.  They enjoyed themselves very much.  Me?  Not so much.

My oldest son, Z, had his Parent Picnic and Awards Day at school.  He made Honor Roll for the year (Yay, Z!!!!!) and earned over 70 points in his Accelerated Reader Program — one of the highest in his class.  I am so very proud of him.  And though he clearly got his brains from me, I was still a little sad.  My boy is growing up. Fast.  He is only 8, yet he already reaches my shoulder.  Granted, the basketball teams in school were never beating down my door (or even knocking, for that matter), but still.  He shouldn’t really be that tall…..should he?

Watching Z wasn’t so difficult though.  He quit giving me hugs and kisses in public over 5 years ago.  He has grown independent and really is turning into a little man.  He loves to build things and show them off to me — and I am always suitably impressed — but he never wants me to help anymore.  He doesn’t want me to read bedtime stories to him.  I’m still a part of his world, just not an active part.  And I haven’t really been for a while, so though I brushed back a couple tears during the slide show at the end of awards, I really came through it okay.

Last night was a completely different situation.  M graduated from Pre-Kindergarten school.  He dressed up in big boy clothes — pull-over shirt and khakis — and had on his cap and gown.  All of a sudden, he wasn’t my baby anymore.  Who is this little boy?  Wait! Where is my baby?!?!? NOOOOOooooooooooo, this CAN’T be him!  He’s 5.  He still crawls in my lap to give me hugs and kisses — and he still fits!  He loves on me anytime and anywhere, and sometimes it’s even his idea.  He still wants bedtime stories (though I’m beginning to suspect it’s to delay bedtime more than wanting time with me) and occasionally even lets me rock him.  I bawled like the baby M is still supposed to be.  He walked across that stage, got his diploma and his “Imagination Award” (very apt, I promise you!) like he owned the place.  I cried more.

Z is my oldest, and though it was hard, it was not THIS hard.  I think.  The distraction of his brother who would have been 2 at the time kept me from dwelling on just how fast all of this happened.  M, though, is the baby.  No more distractions.  No more of these events will be happening.  He is my last one.  I’m trying to write all of this down so that I won’t forget anything. I write it down to help myself adjust to how fast my boys are growing up.

One little man.  One little boy.  Neither of them so “little” anymore.  What’s a mom to do?

Then M came running up to me, gave me a hug, and went running off to race his brother up and down the halls (despite my admonishments not to run inside), and suddenly he was my baby again.  I got a reprieve.  But this fall, when they both climb on that big yellow school bus — one to 3rd grade and one to Kindergarten — I make no promises.  Yes, I do.  I promise I will cry all the way to work.  Or maybe I’ll follow the bus all the way to school . . . . . . .even if it is the opposite direction from work.

www.awriterweavesatale.com/

Author, and Editor of Literary and Arts Magazine, The Woven Tale Press

Questionable Parenting

I am a daughter. I am a wife. I am a mother. But through it all, I have been and always will be, a woman.

Curiously Strange, Strangely Curious

I am a daughter. I am a wife. I am a mother. But through it all, I have been and always will be, a woman.

Caffeinated Me

I am a daughter. I am a wife. I am a mother. But through it all, I have been and always will be, a woman.

Love on Life and Love

I am a daughter. I am a wife. I am a mother. But through it all, I have been and always will be, a woman.

What have I Done?

I am a daughter. I am a wife. I am a mother. But through it all, I have been and always will be, a woman.

A Mummy Scorned

I am a daughter. I am a wife. I am a mother. But through it all, I have been and always will be, a woman.

I am a daughter. I am a wife. I am a mother. But through it all, I have been and always will be, a woman.

thesinglecell

That one little thought that catches on... and multiplies.

Daughter, Wife, Mother, . . . Woman

I am a daughter. I am a wife. I am a mother. But through it all, I have been and always will be, a woman.