Missing Mom...
Nov. 11th, 2003 09:12 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
senoritafishI finally worked up the courage to post something in ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
momlessdaughter, which I joined sometime ago. I don't have it on my friends list because it affects me too much to read it every day, but I do stop in from time to time.
(what I posted)
(This was written over several weeks and is probably a composite of more than one day.)
Avalon is dancing in a circle with Gareth's big plastic shark to a traditional song by Los Lobos. It's very sweet until she missteps because she's tired and it's almost naptime. So she falls down and cries, then comes over and puts her head my lap. Gareth says he's hungry, even though he's been eating all morning, probably because he wouldn't eat dinner last night,
Just previously, NPR had a program about memorials with a poet named Donald Hall, whose wife (also a poet) died of leukemia, I could swear I've heard him speak about this before, possibly on another show. He relates how he took care of her, and what happened afterwards, which he had written a book about. It reminds me that my mother is still sitting on top of the piano, because my father has never decided what to do with her. I was so happy that John found the tiny silver dragon she gave for my birthday a number of years ago - I had been wondering where it was, and he found it out in the garage. I have no idea how it got out there, but it's hanging around my neck right now. I remember being amazed and touched when she gave to me, because it was one of the few things she gave me knew I was interested in, and not something she thought I should be interested in. She got it from an jewelry maker (Marty Magic) at the Harvest Festival that we both liked.
Her granddaughter is tired, and in the way of small children, refuses to admit it. She climbs into my lap, puts her head on my shoulder and her thumb in her mouth, but immediately climbs out of her crib when I lay her down. The radio tells me "La Bamba" was not written by Ritchie Valens (or Valenzuela), but is a traditional song from Veracruz. They play a version of the original, which is about three times faster than the popular song.. The male Anna's hummingbird defending the feeder I put out last week is singing his high-pitched squeaky song from the Moreton Bay fig in our front yard. I tried to point out hummingbird songs to both my father and my mother-in-law - but both of them have enough hearing loss that they can't hear them at all. A little sad because I find them quite noisy, in a squeaky, funny way.
I found a community calledmomlessdaughter recently. I sat and read for an hour or two one evening last week. It made me miss my mom, and I was slightly tearful when I went to bed. John could not understand why I would read such a thing - "Why do you read it if it makes you sad?" I can't explain why - sharing? giving support? Who knows. I did join it, but I don't think I want to read it every day, so it doesn't show up on my friend's page. I remember when the book they recommend came out - there was an article in the paper about it, and I wondered at the time if it was really for me. It seemed to be geared toward women whose mothers had passed away (or left - it also touches on abandonment) at a fairly young age. Although my mother died at 56, fairly early, I was 32 when she died, already an adult. She did get to see me graduate from high school and college, but she was not there for my wedding or the birth of her grandchildren or any of their milestones.
Tiredness has given way to crankiness. She screams if I pick her up or ignore her or try to put her in bed again. I give up and leave her to her own devices. She goes back to her room, picks up her pink Hello Kitty blanket and Bear-Bear, a small squishy stuffed bear with a rattle inside, given to her by her Uncle Doug, and I smirk. knowing the end is near. Within a few minutes, she has collapsed on the carpet behind the couch. NPR has moved on to the Savvy Traveler, and a young man who wants to learn to surf from a native Hawaiian. It doesn't turn out the way he expects.
Was I so stubborn at that age? I have so many things about being a parent I'd like to ask her now. I ask my father, and he tells me he doesn't remember much. "I was working so much overtime back then," he goes on, "often I'd come home and you three would already be in bed," I do remember he would often come home in the middle of dinner. One time, Mom had made spaghetti, and setting a plate out for Dad, she grabbed a green metallic can of what she thought was Parmesan cheese to sprinkle on the top. However, she'd been cleaning that day and inadvertently grabbed the Comet. She had nearly covered the surface of Dad's spaghetti when we noticed her mistake. We all thought it was funny, and left it there for him as a joke. When he finally came home, Mom said, "There's yours," and pointed at the pasta with a layer of green powder on it. He laughed too, saying "That doesn't look quite right."
The Splendid Table starts. There's always a section on Road Food, in which the correspondents talk about various diners around the U.S. They once talked about the truck stop at Cabezon, on the way to Palm Springs, which is located in the belly of a giant concrete Dinosaur. I remember as I'm listening, that when I was a kid this brontosaurus, its friend the T. rex, and their gas station were the only things in the desert for miles when we passed them to go camping; we always clamored to stop, but Dad, in typical Dad-fashion could barely make potty stops - "We've got to get there and set up before it gets dark!" Today, it's surrounded by discount outlets, a mega-truck stop, and an Indian Casino, but they still have 30 kinds of fresh-made-daily home-baked pies. Gareth brings his Megatron Transformer to me and asks me to convert him from a tank back into a robot. Unlike HotShot, who is missing both of his legs at this point, Megatron is only somewhat worse for wear since last Christmas; his plastic joints are a little bit looser, and one of his horns is missing, but he still shouts "Decepticons! Attack! Whoosh! Boom!" as loudly as ever, without even a change of batteries. I wish he could say something else.
Someone mentioned somewhere else (and I wish I could remember who you were) that, although you may not realize it consciously, either your body or your subconscious remembers the time or the season. John and I got in a horrific fight on the anniversary of his brother's death; it ended when I told him to go look at the calendar. I don't think my mom would have wanted her passing to ruin favorite holidays; and indeed, three days after she died we still passed out candy to trick-or-treaters. I think she would have liked that. And yet, although I still regard Halloween as one of my favorite holidays, especially because it's also Gareth's birthday, October is bittersweet. It's her birth month and also the month when we let her go. It makes me so sad when I see friends who can't enjoy holidays because they lost someone on or near it. But I can't help missing her, and feeling a little down. I try to shake it off by doing things she did and would have liked (she would be pissed, however, at the way I've let the planters get overrun). Sometimes I buy a card on her birthday or Mother's Day, write a note to her, and burn it, although I haven't done that in while. The ritual is comforting, but I'm not sure if it's necessary, whether she can't see at all, or is constantly watching anyway. I would like to think that if there is an afterlife, she doing more fun things than keeping tabs on us.
It's been nine years. The fierce agony of grief has dulled to an occasional melancholy now, wishing she could see her grandchildren, making oyster stew on Christmas Eve. She so wanted to be a grandma. Were she still here, I'm sure we would be fighting as much as we ever did, about why don't I put that dress she made on Avalon, why haven't I called more often, and why morality should be legislated. Then again, had she not passed away, things might have been different and I might not have the family I do now. Who can say? I dream about her occasionally, often with no realization that she's no longer here, and it's no longer as painful when I wake up, and know that she's not. There's more of a comfort in hearing her voice in my dreams, even if it's not related to everyday things, and it doesn't cause immediate tears anymore.
Avalon twitches and snores a little. In a bit, she'll be sound asleep enough that I can move her to her bed, so no one will step on her. Gareth comes over and asks if he can climb in my lap. "Why are you sad, Mom?" he asks.
"Oh, just thinking about your grandma," I tell him. "She would have liked to have met you. She'd like you a lot."
He hugs my neck. "She's not here now," he says, matter-of-factly. "Like Termite."
"Right, Like Termite." I reply and hug him back. Termite was our sweet Siamese-tabby that died before any of them were born. They only know her from a couple of photos I have when she was a kitten.
He's an empathic kid. I hug him again and get up to fix him a snack. NPR has moved to the national news, and the fact some soldiers did not return from their first leave, but Rumsfeld is not concerned. Some of them just missed the plane. I grimace in irritation. Life does go on, and I am not the first one to lose their mother. She probably would have been the first one to say that.
momlessdaughter, which I joined sometime ago. I don't have it on my friends list because it affects me too much to read it every day, but I do stop in from time to time.(what I posted)
(This was written over several weeks and is probably a composite of more than one day.)
Avalon is dancing in a circle with Gareth's big plastic shark to a traditional song by Los Lobos. It's very sweet until she missteps because she's tired and it's almost naptime. So she falls down and cries, then comes over and puts her head my lap. Gareth says he's hungry, even though he's been eating all morning, probably because he wouldn't eat dinner last night,
Just previously, NPR had a program about memorials with a poet named Donald Hall, whose wife (also a poet) died of leukemia, I could swear I've heard him speak about this before, possibly on another show. He relates how he took care of her, and what happened afterwards, which he had written a book about. It reminds me that my mother is still sitting on top of the piano, because my father has never decided what to do with her. I was so happy that John found the tiny silver dragon she gave for my birthday a number of years ago - I had been wondering where it was, and he found it out in the garage. I have no idea how it got out there, but it's hanging around my neck right now. I remember being amazed and touched when she gave to me, because it was one of the few things she gave me knew I was interested in, and not something she thought I should be interested in. She got it from an jewelry maker (Marty Magic) at the Harvest Festival that we both liked.
Her granddaughter is tired, and in the way of small children, refuses to admit it. She climbs into my lap, puts her head on my shoulder and her thumb in her mouth, but immediately climbs out of her crib when I lay her down. The radio tells me "La Bamba" was not written by Ritchie Valens (or Valenzuela), but is a traditional song from Veracruz. They play a version of the original, which is about three times faster than the popular song.. The male Anna's hummingbird defending the feeder I put out last week is singing his high-pitched squeaky song from the Moreton Bay fig in our front yard. I tried to point out hummingbird songs to both my father and my mother-in-law - but both of them have enough hearing loss that they can't hear them at all. A little sad because I find them quite noisy, in a squeaky, funny way.
I found a community called
momlessdaughter recently. I sat and read for an hour or two one evening last week. It made me miss my mom, and I was slightly tearful when I went to bed. John could not understand why I would read such a thing - "Why do you read it if it makes you sad?" I can't explain why - sharing? giving support? Who knows. I did join it, but I don't think I want to read it every day, so it doesn't show up on my friend's page. I remember when the book they recommend came out - there was an article in the paper about it, and I wondered at the time if it was really for me. It seemed to be geared toward women whose mothers had passed away (or left - it also touches on abandonment) at a fairly young age. Although my mother died at 56, fairly early, I was 32 when she died, already an adult. She did get to see me graduate from high school and college, but she was not there for my wedding or the birth of her grandchildren or any of their milestones. Tiredness has given way to crankiness. She screams if I pick her up or ignore her or try to put her in bed again. I give up and leave her to her own devices. She goes back to her room, picks up her pink Hello Kitty blanket and Bear-Bear, a small squishy stuffed bear with a rattle inside, given to her by her Uncle Doug, and I smirk. knowing the end is near. Within a few minutes, she has collapsed on the carpet behind the couch. NPR has moved on to the Savvy Traveler, and a young man who wants to learn to surf from a native Hawaiian. It doesn't turn out the way he expects.
Was I so stubborn at that age? I have so many things about being a parent I'd like to ask her now. I ask my father, and he tells me he doesn't remember much. "I was working so much overtime back then," he goes on, "often I'd come home and you three would already be in bed," I do remember he would often come home in the middle of dinner. One time, Mom had made spaghetti, and setting a plate out for Dad, she grabbed a green metallic can of what she thought was Parmesan cheese to sprinkle on the top. However, she'd been cleaning that day and inadvertently grabbed the Comet. She had nearly covered the surface of Dad's spaghetti when we noticed her mistake. We all thought it was funny, and left it there for him as a joke. When he finally came home, Mom said, "There's yours," and pointed at the pasta with a layer of green powder on it. He laughed too, saying "That doesn't look quite right."
The Splendid Table starts. There's always a section on Road Food, in which the correspondents talk about various diners around the U.S. They once talked about the truck stop at Cabezon, on the way to Palm Springs, which is located in the belly of a giant concrete Dinosaur. I remember as I'm listening, that when I was a kid this brontosaurus, its friend the T. rex, and their gas station were the only things in the desert for miles when we passed them to go camping; we always clamored to stop, but Dad, in typical Dad-fashion could barely make potty stops - "We've got to get there and set up before it gets dark!" Today, it's surrounded by discount outlets, a mega-truck stop, and an Indian Casino, but they still have 30 kinds of fresh-made-daily home-baked pies. Gareth brings his Megatron Transformer to me and asks me to convert him from a tank back into a robot. Unlike HotShot, who is missing both of his legs at this point, Megatron is only somewhat worse for wear since last Christmas; his plastic joints are a little bit looser, and one of his horns is missing, but he still shouts "Decepticons! Attack! Whoosh! Boom!" as loudly as ever, without even a change of batteries. I wish he could say something else.
Someone mentioned somewhere else (and I wish I could remember who you were) that, although you may not realize it consciously, either your body or your subconscious remembers the time or the season. John and I got in a horrific fight on the anniversary of his brother's death; it ended when I told him to go look at the calendar. I don't think my mom would have wanted her passing to ruin favorite holidays; and indeed, three days after she died we still passed out candy to trick-or-treaters. I think she would have liked that. And yet, although I still regard Halloween as one of my favorite holidays, especially because it's also Gareth's birthday, October is bittersweet. It's her birth month and also the month when we let her go. It makes me so sad when I see friends who can't enjoy holidays because they lost someone on or near it. But I can't help missing her, and feeling a little down. I try to shake it off by doing things she did and would have liked (she would be pissed, however, at the way I've let the planters get overrun). Sometimes I buy a card on her birthday or Mother's Day, write a note to her, and burn it, although I haven't done that in while. The ritual is comforting, but I'm not sure if it's necessary, whether she can't see at all, or is constantly watching anyway. I would like to think that if there is an afterlife, she doing more fun things than keeping tabs on us.
It's been nine years. The fierce agony of grief has dulled to an occasional melancholy now, wishing she could see her grandchildren, making oyster stew on Christmas Eve. She so wanted to be a grandma. Were she still here, I'm sure we would be fighting as much as we ever did, about why don't I put that dress she made on Avalon, why haven't I called more often, and why morality should be legislated. Then again, had she not passed away, things might have been different and I might not have the family I do now. Who can say? I dream about her occasionally, often with no realization that she's no longer here, and it's no longer as painful when I wake up, and know that she's not. There's more of a comfort in hearing her voice in my dreams, even if it's not related to everyday things, and it doesn't cause immediate tears anymore.
Avalon twitches and snores a little. In a bit, she'll be sound asleep enough that I can move her to her bed, so no one will step on her. Gareth comes over and asks if he can climb in my lap. "Why are you sad, Mom?" he asks.
"Oh, just thinking about your grandma," I tell him. "She would have liked to have met you. She'd like you a lot."
He hugs my neck. "She's not here now," he says, matter-of-factly. "Like Termite."
"Right, Like Termite." I reply and hug him back. Termite was our sweet Siamese-tabby that died before any of them were born. They only know her from a couple of photos I have when she was a kitten.
He's an empathic kid. I hug him again and get up to fix him a snack. NPR has moved to the national news, and the fact some soldiers did not return from their first leave, but Rumsfeld is not concerned. Some of them just missed the plane. I grimace in irritation. Life does go on, and I am not the first one to lose their mother. She probably would have been the first one to say that.
