This is a reblog. I wrote it a few Mother’s Day’s ago. But it’s still true. And I still miss her madly, and still think about her every damn day. Love you, mommy salami. xo
It’s been a long time since we’ve celebrated mother’s day together. It’s been exactly 22 mother’s days, in fact. It’s amazing that you’re still dead. And I gotta tell you, it’s really a bummer. No, really, that dying thing sucked. Don’t do that again.
I actually think of you every day. Isn’t that kind of amazing? There I am with my “to do” list,” sitting at the computer doing work, cooking, or driving, and boom, your face will pop into my mind, your long fingernails painted misty mauve, your uniquely “you” smile that only got better with age, your passion for bargain shopping. I think of your optimism, your wit, your aptitude for throwing together a meal that could have been served in a restaurant, your laugh. I think about how you embraced getting older with the same kind of joy a middle-of the-night bottle gives to a screaming baby.
You were really good at loving me. In fact, you gave me so much love that I’m now able to give it to other people. You put up with my teenage arrogance/confusion/Sybil-like behavior with a kind of grace that’s hard to come by. You took me to all those ballet lessons, up those three flights of stairs, and shared all those post-pirouetting Big Macs with me. You created a summer tradition by finding that little house on the Cape and bringing me there for a month every summer, offering me some of the best and happiest memories I have. But mostly, MOSTLY, mom, you assured me that whatever was wrong could be solved and that if I tried to do something, I could. With a difficult dad (and here was your major flaw–you should have left him), you tried to give me what I needed to go out there in the world and be ok. I know it wasn’t easy for you. I knew then, but I know better now, as an adult and a mom, just how difficult this must have been. And I know you mustered all your strength because you wanted me to be more than you. It’s funny, because all these years, I have longed to be as much as you.
I hate that you never got to meet my children as much as I hate racism, climate change and liver. Sometimes I think about what I’d give to have a chance to introduce you to them–I cook up all sorts of wacky scenarios in which I’d trade a shortened life span, my house, an inability to lose weight just to be able to give you and my kids a day with each other. But they know you, through me and through themselves, because you show up in all sorts of way, all the time. Ally has your sense of humor. Jake has your compassionate ear. And all three of us love to eat and laugh. But I will never quite get over the ridiculous and cruel fact that you didn’t get to experience these magical grandchildren of yours. It seems impossible that the timing just didn’t synch up, and you missed each other.
Well, anyway, happy mother’s day. I know you’re around, in my flower arrangements and my sauce, my keen ability to get a designer label at half price, and my crazy love for my kids. I miss you. Like, a lot. I wish you could stop by today and give me a hug. Anyway, just know that I’m thinking about you today. Just like I do every day.